by Timlin, Mark
‘Don’t say sorry,’ she interrupted. ‘Just bloody don’t. And your girlfriend phoned.’
‘Who?’
‘Who else? Martine, of course.’
‘What the hell did she want?’
‘To tell me you two had slept together.’
‘And you believed her?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Because it’s not true. I’ve never slept with her in my life.’
‘Then why did she tell me you had?’
‘Use your loaf, Linda. To split us up once and for all. She blames me for her father’s death. She tried it on one night and I slung her out. You’ve heard about “a woman scorned”?’
‘I’ve been that woman.’
‘I know. But it’s not true. What do I have to do to make you believe me?’
‘We’re past all that. I don’t care anymore.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.’
‘So you won’t come?’
‘Just leave all this?’ She gestured back inside.
‘A house in Croydon? When I met you that was the worst case scenario. You didn’t want to end up like your parents, and now you have.’
‘It’s a bit different, Mark.’
‘I don’t see it.’
‘Well, it is. And you just want me to leave everything and go abroad. Go where abroad, exactly?’
‘Not Spain. Too many villains. Portugal maybe. South of France.’
‘And what do we do for money?’
‘I’ve got some. You must have loads. You could sell the house. It’s worth a bloody fortune.’
‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you, Mark? You expect me sell everything to bankroll our life together?’
‘Until I get myself straight.’
‘Which means until you get involved in some other bloody villainy and end up going away.’
‘I haven’t gone away yet.’
‘But you will. And I’ll be left living in one room with two children.’
‘I don’t think it’ll come down to one room, Linda,’ he said. ‘I think we can do better than that for ourselves.’
‘We’ll never know, because I’m not coming.’
‘If you can’t come now, you could follow me later,’ he said with one last try.
‘No, Mark. And if you don’t go now I’m going to tell Sean you’re here. He’s up in his flat.’
He laughed then. ‘Running to big brother, eh? Grassing me up. I don’t think so. Not after all we’ve been to each other,’ he said and shook his head. ‘OK, Linda. Fair enough. But don’t say I didn’t ask this time.’
‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘Goodbye, Mark.’
‘Goodbye,’ he replied, turned on his heel and crunched across the wet drive and back into the Range Rover, not caring if Sean saw him or not. He sat for a moment, deep in thought. He’d only loved five women in his life and none of them were here for him now. His mum and Hazel were dead, Lan was God knows where, and Linda and Martine, for different reasons, didn’t want to know him. That’s the way it goes, he thought, switching on the engine, pointing the nose of Range Rover south towards the sea and what lay beyond. He put his foot down.
‘But I’ll be back,’ he said aloud. ‘Count on it.’
But if he could have seen through the walls into Linda’s house – where she stood in the hallway, head bowed, one hand on the bannister rail for support – he would have seen the tears running unchecked down her face at the thought of losing him… again.
TWENTY-EIGHT
On the morning that Jimmy Hunter was released from Brixton Prison, there was no welcoming committee. No bells and whistles. No streamers, balloons and bunting hanging from the trees. Not even that old staple of a million films and TV shows, the best mate waiting in a flash car with a bottle of champagne, cigars, a change of clothes and two horny tarts up for anything. Jimmy didn’t have a best mate. Or any mate, for that matter.
He walked down the long road from the prison gate to Brixton Hill in the early morning light. Under one arm was a brown paper parcel, and in his pocket, £27.86. He walked alone. Other prisoners had been released that sunny, spring morning, but he left them to it as they met with friends and loved ones. He was soon standing alone on the corner, watching the rush hour traffic moving towards central London.
And that traffic. It hadn’t been like this the last time he’d driven through London as a free man. Even the buses had changed – apart from the occasional, ancient Routemaster. Oh yes, he remembered them all right, and the part the traditional London double-decker had played in his downfall. Now, most buses seemed to be big, smog-spewing driver-only vehicles with their doors shut tight. He waited for a break in the traffic, crossed over and cut through the back streets, away from the crowded main road. If truth be told, although he would never have admitted it, the busy thoroughfares scared him slightly, used as he was to being alone for most of the day in his cell. Being a local boy, he’d known those streets like the back of his hand, and he remembered them well, although they had changed too. Instead of the rooming houses, crumbling bedsits and drug dealer’s cribs that were once there, they’d been smartened up. Gentrified, was the word he recalled from countless newspaper articles he’d read whilst inside.
