Ashes by Now

by Mark Timlin

  ‘The alarm should only ring for twenty minutes,’ said Monkey. ‘That’s the new law. But sometimes the circuit gets well fucked and it starts again.’

  Once again his prediction was right. Twenty minutes exactly after he pressed the button on his remote control, the alarm died, leaving just an echo in my ears, and the tiny red light on the remote sparked into life again.

  ‘Give it a minute,’ said Monkey, as the coppers all congregated in the tiny front garden again.

  He allowed fifty seconds to pass before hitting the pressure pad again, and the alarm started once more, sounding even louder if that were possible.

  ‘I hope your man’s about,’ said Monkey. ‘We need the keys now.’

  Ten minutes more passed before Collier’s Sierra sped round the corner, skidded to a halt behind the police cars, and he jumped out and joined his colleagues in front of his house. Even from two hundred yards away I could almost see the steam coming out of his ears. He let himself in the house and a few seconds later the alarm stopped again, and the light on the remote came on.

  ‘Now the fun really begins,’ said Monkey. ‘He’ll reset the alarm and hope it works OK. But of course we know better.’ After maybe half a minute, Collier came out of the house and slammed the door behind him, then stood with an ear cocked before saying something to the coppers.

  ‘Seems like a shame to disappoint him,’ said Monkey and touched the pad for a third time, and the alarm started again.

  Collier threw up his arms in exasperation. He went into the house and once again the alarm stopped.

  ‘Do you think he’ll try once more or give up?’ asked Monkey.

  It appeared to be the latter, as Collier reappeared just a second or two later, slammed the door, turned the mortise lock and shrugged at the uniforms.

  ‘And that should be that for a bit,’ said Monkey. ‘A loose connection in the wiring and everyone goes about their business.’

  ‘What about Telecom?’ I asked as Collier and the uniforms got into their cars and drove away, the few lights that had been switched on in the neighbouring houses were turned out again, and the street became peaceful once more.

  ‘They won’t be about for hours. Your pal’s got to phone them first. And it’s late. Besides he’s earning his living. He doesn’t want to hang around waiting for them when he could be out nicking poor innocent villains. And even if he did phone, and they did come round for a look, they can’t get in. Which is where we’ll be. They’ll just take a shufti at the junction box. No, Mr S. Don’t worry. They won’t get here till morning and we’ll be long gone by then. Coming?’ He opened the door of the car and, carrying the satchel, set off in the direction of Collier’s place.

  I was right behind him, the copier bumping against the gun on my hip, and we climbed over the back gate into the tiny walled garden. Monkey opened an electrical conduit with a minuscule electric screwdriver and removed something which he dropped into his pocket before replacing the cover. ‘Not even a scratch on the screws,’ he whispered. ‘Now let’s get inside.’

  He slid on a pair of surgeon’s rubber gloves which he removed from his satchel, and gave me a pair which I pulled over my hands. There were two locks on the back door: a Yale and a mortise. He picked the mortise and loided the Yale. We were inside within a minute and a half of him reaching the door. He stood inside the kitchen and sniffed the still air. ‘Now where’s this safe?’ he said to himself. ‘Come out wherever you are, you little devil.’

  He produced a torch from his bag and switched it on. It gave just a needle point of light and I guessed that it wouldn’t be noticed from outside. I followed him through the house as he peered behind pictures and under carpets.

  The safe was set in concrete, in the airing cupboard next to the bathroom, behind the towels.

  ‘Sweet,’ he said, and carefully placed the clean laundry on the carpet and got to work on the combination lock, his torch clenched between his teeth. He had some other electronic device with him, which he attached to the face of the safe next to the lock. As he moved the dial, a digital read-out on the face of the device blinked redly. After about five minutes Monkey chuckled around the torch, took it out of his mouth, pulled open the safe door and stepped aside. ‘Jap crap,’ he said disgustedly. ‘My kid could open it with a spoon.’

