by Timlin, Mark
‘I can.’
‘Have you ever?’
‘Used it? Of course. On the range. I’m a bloody marksman.’
‘But not in anger.’
‘That’s for me to know.’
‘And they just let you walk around with one?’
‘There’s an operation on later. I told them I was off to see a snout and had this issued early. But I could use one of my own.’
‘I think we might be able to help you there,’ said Jenner. ‘But how much will all this cost us?’
‘Depends,’ said Sharman thoughtfully. ‘Depends what you need doing.’
‘Like a sliding scale?’ said Lawson.
‘Exactly,’ the policeman replied, slipping the gun and the warrant card back from where they’d come. ‘A sliding scale. That’ll do nicely.’
‘As a a matter of fact, there is something,’ said Jenner, topping up his glass. ‘I’m up on charges at the Bailey in a few weeks.’
‘I know,’ replied Sharman.
‘Serious charges. I only got bail thanks to the work of my friend here.’ He gestured at Lawson who grinned like the Cheshire cat. ‘I’ve done a little remand and I don’t like it inside.’
Sharman nodded.
‘And if your lot get a result I’m going away for a while.’
‘A long while,’ said Sharman.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ said Jenner, narrowing his eyes. ‘And I wouldn’t like that. I’d miss my family. But that’s not the point.’
‘I would’ve thought that was exactly the point,’ said the Detective Constable.
‘There’s a witness,’ said Jenner. ‘A young man who took advantage of our good natures and then reneged.’
‘Laurie Skinner,’ said Sharman.
Jenner smiled. ‘You have been doing your homework.’
‘Word gets around. Gossip, you know.’
‘More than gossip, I would’ve thought.’ Jenner again.
Sharman nodded once more.
‘The young man in question, I can hardly bear to mention his name, has gone to ground. I think perhaps your lot think he might be interfered with if he was walking the streets,’ said Jenner.
‘A possibility,’ agreed Sharman.
‘Any ideas where he might be?’ asked Lawson.
Sharman shook his head. ‘Need to know,’ he said.
‘And you don’t,’ said Jenner.
Sharman shook his head for a second time.
‘You see, it would be ideal if the charges just went away,’ said Jenner.
‘Something nasty would have to happen to the witness for that to occur,’ said Sharman.
‘Very nasty.’ Jenner again.
Sharman smiled. ‘But of course, you’d need the address where he’s at for that to happen.’
Jenner nodded.
‘And that could be arranged?’ asked Lawson.
‘If the price was right,’ said Sharman.
‘What could you do?’ interrupted Chas. ‘You’re just a DC. The lowest of the low.’
Sharman smiled. ‘Like I said, if the price is right, all sorts of things could happen.’
‘And the price would be?’ asked Jenner.
‘Ten.’
‘Ten what?’ said Chas.
‘Well, not ten pence,’ the copper said.
‘Ten grand,’ said Lawson.
‘That’d be right.’
‘And you could sort it out for us?’
‘I could try.’
‘Trying’s not good enough,’ said Chas.
‘I think you’d find it was if it was me trying.’
‘David,’ said Jenner.
Lawson picked up his briefcase, laid it on the table, opened it and produced an envelope which he tossed on the table. ‘There’s five thousand there in small, used notes,’ he said. ‘Have that for now and let’s see what happens.’
Sharman picked up the bulging envelope, peered inside but didn’t count the money, then slid it into his inside jacket pocket. ‘You came prepared. You must’ve been sure of me. That’s fine. Thanks. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Make sure you are,’ said Chas. ‘That’s a lot of bread.’
Sharman acknowledged him with a nod. ‘Well, I’ve got to be getting back,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Like I said. We’ve got an operation on today.’
‘Nothing we should know about, I hope,’ said Jenner.
‘No,’ said the policeman. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’
‘Good. ‘Cos if it was…’ Jenner didn’t finish the sentence.
‘You’d be the first to know,’ said Sharman. ‘As long as…’ He paused, rubbed the first finger and thumb of his right hand together.
‘Naturally,’ said David Lawson.