Jimmy had kept up. To do otherwise would have been to ossify, and he’d had no intention of doing that. So he’d spent as much time as possible in the library devouring the daily papers. Not the tabloids, but the broadsheets that he’d never had the time for before. He knew what had been happening in society whilst he’d been away, and that scared him too – though once again, he’d never own up to it. So he shook his head as he walked, puffing on a tailor-made cigarette bought with what seemed like a terrifyingly large chunk of his available cash from the first newsagent he’d come to.
Eventually he sat on the wall of a council estate and took stock. He’d served his sentence in full, but as a convicted murderer he was still on licence. Fat chance! He had with him the address of a hostel and the time of an appointment with a parole officer at an office in Streatham. Bugger that, he thought. He was in the wind and meant to stay there. He was free. He smiled, though he felt as if his face would crack, finished the cigarette down to the filter and tossed it into the gutter, along with the paper with the addresses, torn into tiny pieces.
I wonder if I could get nicked for littering? he thought and laughed out loud. So loud, in fact, that several passersby looked at him sideways.
He started to pick up his parcel, then stopped to think again. He looked around until he saw a skip outside a house, strode over and tossed his bundle inside. There was nothing of meaning or value to him in it. Just a reminder of twenty wasted years.
So Jimmy Hunter, alone now with just what he stood up in, was ready to take on the world. And the first thing he needed was a bloody good drink and somebody to share it with. And for that he’d need some cash and he knew exactly where to get it… or, at least, he hoped he did.
Even before that he needed a bite to eat. He’d forgone the delicacies of a prison breakfast before he was released, just taking a mug of dishwater tea. A couple of streets away he found a dingy café. At least greasies hadn’t changed, he thought as he entered. He ordered a full English with double egg and a mug of tea and took a seat in a quiet corner.
The food tasted like ambrosia after what he’d been eating for two decades. He scoffed the lot, lit another cigarette and sat back satisfied. This is the life, he thought, and his stomach clenched more from regret at what he’d wasted than from the gourmet breakfast, which, once again, seemed to be ten times more expensive than he remembered.
He left the café and caught sight of himself in the window as he passed. The suit he was wearing, the same one that he’d bought for the trial, with its wide lapels and slight flare to the trousers, looked ridiculous compared with the sharp fashions the Brixton men were wearing that morning. It’s gotta go, he thought. Got to get some n
ew threads. With this thought in mind he caught a bus for the City where he hoped an old friend still had his business.
Gerry Goldstein, another old mod, wasn’t so much a friend as an accomplice in various nefarious goings on before Jimmy had been captured for the last time. He ran a diamond import/export company in Hatton Garden and was as known for his early hours as much as he was for his expertise in the jewellery business. Not to mention other endeavours that netted him sums that neither his accountant nor the Inland Revenue were aware of.
Jimmy hopped from bus to bus to get to the centre of town. There was no rush and he wanted to get a taste of London as it now was. It was amazing what had changed and what had remained the same, and, as he sat on the top deck of each vehicle, he was stunned at some of the things he saw. Of course, he’d seen photographs of the way London had expanded upwards and outwards over the years, but no photo could do justice to the shiny new buildings that passed in front of his eyes as he made the journey.
The City in particular was like nothing he remembered. The new bars and restaurants, the way pubs had strange new names. And the birds. Christ, he thought, as he sat next to beautiful, fragrant young women on their way to work, they’re gorgeous. In fact, several times he had to pull his jacket over his lap to hide the erection that had arrived unbidden.