  I took the torch from him and peered inside the safe. There was cash in there. A lot of cash. All neatly banded. Enough to make Monkey’s eyes glisten, and some jewellery, and at the back a wallet full of papers. I ignored the dough and the tom and pulled out the wallet.

  ‘There’s no window in the bathroom,’ said Monkey. ‘We can put the light on in there.’

  He was right. We went inside, closed the door and put on the light. After allowing a minute for my eyes to adjust I sat on the closed toilet seat and opened the wallet. Monkey perched on the edge of the bathtub.

  Inside the wallet was the usual: passport; life insurance; insurance papers for the building and contents; old photos; Collier’s birth certificate. And the not so usual: the deeds for the house we were in – no mortgage, unusual for a copper. Plus the deeds and blueprints for a house in Marbella. A big one with five bedrooms, a pool and a private slice of sea front. Very tasty – and expensive. And a paying-in book for a deposit account in an American bank, the Jersey branch – no nasty British Inland Revenue snoopers there. The total of the investments almost brought tears to my eyes too. That, the cash in the safe, and the house in Marbella all added up to a nice little retirement for Collier. And finally, at the back of the wallet, I found what I was looking for. A plain white envelope, just slightly yellow with age. Inside the envelope was Byrne’s signed confession to the rape and murder of Carol Harvey. A single handwritten sheet, signed and dated, folded twice, that spelled it all out. Sweet as. Collier, I’ve got you, you slimebag, I thought.

  ‘Is that what you’re looking for?’ asked Monkey.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good. What now?’

  ‘I make a copy of it, and we put everything back exactly where it was and split.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  We left the bathroom, turning off the light as we went. In the hall was an electrical socket. I took the copier out of its case, plugged it in and switched it on. I opened the top and placed the confession inside, face down, then pressed the ‘Copy’ button. There was a whirr from inside, and a neatly printed sheet of A4 paper slid out from a slot in the top of the machine. I looked at it in the light from Monkey’s torch and it seemed OK, but took a second copy for luck. Then I refolded the original into its deep creases and returned it to its envelope, and the envelope to the wallet next to the other papers.

  Then we put everything back as we had found it and left the house by the back door again, Monkey locking it as we went. We scrambled over the gate and back to the car. Monkey drove carefully away, not putting on the lights until we were in the next street. By two in the morning we were back at my place. I paid Monkey the balance of his grand, and he drove off back to Beckenham.

  And that was that.

  38

  I could hardly sleep when I got in, and was up by seven-thirty. I phoned Tom Slade at his office at eight. He was in. Maybe he hadn’t been able to sleep either.

  ‘I was just going to call you,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Can you be at the hotel at midday?’ he said.

  ‘If I can see you before.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The hard proof you need to go with the story big time.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard,’ I said triumphantly. At last in this case I had reason.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A confession. Written on the day that Carol Harvey died, and signed by Alan Byrne.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. A confessio
n to murder. Where did you get it?’

  ‘Believe it. But I’d rather not say where I got it if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘That’s why I phoned.’

  ‘Can you come over straight away?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You know where we are?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘How long will it take you to get here?’

  ‘Depends on the traffic. Give me three quarters of an hour.’

  ‘Ask for me at security. They’ll pass you straight through.’

  ‘OK,’ I said and hung up.

  I took one copy of the confession with me and left the other in the hiding place I’d made under the eaves of the house, then I tucked the Colt into the pocket of my leather jacket and went out to my car. It took me exactly forty minutes to make the journey. When I arrived at the newspaper offices it was more like going into Stalag Luft IV. Barbed wire on the gates. The whole bit. Talk about Fortress Wapping. But I was expected and got directed to the car park. A woman came out of a door in the nearest building and over to the car. ‘Nick Sharman?’ she said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Come this way. Tom’s waiting for you.’

  And he was. In a comfortable office awash with papers and with a view of the river.

  He stood up as I entered and shook my hand. When I was seated and coffee had been served, he said, ‘Can I see it?’

