by Timlin, Mark
‘Nick,’ interrupted Sharman. ‘Just Nick.’
‘Oh, sure,’ said Wiltse.
Ricky didn’t seem to care either way, he just started the engine, engaged drive and pulled into the traffic without a word.
The Lion was only a few minutes away and it had started to rain by the time they drove on to the estate. Sharman peered through water streaked windows at the water-streaked buildings and shook his head, wondering how anyone could live in such a place. I don’t like this, he thought as he eased the automatic from his belt and quietly pulled back the slide, putting a bullet into the chamber and pulling back the hammer. He slid it gingerly back into place, thinking that this was not the time to put a bullet into his balls.
Ricky steered the car through the potholes and pulled up outside one of the tower blocks. ‘First floor,’ said Wiltse. ‘Just as sodding well. The lifts never work and they’re full of shit, anyway.’
Sharman just grunted a reply and they got out into the rain and went for the front door.
The foyer was dank and gloomy and Sharman mentally agreed it was just as well that they only had to go up two flights of stone steps to the first floor.
The door of the flat was halfway down a graffiti-covered corridor and Wiltse banged on it. Once there had been a square of glass in the door, but it had been replaced with plywood. Two bare wires protruded from where a doorbell might have been and the letterbox and knocker had been ripped off, leaving a toothless mouth of a hole that was now backed with metal.
After a minute, Wiltse grimaced and hammered again, harder this time.
Eventually the two men heard the sound of locks being disengaged and the door opened on a heavy steel chain.
‘Come on, Lionel,’ said Wiltse. ‘Open up. It’s me.’
‘Who’s that with you?’ demanded a voice from the darkened inside.
‘Nick.’
‘Nick who?’
‘Nick It-doesn’t-matter,’ said Sharman. ‘Just open up for Christ’s sake. It stinks out here.’
‘Not much better inside,’ said the voice, but the chain came off and the door opened to reveal a shell-suited figure.
Wiltse and Sharman slid inside and the door was locked and bolted behind them.
In fact, the interior of the flat was a good deal sweeter than it had looked from the hallway. The walls were painted pale blue and there was a carpet on the floor on which the pattern was still discernible. ‘Down here,’ said the man who’d opened the door.
Sharman recognised him from some mug shots he’d seen back at Kennington Police Station as Lionel Godey.
He led them into the living room where thick curtains covered the windows. Sharman went over, pulled one aside and looked straight down into Ricky’s eyes behind the wet windscreen of the Jag.
‘Oi,’ said Lionel. ‘Don’t take fucking liberties.’
‘Just checking we hadn’t been towed away,’ said Sharman.
‘Fat chance of that round here.’
‘Joke,’ said Sharman.
‘I don’t like jokes,’ said Lionel. ‘Or the people who make them.’
‘Forget it,’ said Wiltse. ‘We’re here for business.’
‘Yeah,’ said Lionel, giving Sharman a dagger look. ‘Show.’
‘The money,’ said Wiltse.
‘It’s here.’
‘Show,’ said Sharman, already tired of the whole deal.
‘Who is this mug?’ said Lionel.
‘A friend,’ said Wiltse.
‘Well, he wants to watch himself.’
And you want to watch yourself, if I ever get you in the cells one fine night, thought Sharman, but said nothing. ‘He will,’ said Wiltse and shot Sharman a glance that said ‘keep your mouth shut’. Sharman nodded.
‘All right,’ said Wiltse. ‘He’ll keep it buttoned. Now come on, Lionel, let’s get on with it. We haven’t got all day.’
‘No problem,’ said Lionel, now sure of his place in the pecking order. ‘Jack!’ he shouted.
After a moment, another man, heavily built, wearing a leather jacket and jeans, entered the room carrying an identical bag to Wiltse’s. He put it on the table and unzipped it. ‘There you go,’ he said.
Wiltse put his bag next to it, and opened it too. Inside were a number of tightly bound, clear plastic bags containing white powder. ‘It’s good stuff,’ said Wiltse.
‘It had better be,’ said Lionel.
Wiltse opened the first bag and looked inside. When he looked up there was a puzzled expression on his face. ‘What’s this?’ he said.
‘The money,’ replied Lionel. ‘Twenty thousand.’