Eventually he reached High Holborn and disembarked. The old Daily Mirror Building had gone, and whatever had been opposite it had been replaced by a brand new skyscraper. The red brick of the Prudential building still stood at the side of Leather Lane and he turned into it and on towards Hatton Garden.
Goldstein’s shop was one of the things that hadn’t changed, and Jimmy smiled inwardly as he saw its familiar facade. I hope the fucker isn’t brown bread, he thought as he approached. Inside a dim light burned, but there was a CLOSED sign on the glass door.
Jimmy rapped hard on the glass with his knuckles. Nothing. Then again and, from the twilight at the back of the shop, a rotund figure emerged. Jimmy peered in. Could this rather overweight gentleman be the same Gerry Goldstein who’d danced the night away to the sounds of Tamla Motown in clubs from Kensington to Kensal Rise all those years ago? But the sharp eyes that peered back were the same. The figure tapped his watch as if to say ‘Too early, come back later’, but Jimmy shook his head.
Impatiently the figure pointed at the sign showing the hours of business were from nine to three on that particular day of the week.
Jimmy shook his head again and the figure pointed again. This time to the entryphone next to the door. Jimmy nodded and pushed the button. The figure moved away and a moment later a voice that could have been anyone’s emerged from the speaker. ‘We’re closed,’ it said. ‘Come back after nine.’
‘Is that you, Gerry?’ said Jimmy.
‘Yes.’
‘Christ, but you’ve changed.’
‘Who’s this?’ demanded the voice, and even the poor reception couldn’t disguise the suspicion in it.
‘Jimmy Hunter. Remember me?’
The voice was silent for a long time before saying: ‘Jimmy? I don’t believe it.’
‘Believe it. Now open up, mate, you’ve got something that belongs to me.’
Goldstein approached the door and Jimmy heard the sound of multiple locks and chains being undone before it swung inwards and Goldstein beckoned him in. ‘Christ, Jimmy, I wouldn’t have known you.’
‘Or me you,’ said Jimmy as the door closed behind him and the gloom deepened.
There were no handshakes or hugs. No questions about where he’d been or what he’d been doing. Gerry knew precisely where he’d been because he had been sitting in court at the Bailey when Jimmy had been sentenced. Jimmy had caught his eye before being taken down and a small nod had passed between the two of them.
But that had been twenty years before, and things and people changed. Not just the appearances of two men now firmly in middle age, but other things too. Loyalty, for instance. ‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming out?’ asked Goldstein.
‘Couldn’t you work it out for yourself?’
‘I suppose so. But time flies, and…’
‘And out of sight, out of mind. Right?’ said Jimmy.
‘I’m sorry, Jimmy,’ said Goldstein. ‘But we always said we’d have no communication. I just thought that as your time came to an end…’
‘Have you still got it?’ asked Jimmy. He didn’t need small talk from Gerry, just what he was owed. ‘What do you think?’ Gerry replied. ‘Come through, the kettle’s on.’
They went through the shop into Gerry’s office at the back, which itself seemed the same to Jimmy as the last time he’d dropped by. Only the computer and other electronic gadgetry on the desk beside the tiny, filthy barred window was new. Jimmy looked at the bars and didn’t like what he saw. It reminded him too much of his recent accommodation. No more bars, he thought. Only those that serve booze. He smiled at the thought and Gerry asked, ‘Something funny?’
‘No. I’m just glad you’re still here.’
‘They’ve tried to move me a thousand times,’ replied the jeweller. ‘But I’ve got a firm lease.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. I’ve been moved a few times myself.’
‘So I heard. How are you anyway?’
‘Older, wiser, poorer. But then I hope you can help me with that.’
Goldstein smiled like an old granpappy about to produce a present for his favourite offspring. ‘Maybe I can,’ he said.
‘I hope there’s no maybe about it.’
‘Of course not. But you understand I’ve had some expenses.’
Jimmy looked round the dingy office. ‘Expenses. Like what, you old skinflint?’
‘Careful now, Jimmy.’
‘Don’t careful me. Tell me what you’ve got.’