  I took the copy of Byrne’s confession from my pocket, unfolded it and passed it to him. He took a long time reading the few lines, then looked up at me. ‘A copy,’ he said. ‘Where’s the original?’

  ‘Where I left it.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘I told you, I’d rather not say.’

  ‘I must insist I’m afraid.’

  I hesitated. But what was the point of keeping it secret?

  ‘Fair enough. In a safe in Detective Inspector Terry Collier’s dream house in Peckham. But not the dream house he plans to move to when he retires, if I’m any guesser.’

  ‘And where would that be?’

  ‘Marbella.’

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘But you know what they say?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In every dream house, a heartache. And I plan to be the heartache for our friend Collier. The slimy little cocksucker.’

  ‘You don’t like him much, do you?’

  ‘You’re very perceptive.’ Christ, the cunt had beaten me nearly to death. What was I supposed to do? Put him on top of my Christmas card list?

  ‘And how did you get the copy?’ asked Slade.

  ‘How do you think? I broke into his house and did the peter. Simple.’

  ‘Against the law.’

  This guy seemed determined to rain on my parade.

  ‘In this case, most of the law seems to be on the wrong side. Now, do you believe what Jackie and I have been saying or not?’

  ‘How do I know this is Byrne’s handwriting and signature?’

  ‘Jesus, Slade. He was Assistant Commissioner in the Met. The handwriting on that note is pretty distinctive. Check it out. He might even have written to this paper at some time. You know, after one of your crusades against litter louts or video nasties, or something really wicked like that.’

  Slade didn’t rise to my bait.

  ‘You could be right,’ he agreed. ‘Can you leave this with me?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Of course you realise,’ he said, ‘if this confession is genuine, you could just take it to the police yourself.’

  I smiled grimly. I still didn’t trust Old Bill. Not completely. And doing that would spoil the fun of all the naughty boys reading about themselves over coffee and croissants on a bright Sunday morning. ‘I want the maximum publicity,’ I said. ‘Let’s just leave it as it is, shall we?’

  ‘We may have to take the file to the police ourselves in any case,’ he said. ‘In fact it’s almost definite that we shall. The probability is that we’ll print the story without naming names, and let the police pull them in. Then our daily sister paper will take up the story.’

  ‘But you won’t deliver the goods to the police before the paper comes out, will you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘That’s OK. I don’t care what happens then. In fact I know just the copper to show this little lot to. He’s a scruffy git, based at Gipsy Hill nick. Name of Robber.’

  ‘Unfortunate name,’ said Slade. ‘For a policeman.’

  ‘Unfortunate or not, he’s straight,’ I said. ‘He won’t take any nonsense from them. Not when he’s given proof like this. But I don’t want him sticking his oar in until the paper’s on the streets.’

  Slade nodded. ‘And you’ll go to the hotel this morning?’

  I nodded back.

  ‘Right. Walter Sturridge is going to interview Jacqueline Harvey. I’ve already talked to Toby, and he’s going to brief her this morning. After Walter’s spoken to her, he wants to talk to you. I expect it’ll take the best part of the day.’

  ‘Suits me,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll have this checked out this morning.’ He tapped the piece of paper in front of him. ‘I’ll talk to you later at Fortescue’s. OK?’

  I nodded for a third time, then said, ‘How’s Chas?’

  ‘Getting better apparently.’

  ‘I’m going to drop in at the hospital on the way to the hotel. I don’t know if they’ll let me see him, but at least he’ll know I’ve been.’

  ‘If you do speak to him, give him my best,’ said Slade. ‘And if there’s anything he needs, just let me know.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll talk to you soon.’

  ‘You will.’

  He showed me back to the car park and I drove to King’s College Hospital.

  Chas was asleep when I got there, but they let me poke my head into the private room the paper was paying for, and I left a note for him on the pad next to his bed.

  He looked very pale and drawn lying there with his jaw wired shut.

  At the end of the note I told him I’d be dropping in sometime over the next couple of days, and I’d tell him all the latest hot dish, and that things were going well.