‘What about the rest?’ asked Wiltse.
‘A bit of a problem,’ said Lionel. ‘Cash flow.’
‘Fuck cash flow,’ said Wiltse. ‘The deal was you paid up to date. Fifty K. You taking the piss or what?’
Sharman saw the look between Lionel and Jack and knew that it was all starting to go wrong. Or at least that’s what his instinct told him. He unbuttoned his jacket.
‘You see, last time the merchandise wasn’t up to scratch. Whoever walked on it had big boots,’ said Lionel.
‘It was good gear,’ protested Wiltse.
‘Once upon a time,’ said Lionel.
‘Are you saying we’re doing you up?’ demanded Wiltse.
‘It’s all in the mix,’ said Lionel. ‘We want to make sure this lot is OK before we part with any more dough.’
‘John isn’t going to like this,’ said Wiltse.
‘How about this then?’ said Jack and pulled a small revolver from the pocket of his leather.
Fuck, thought Sharman, reaching for his gun.
What happened next changed him from the man he was – a small-time chancer with an attitude – to what he was to become for the rest of his life: a man who went to sleep at night with ghosts around his bed.
The first shot from Jack’s pistol went wide, digging plaster from the wall beside Sharman’s head, as the copper fired back hitting Jack in the shoulder and spinning him round. Then Lionel tugged a big automatic from somewhere inside his shellsuit and Sharman fired straight into his face. The man tripped over his feet and the gun went off and a huge gout of blood exploded from Wiltse’s neck and he fell to the floor. Jack shouted something Sharman couldn’t understand and brought his gun up and Sharman finished him with a shot to the chest. He stood in the smoke-filled room, ears ringing from the gunshots, and looked at the three dead men on the floor. ‘Fuck,’ he said aloud as he lowered his warm gun. ‘That’s me fucked.’
* * *
‘They were his very words when he told us the story,’ said Jenner to the two young men.
‘What happened?’ asked Tubbs. ‘Did he go down?’
‘Sharman? You’re having a laugh, aincha?’ said John Jenner. ‘Slipperiest fucker in all Christendom was our Nick. And still is, from what I hear.’
‘So?’ asked Mark who hadn’t heard that particular story before.
‘He stuck his gun in Tony’s hand, fired it again using his finger, cold blooded bastard, so that the body would have powder residue on it. Then took the dough and the gear and strolled down to the motor, cool as you like, and made Ricky drive him up to Lawson’s office. Dumped the lot on David’s desk and asked for another two grand. One each for both the geezers he’d shot. Never looked back after that.’
‘Christ,’ said Tubbs.
‘Christ is right,’ said Jenner.
‘But of course you only had his word for it,’ said Mark.
‘Do what?’ Jenner said.
‘How do you know that he didn’t collect the whole fifty, shoot everyone and keep the thirty grand for himself?’
‘You’re a cynical bastard, Mark,’ said Jenner. ‘And I do like that in a man. In fact, it did cross my mind at the time. But I don’t think so. Sharman was cold, but not that cold. Maybe later it would’ve been something he’d do, but that was early days. Anyway, it’s all water under the bridge now. Over twenty years ago. W
ho cares? Not me. He more than made up for it later with little jobs he did for us. I wish he was here now.’
‘Don’t you trust us, Uncle, is that it?’ asked Mark.
But before Jenner could answer, Tubbs’s phone rang.
TWENTY-SIX
The trio looked at each other, then Mark nodded and Tubbs fished his phone out of his pocket. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Oh, it’s you, Eddie. No. Everything went fine.’ He looked at Mark who gestured for the phone which Tubbs passed over.
‘Hey, Eddie,’ said Mark. ‘How you doing?’ he listened. ‘Good. Tubbs did great, but he could’ve been in big trouble. So next time, we do the biz, OK?’ A pause. ‘Fine. Look, let’s meet up tomorrow at the usual place in Stockwell. We’ll talk then. Right. Midday. See ya.’ And he closed the phone.
‘Listen,’ said Tubbs, when Mark gave him the phone back. ‘I’d better be off.’
‘OK, Tubbsy?’ said Mark. ‘You heard that?’
Tubbs nodded.