‘Everything you left me and more. This is not some cheap film Jimmy, where I’ve had it off with your loot and you kill me. Besides, you’re on candid camera.’
Jimmy looked up into the corner where a baleful red light, like Satan’s eye, glowed.
‘CCTV,’ said Goldstein. ‘A marvel of the modern age.’
‘I’ve seen it before,’ said Jimmy. ‘They have them in prison you know.’
‘Of course. But let’s get down to business, shall we? Take a seat, Jimmy.’
Jimmy did as was suggested whilst Goldstein, whistling gently between his teeth, made tea and presented the cup, together with a plateful of digestive biscuits. ‘I’ve eaten,’ said Jimmy.
‘Just politeness,’ said Goldstein. ‘It’s rare I see anyone from the good old days.’
‘Me neither,’ said Jimmy. ‘But I intend to rectify that soon.’
‘And not make their lives any brighter, I’ll be bound,’ said Goldstein.
Jimmy gave him an evil grin and tasted his tea.
Once the formalities were over, Goldstein leant his arms on the desk and said: ‘You left me a quantity of cash and precious stones, delivered by a third party who shall remain nameless. I paid that third party upon your instructions a certain sum of money.’ He opened his desk drawer and for one moment Jimmy thought this indeed might be a bad film and Goldstein would pull out a revolver and shoot him through the heart. But all that was in the jeweller’s hand was an old ledger. Goldstein opened the book and ran his finger down a page. ‘Hmm,’ he mused. ‘At the time, after deductions the amount came to seven thousand, six hundred and twenty pounds plus change.’
‘More like ten grand,’ said Jimmy.
‘Deductions, Jimmy. Expenses. Some of that money was – how can I put it? – rather warm. It needed to go through a good wash and brush up before being allowed to go out into the world.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Jimmy.
‘Times were good for a while,’ said Goldstein. ‘Very good in fact. The Eighties. What a decade for making money. Yuppies loved diamonds. Just like they loved cocaine and fast cars. I put your money and the tom to work, Jimmy, and at my last calculation, your credit stands
at fifteen grand dead. Double what you left me. Only property could have seen you in better stead.’
Jimmy suspected that the ten large he’d lodged with Goldstein would in fact now be worth nearer thirty thousand, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and at least the Jew hadn’t ripped him off totally. ‘So let’s see it then,’ he said.
‘I don’t have that much cash here,’ said Goldstein. ‘But I can let you have five on account and the rest in a couple of days. If only you’d got in touch…’
Of course he was lying. Jimmy knew that, but there were certain protocols to be observed, and this was one. Anyway, five grand would do to be going on with.
‘Come on then, Gerry, cough it up.’
Goldstein went to the small safe in the corner and opened it. He hid the contents from Jimmy with his girth, but Jimmy and he both knew that if he wanted to, the prison-hardened man could’ve taken whatever was inside, left the jeweller for dead and taken the film out of the closed circuit video machine. But Jimmy wasn’t about to be done for murder again. He’d learnt patience on the inside and could wait. Goldstein knew better than to blatantly cheat him. Jimmy Hunter would track him down and hurt him badly if he did. Besides, the jeweller, though greedy, wasn’t a fool. With hardly any effort, he’d made a nice few quid out of Jimmy’s stash for himself over the past twenty years, and frankly, he didn’t need the aggro.
He slammed the safe door shut and turned, a pile of notes in his hand. He carefully counted these out on to the desk. ‘Happy now?’ he asked, returning to his seat.
‘It’ll do,’ said Jimmy, putting the money into his inside pocket. ‘I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. Friday. You’ll be here?’
‘All day until I have to join my family for dinner.’
‘Then I’ll be in around noon.’
They made their farewells and Gerry Goldstein opened the front door. ‘Just one thing, Jimmy,’ he said,
‘What?’
‘You used to be so stylish. Can I recommend the tailor just down by Chancery Lane tube station? Not bespoke, but quite fashionable.’
‘I was just about to ask you,’ said Jimmy. ‘I remember those tweed suits you used to wear.’