‘Well, cheers then, gentlemen. And Mrs Jenner… Hazel,’ Sharman finished his drink in a swallow and pocketed his cigarettes and lighter. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Soon, I hope,’ said Jenner.
‘As soon as,’ said the policeman, and with a merry wave he went out the back way.
‘What do you think?’ Lawson asked, addressing his question mainly to John Jenner.
‘He’s a flash bastard,’ said Chas.
‘You’re just pissed off because you missed his gun. You should be more careful, son,’ said Jenner.
Chas said nothing in reply, but they could all see how tightly his teeth were gritted, and how red his face was getting, a mixture of anger and embarrassment.
‘Getting old, mate?’ asked Jenner with a grin. ‘But I’ll give you that, Chas. Flash, he certainly is. Maybe too flash for comfort.’
‘But useful,’ said Lawson. ‘Potentially very useful.’
‘He’s very handsome,’ said Hazel.
‘I saw you noticed,’ said her husband. ‘And he noticed you. All teeth and smiles. “You can call me Hazel.” Sometimes I don’t believe you.’
‘So I should hope he noticed me,’ she said. ‘Being the only woman in the room.’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t volunteer to shake him down yourself,’ said Jenner.
‘Maybe I should’ve done,’ replied his wife. ‘I might’ve found his gun.’ She winked at Chas, but his face just got redder.
‘So what does your woman’s intuition say?’ asked Jenner.
‘He’ll do,’ she replied. ‘He’s got an eye for the ladies, that’s for sure. Clothes, coke and cars probably aren’t his only expenses.’
‘I believe there are a couple of mysteries in his life,’ said Lawson. ‘Of the female persuasion.’
‘That’s handy,’ said Jenner. ‘A little something we know that he won’t want his new wife to. Something to keep him in line. Have you used him yet?’
‘Just for small things,’ replied Lawson. ‘Penny ante stuff. Getting a few addresses. Things like that.’
‘So let’s see how he does with Skinner.’
‘I reckon he might be doing us up,’ said Chas. ‘He’ll be noticed, wearing clothes like that and a watch like that. I reckon he’s on the cross.’
‘A double agent, you mean?’ said Lawson.
‘Yeah.’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ said Jenner. ‘He’s flash, you’re right there, Chas. But I reckon he’s corkscrew. Double bent. He reminds me of us ten years ago. Let him have his head, David. And when he’s in too deep we’ll have him.’
‘No problem, John,’ said Lawson. ‘No problem at all.’
It was only a matter of days before the bent brief heard from the young policeman. ‘Got a bit of news for you,’ said Sharman when he called Lawson on his private line.
‘What exactly?’
‘Not on the dog. Let’s meet.’
‘When?’
‘Soon as you like.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Lawson, and he gave a time and location. Lawson met Sharman alone at the Sweet Bird Of Youth public house in Mayfair the following lunchtime. ‘Nice place,’ said the policeman as the lawyer joined him just after two.
‘One of my locals,�
�� said Lawson, ordering a gin and tonic for himself and a refill for Sharman’s scotch, before they found a quiet corner table in the busy pub.
‘It’s all right for some. My locals leave a lot to be desired.’
‘That’s police work for you.’
‘Too true.’
‘So what’s the news?’
‘It’s a tricky one. The robbery squad have got Skinner tied down tight.’
‘Where?’
Sharman grinned, showing white teeth. ‘A safe house in Canonbury. But I warn you, there’s armed response on hand 24 hours a day, seven days a week. No one wants to lose this fish.’
‘Address?’
Sharman told him.
‘Good, Nick,’ said Lawson.
‘Listen,’ said Sharman, grabbing him by the cuff of his jacket. ‘I don’t care about that little shit Skinner. You can do what you want with him. But there’s coppers in there with him, and I won’t have them hurt, get me?’
‘A touch of conscience, Nick?’ asked Lawson, freeing the expensive wool and mohair mixture and smoothing the material.
‘If you like.’
‘Don’t come across all pious with us, Nick. If you’re in, you’re in. If not… Well, John won’t be pleased. Chas wasn’t keen in the first place, I should warn you. Thought you were too flash.’
‘Is that right?’
‘It is.’