  I spoke to the sister who looked after him, and she said he was doing as well, if not better, than expected. Physically that is. Mentally there was no way of knowing what kind of scars a beating like that would leave.

  By the time I got back into the car I was angry again. As angry as when it was me who’d been given a going-over. I touched the heavy weight of the gun in my pocket for reassurance, and drove to the Fortescue.

  I was there by eleven, and found Jackie and Toby in the lounge having coffee. She was ashen and I knew that the thought of telling a stranger what she’d told me about the abuse she’d suffered as a child, and what had happened to her sister, and the estrangement from her father, was taking its toll.

  I ordered a fresh pot of coffee from the waiter, then told them what I’d found at Collier’s house. If I expected Jackie to turn cartwheels, I was disappointed, but at least Toby Gillis seemed to cheer up at the news.

  ‘Nick,’ she said, seeing how I looked at her lack of enthusiasm, ‘I’m sorry. You’ve done a great job. You’ve been so brave, and looked after me so well. But it’s just talking to this reporter. I’m dreading it. Going over everything again. I don’t know if I can cope.’

  I went over to her, crouched down beside the chair that she was sitting in, and held her hand.

  ‘Of course you’ll be able to cope,’ I said. ‘Listen, Jackie, I know this is going to be hard on you, but Toby and I will be there. What happened to you and Carol is nothing to be ashamed of. It wasn’t your fault. Always remember that. I know the bastard who did it to you tried to make you think that it was. That’s ho
w they operate. That’s why they get away with it. I saw it often enough when I was in the job. Men like that count on it. They prey on kids because they can’t handle real grown-up people. No matter how tough they look, inside they’re frightened little rabbits. You’ve got to hold on to that thought. You’re stronger than he’ll ever be. I know that. I knew it the minute you told me what had happened. That took courage. I admire you for it. But if you can’t talk about it, you can’t. Nobody’s going to blame you.’

  ‘I would,’ she said.

  ‘I know, and that’s why I know you’re going through with it, horrible as it is.’

  ‘I just feel so strange. Everyone’s going to know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I haven’t got many friends, but the people at work…’ She didn’t finish.

  ‘Jackie,’ I said. ‘Believe me, you’ve got friends. There’s the two of us here for a start.’

  Toby smiled at her reassuringly.

  Jackie tried a weak smile of her own in return. ‘I know,’ she said again.

  I squeezed her hand tighter. ‘And it’s the truth,’ I said. ‘With the confession I found, it’ll all be over with by Monday.’

  Even that didn’t seem to make her feel much better.

  ‘And I spoke to Slade this morning,’ I went on. ‘In the first instance the paper probably won’t even name names. Then as soon as the first edition is out, they’ll pass everything we know on to the police. The whole file. They won’t be able to ignore it then. Not with the publicity the story will generate. Collier, Millar, Grisham and your uncle will be nicked by Sunday morning, and we’ll all be safe. Safe forever.’

  Kind of a rash promise, I thought, even as I said it. But before Jackie could say anything back, the waiter came over with the coffee and saved me.

  ‘Three large cognacs,’ I said to him.

  Toby shook his head, and the waiter gave me a quizzical look, like they do.

  ‘Bring ’em anyway,’ I said. ‘I think we’ll need them before this morning’s over.’

  Walter Sturridge was very punctual. He came into the lounge at twelve noon precisely. He was in his early thirties I imagined, short, blond, with a bald patch surrounded by curly hair that looked like it might fly away in a strong breeze. He was wearing a grunge-green suit, possibly an Armani that had been through a rough time, over a cream shirt and a tie patterned with green foliage, untidily knotted to show where the top button of his shirt was fastened. His shoes were brown suede with the toes scuffed out, and the unfortunate suit’s pockets bulged with pens, papers, a couple of notebooks, a portable phone, a tape recorder, and a packet of cassette tapes. His face was round with pale skin and rosy cheeks. He stopped at the door, looked round, and immediately came over in our direction.