‘Twelve o’clock in the Four Feathers. We’ll plan our strategy.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Tubbs and got to his feet. ‘Later, Mr Jenner,’ he said.
‘Be careful driving home,’ said Jenner. ‘You did well tonight. I owe you.’
‘I’m being well paid,’ replied Tubbs.
‘Money isn’t everything.’
‘Only rich people say that,’ said Tubbs. ‘You take care too,’ and Mark saw him to the front door.
‘He’s right,’ said Mark as they stood in the hall. ‘You were the business.’
‘Like riding a bike,’ said Tubbs. ‘Just what you said. I miss the old days, and this is just the same.’
‘If you say so, Tubbs,’ said Mark and he hugged his old friend before opening the front door. ‘Be safe.’
‘I’ll try.’ Tubbs went to his car and headed home.
Mark went back to where John Jenner was rolling the latest in a long line of spliffs. ‘So far, so good,’ he said.
‘Yeah. But the hard part’s still to come,’ warned Jenner. ‘The killing bit.’
Mark went upstairs and called Linda on his mobile, but her machine picked up. He didn’t leave a message.
The next day, Mark was early for the meet in the pub, but Eddie had beaten him to it. He was sipping Guinness and looking longingly at the tightly skirted backside of the barmaid who was bending over the lower shelves, too busy bottling up to notice his glances.
‘You’ll go blind,’ said Mark, once he’d joined him at the bar.
‘Jesus, but that’s a work of art,’ said Eddie. ‘Just look at those buns.’
Mark grinned and when the barmaid noticed he ordered a lager. ‘Why don’t you ask her out?’ he said when he’d been served.
‘Fat chance.’
‘You never know until you try.’
‘I ain’t been out with a woman for… Christ. More than two years.’
‘So your old right hand gets plenty of exercise?’
‘Not really. After a bit you don’t miss it anymore.’
‘But if you get this money…’
‘I’ll clean up my act. Lose some weight. Go to the gym. Buy some decent clothes and a car.’
‘Or go to JA with Tubbs and cook chicken.’
‘It’s an option. You say the boy done well?’
‘Oscar-winning from what I can gather. I was outside hiding in the garbage. It was a solo effort on his part.’
‘He’s got some bottle.’
‘Always had, remember. It’s not something you forget.’
‘I dunno, Mark,’ said Eddie. ‘I’m shitting myself – straight up.’
‘You’ll be OK, Ed,’ said Mark. ‘Trust me.’
‘I do.’
Just then Tubbs himself came in through the front door and joined them at the bar, ordering a small lager for himself. ‘They’ve been on.’
‘Who?’ asked Eddie.
‘The pros from Dover,’ said Tubbs. Taking in his mystified expression, he added: ‘Beretta.’
‘That was fast,’ said Mark.
‘Tell me about it. It was six this morning.’
‘Don’t he ever sleep?’ asked Eddie.
‘With all the charlie he’s got, I doubt he does,’ said Tubbs. ‘Probably sits up all night in that flat with his bird sucking him off and wondering what next for world domination.’
‘What’s he want?’ asked Mark.
‘See if I wanted more.’
‘What’d you say?’
‘That I was working on it.’
‘Good,’ said Mark. ‘That means the ball’s in our court. We name the time and place, then we take them down.’
‘In the flat?’ said Tubbs.
‘No. Too confined. Too many places they can lie low. Remember what Uncle John told us about that geezer Sharman.’
‘Who?’ asked Eddie.
Mark summarised Jenner’s tale of the previous night. ‘We take them outside, clean.’
‘What about the cops?’ asked Eddie.
‘Cops,’ said Mark. ‘Fuck ’em. What do they know? These days they’re only interested in catching speeders and making money. We’ll be gone before they know what’s happening.’
‘But what about the dope?’ said Tubbs. ‘And their dough? It’ll be up in the flat.’
‘So we do them in the street, then go get what we need.’
‘We don’t know where they keep it.’
‘It’s a small council flat. Where are they going to put it? How long did it take – Karl, was it? – to fetch it?’
‘A minute.’
‘There you go. It was probably on the kitchen table in clear sight. These fuckers think they’re fireproof.’
‘You make it sound so simple.’
‘It is.’