‘How about Mrs Jenner?’
‘She liked you fine.’
‘Good. And I’m not in the least bit pious, David. Just careful. Just like you should be. A grass – even a supergrass – gets offed, no big deal. There’s a bit of a stink for a few weeks, an inquiry, then it’s business as usual. But a copper gets hurt and it’s like putting on a blender with the top loose. All sorts of shit flies around, anyone in the way gets covered. Tell John to take it easy. Pick his time.’
‘I see what you’re saying, Nick. You’re very careful.’
‘I try to be. That’s what keeps me in the job, and I’m no use to you out of it.’
‘Too true. But who said anything about offing him?’
‘What? You’re going to send him flowers and a note asking him to change his evidence?’
‘Hardly.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘Are you going to go in easy?’
‘We will.’
‘Good.’
For all his flash ways, which didn’t endear him to his male colleagues at Kennington nick but set the hearts of the female officers aflutter, Nick Sharman knew how to keep a low profile. At work he wore a Timex, and had swapped the fake Rolex for it after seeing Lawson and his clients at the pub after their first meeting. And he knew that by accepting their money that day, and supplying the address of the safe house to Lawson a few days later, he was walking on thin ice. But needs must when the Devil drives, and his new missus, Laura, was used to the best. He’d already forked out a deposit he couldn’t afford on their little two up two down in Camberwell, and she’d demanded the most expensive furnishings she could find in the Fulham Road boutiques she favoured. And now she was talking about babies, and Sharman knew that Peter Jones was going to be favourite for all the bits and pieces that that entailed. And the two young women he saw on a casual basis didn’t come cheap either. Trouble was, he just couldn’t leave skirt alone. As it happened, he wouldn’t have minded having a pop at Hazel Jenner. But even he wasn’t that big a fool. Pity though.
Shit, he thought as he tubed back south of the river for the afternoon shift. I hope this one doesn’t go up the pictures.
It was three days later that he got the news, sitting in an ancient Ford keeping obbo on a suspected car ringing firm in darkest Waterloo. The passenger door opened with a bang and he narrowly missed spoiling his sharply creased khakis with drops of coffee from a Styrofoam cup in his hand. ‘What the…?’ he yelled.
‘Sorry, Nick,’ said his new companion. ‘Didn’t mean to make you jump.’
‘Jesus, Sarge,’ said Sharman. ‘Where did you spring from?’
‘I thought you were supposed to be keeping a keen eye out.’
‘I am. Over there.’ Sharman pointed at the undistinguished front of a garage built into an old railway shed round the back of Waterloo station.
‘I could’ve been a bad boy creeping up on you to deliver a killing blow,’ said Detective Sergeant Jack Robber with a leer, as he helped himself to one of Sharman’s cigarettes from the packet on the dash. ‘Got a light?’
‘Forgotten to buy fags again, Sarge?’ said Sharman.
‘Why bother, when you’ve always got loads?’ said Robber.
Sharman sighed, lit his superior’s cigarette and cracked the window on his side another inch.
‘Heard about what happened at Canonbury?’ asked Robber when his cigarette was burning to his satisfaction.
‘What?’ said Sharman and felt his stomach clench.
‘A grass got blown away by a sniper whilst he’s taking a constitutional in the garden.’
‘Do what?’
‘Yeah. Just having a wander, smelling the daisies, when some shooter on a tower block puts one in his head. Nasty business, from what I can gather. Not enough left of his loaf for his mum to recognise, by all accounts.’
‘Christ.’
‘Christ is right. It’s gone right off over there. He was the main witness in the case against John Jenner, and now it’s gone all to cock.’
‘Who did it?’
‘Nick, sometimes you can be very naive. Who do you think?’
‘Jenner?’
‘Course. But not in person. That fucker never gets his own hands dirty these days. As it happens, he was on the golf course all afternoon. A bloody QC as his partner.’
‘So, an airtight alibi.’
‘Exactly. So that’s a lot of the tax payers’ money wasted.’
I’m sorry to hear it.’
‘Not as sorry as the prosecution team. But that’s life.’
‘Case dismissed.’
‘Got it in one. Bad day for the Met.’