‘And then we split the profits.’
‘That’s the game,’ said Mark. ‘And then Eddie can ask that barmaid out on a date.’
‘Fuck off,’ said Eddie. ‘If I’m rich I want to go out with someone with class as well as arse.’
‘There’s no answer to that,’ said Tubbs. ‘So when do we do it, Mark?’
‘Soon as. Give them a day to think you’ve been working hard at shifting that gear, then we go.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Tubbs.
And it was. A simple plan. But even the simplest plans have a habit of going awry.
Though not at first.
As Mark had instructed, Tubbs held fire for twenty-four hours. He’d received a few calls from Beretta, checking on how things were going, but he just played it cool, telling him things were progressing nicely and that the product was going well, that everyone involved was happy with the quality. More than happy, in fact.
Then, early on the following morning, the three met at John Jenner’s house and put the second part of the plan into operation.
Tubbs called Beretta on his mobile. ‘Hey man,’ he said. ‘It’s me, Mr Tubbs. Things are going better than expected and I’m almost dry. What’s the chance of a meet?’ He nodded. ‘That’s good. I’m holding large.’ He nodded again at what was being said on the other end of the connection. ‘Twenty-five. Yeah. You can do that today? Fine. No more on the phone. How about a drink in that boozer where we first met, later? Yeah. Last orders? That’ll be fine. Around eleven then. See you there. And maybe we can go on and celebrate. That’ll be dandy. Later then.’ And he pressed the kill button. ‘You heard,’ he said to Mark and Eddie. ‘We’re on.’
‘Perfect,’ said Mark.
When eleven pm rolled around, Tubbs parked his BMW behind Beretta’s silver Lexus outside the pub. Inside, things were winding down after a quiet weeknight session. Tubbs pushed open the door and saw Beretta, Karl, Moses, and a woman he hadn’t seen before but who was cut from the same cloth as Lulu, sitting at a corner table that was covered in dirty glasses and overflowing ashtrays. The £25,000 that Mark had given him from the fast depleting stash in John Jenner’s safe was in a shoulder bag, the Browning down the back of his pants, and his mobi
le phone, charged up, live and connected to Mark’s in the top pocket of his jacket. From where Mark and Eddie were sitting, up on the estate, in an anonymous and untraceable Ford Escort – courtesy of Dev – they could hear everything that was said. Both were dressed in black, gloved up, with balaclava helmets rolled up over their heads, like watch caps.
‘Mr Tubbs, my man,’ said Beretta as Tubbs approached the table. ‘Good to see you again. Did I not say that you’d be back soon?’
‘You did, and you were right,’ Tubbs agreed.
‘You know everyone except for Comfort. She’s my number two woman.’
Comfort looked to be so out of it, she didn’t care what number she was. Or maybe she just knew better than to argue. She just looked up at Tubbs with unfocused eyes, then buried her face in her drink.
‘A line, my man?’ asked Beretta, but Tubbs shook his head.
‘Later,’ he said. ‘Let’s get down to business.’
‘Not before you’ve had a drink. Hey Shorty, another round here and…?’ he made a quizzical face at Tubbs.
‘Lager,’ said Tubbs.
‘A lager for my friend.’
The same little barman put down the cloth he’d been using to dry a row of glasses, and busied himself with the order.
‘Sit down,’ said Beretta. Tubbs complied and Shorty rushed over with a tray of full glasses which he distributed around the table before starting to clear away the empties. ‘Leave them,’ said Beretta, and he did.
Tubbs placed the bag of cash between his feet and lifted his glass, toasted the quartet and drank.
‘So business is good,’ said Beretta.
Tubbs nodded.
‘Like I said it would. And you have money?’
Another nod from Tubbs.
‘Fine. We’ll finish this and go back to mine. Lulu’s sleeping one off, but I’m sure we can scare her out of bed, and then we party.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Tubbs.
Inside the Escort, Mark gave Eddie the thumbs up and pressed the mute button on his phone. ‘They’ll be coming soon,’ he said. ‘Get ready.’
Eddie reached round for the sawn-off shotgun he’d owned since the 80s, broke it open and inserted two twelve-gauge shells into the breach. Then he snapped it shut and pulled back the hammers.