‘Anybody else hurt?’ asked Sharman casually.
‘No. His minder hit the dirt. Messed up his suit by all accounts. Blood and grass stains are buggers to get out. Grass stains. Geddit?’
‘Very funny. But at least there’s that.’
‘At least. Now, what about this bloody ringing team? Anything happening?’
‘Not a sausage, Sarge,’ said Sharman, and lit a cigarette of his own. He noticed that his hand was as steady as a rock.
TWENTY-FIVE
When Tubbs parked on a double yellow outside the old church opposite the Town Hall, Mark let the Range Rover drift past, took a right through the one way system and stopped in a side street next to the library. He stepped out of the truck and crossed the road heading south, squinting through the railings at the red BMW. Tubbs was standing next to it when he was approached by a man in a long leather jacket and hooded sweatshirt with the hood up. They spoke for a moment and then both climbed into the car. Mark sprinted back to his own vehicle, did a hasty U-turn and rejoined the one way system.
As he’d surmised, the BMW was just in front of him, heading back towards Streatham and the Yardies’ estate of flats. Just as well they like to keep things on their own patch, Mark thought, otherwise he could easily have lost his friend in the maze of south London streets.
The BMW turned left just opposite the Telegraph pub, where he’d drunk with Chas just a few days before, then turned again into the estate.
Mark dumped the Range Rover on the corner, set the alarm and hoped it would still be there when he returned. He pulled up his coat collar, jumped over the low wall that acted as boundary for the estate and strolled through to the block that Beretta called home.
Just as he’d surmised, the red car was parked outside, empty.
Mark stood in the shadows beside a ripe rubbish chute that rustled with vermin, and mentally crossed his fingers tha
t his old friend would be OK.
Inside the flats, Tubbs had been taken up to the top floor in a lift that creaked with age and neglect and which smelled all right provided he didn’t breathe through his nose. Then he was led down a windowless corridor lined with doors reinforced with metal, to flat number 80. Moses, the man who’d met him down in Brixton, had checked the money on the short ride back to the estate and had almost cracked a smile at the amount, but said little.
Tubbs was getting nervous. He didn’t know if Mark had managed to follow him, and even if he had, what could he do if things kicked off?
Moses rapped on the door of the flat, gave the thumbs up to the spy-hole in the metal and, after a moment, with a rattle of chains and the clicking of at least three locks, it swung open. Moses held up the plastic bag of money and said ‘Result,’ to Karl, who was standing in the hallway with a machete in his fist.
Charming, thought Tubbs, who could feel the reassuring weight of the Browning down the back of his strides. He wondered how often Karl had used his weapon.
Tubbs was hustled in to the flat and to the living room, which was surprisingly neat and tidy. He’d expected a crack den at least, but in fact it was more like his old Aunty Hilda’s place in Peckham, where he’d been raised. The carpet was thick and red, a three piece suite in front of a widescreen TV that came with satellite, video and DVD hookups. A huge music centre sat on a dark wood sideboard, and vinyl albums and CDs were stacked on each side. Aunty Hilda wouldn’t have had all the high tech equipment but she would have approved of the picture of Jesus nailed to the cross on one wall. Very religious was Aunty Hilda, and he hoped she was with the Lord right now looking down on her favourite nephew and keeping him from harm.
Curtains were drawn across what looked like balcony windows. Beretta was sitting in one of the armchairs, watching football. He was dressed in black suit pants, an unbuttoned black waistcoat and a gleaming white dress shirt, open at the throat. He looked a bit like a preacher on his day off, thought Tubbs, and, aside from the greyish tinge to his face, he appeared as healthy as a horse. A young black woman looking just too thin and scrawny in her short skirt and top was stretched out on the sofa. This must be the crack whore Mark had told him shared the accommodation. Between Beretta’s chair and the TV set was a large glass coffee table, upon which sat a couple of crack pipes, a bag each of rock and powder, and the makings of spliff. A large ashtray in the centre was full of roaches and cigarette ends and the air was filled with the aroma of marijuana. Next to the ashtray was a foot-square mirror upon which half a dozen chunky lines of powder had been neatly cut.
