by Jeff Gulvin
‘Up here on business?’ Ryan asked him.
He nodded. ‘I fix copiers. My patch is Hampshire and Dorset but I’m up here for a product launch.’
‘Fortunate then.’
‘Fortunate?’
Ryan nodded. ‘Not far to come.’
‘Right.’ Case stirred his tea. ‘We’re always doing something or other. I’m in London quite a lot.’
Weir clasped his hands together and nudged the A4 pad in Ryan’s direction. Ryan took out his pen.
Case told them how he had been travelling home on the Friday night in question, rain teeming down so hard he had to drive really slowly. He said he was aware of a car’s tail lights far up on the road between the Cadnam roundabout and Woodfalls. It was only as he drew closer that he noticed it was stationary.
Ryan watched him as he spoke, meticulous in his pronunciation, eyes flitting from one face to the other.
‘When I got closer I saw something very strange,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘The car was parked, engine still running. There was this woman standing in front of it looking at something on the road. I could see her in the beam of her headlights. I thought she must’ve hit a fox or a pony maybe, they graze very close to the road on that stretch. No trees, more moorland than forest.’
Weir nodded. ‘We’ve been there,’ he said.
‘Well anyway, I was about to pull over and help her when I saw somebody come out of the shadows and get in the back of her car.’
Ryan stared at him. ‘What happened then?’
‘She just got back in the driver’s side.’
‘Friend then? Getting in the back.’
Case shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. It certainly didn’t look like it. He crept up to the door and opened it very carefully.’
‘He?’
‘It could’ve been a she I suppose. Coat. I couldn’t see properly.’
‘What did you do?’ Weir asked him.
Case sipped at his tea and replaced the cup on the saucer. ‘Well I didn’t know what to do at first then I was sure she didn’t realise so I drove up behind her and hooted, flashed my lights — you know — tried to get her attention.’
‘What did she do?’ Ryan asked.
‘I thought she’d stop. But I think she must’ve panicked. Rainy night and everything. She took off, Sergeant, floored it, drove like a looney zig-zagging away from me.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I went after her. I was sure then she didn’t know. I couldn’t just let her go.’
Weir glanced at Ryan. ‘So you followed her.’
‘I chased her really, as close as I could get without really scaring her badly. I flashed my lights and hooted. But she wouldn’t stop.’
‘I’d say you scared her pretty badly, Mr Case.’
He looked at the table top. ‘With hindsight — I must’ve mustn’t I.’
‘She kept driving?’ Ryan said.
He nodded. ‘I followed her for about five miles then just before Little Woodfalls she turned into a drive.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I pulled over. She came running down the drive and had a real go at me, shouting and screaming she was. Like you say she must’ve been scared. Anyway, there wasn’t time to calm her down so I ran up the drive to her car.’
‘And?’
‘Nobody there. The back door was open though.’
Weir stared at him. ‘But you saw him?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘But when you got there he was gone.’
‘There was time, Inspector. She was there before me. She came straight down the drive. He had time to get out.’
Ryan looked at the notes he had scribbled. Weir pushed away his empty tea cup. ‘Why was she stopped in the road—did she tell you?’
Case sat forward then. ‘That’s the strangest thing,’ he said. ‘She said she saw a man lying there but when she stopped she found it was only a dummy. The kind you get in shop windows. Male, trousers and a shirt and a tie. All soaking wet.’
Ryan looked at Weir. ‘Did you go back and look?’
‘Not then. I wouldn’t’ve found the spot. I drove the road in the morning though but I couldn’t find anything.’
For a few moments a silence lifted between them then Weir said: ‘You didn’t report any of this — to the local police I mean?’
Case looked at him for a moment then lifted his palms. ‘She said she would do it. It was her car after all.’
‘Did you give her your name — your address?’
Case shook his head.
‘She didn’t ask you.’
‘No. She didn’t.’
Weir glanced at Ryan. ‘Seems a bit strange. Did you offer?’
‘I think I told her my name.’
‘What d’you mean think — you either did or you didn’t.’
‘I did tell her, yes.’
‘But she didn’t write it down.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘She didn’t.’
Weir looked at him with one eye partially closed. ‘She said nothing else.’
‘No.’
‘But you were absolutely sure there was somebody in the back of her car?’
‘I’d put my life on it. I saw it. Inspector. Plain as I see you now.’
Weir scratched his head. ‘Thanks, Mr Case,’ he said. ‘Appreciate you coming in. We might need to talk to you again. Is that all right?’
‘Whatever I can do to help, Inspector.’
Upstairs again Weir said: ‘Get on to the Lab team, Sid. I want them all over her car.’
Ryan nodded.
‘One other thing.’
‘What?’
‘Find out all you can about Case.’
Young Young sat in his brother’s flat, watching the NBA on Sky television. He sucked on a bottle of Rolling Rock, washing the pale beer around the inside of his mouth. A half-smoked cigarette burned in the ashtray on the table in front of him. Next to it a pile of cocaine like spilled sand from an hour glass. Seattle scored again and he grunted.
Little Bigger sat next to him, hair slicked back and shiny.
He stroked the mess of his beard.
‘The Daddy know about this?’
‘It’s personal.’ Young Young spoke without looking at him. Sitting forward he pressed the cocaine into a single, skinny line, before snorting it through half a straw. He blinked, sniffed again and flicked his head back. Then he sucked breath through his teeth.
Little Bigger touched his lips with his tongue and watched him. He shifted his weight and glanced at Carmel, who sat back in the other chair and watched Young Young’s face. He caught her eye, held it for a moment before glancing back to the TV screen. He was long and lean in the chair, unblemished features pointed and sharp, lighted coal in his eyes. He wore leather jeans and black suede boots, a gold chain hanging loose at his neck. He rested his chin on a fist and the muscles tightened under the skin of his arm.
‘Stepper don’t want no trouble, baby’ Carmel’s voice was barely more than a whisper.
Young Young ignored her. He stared at the clock on top of the TV set. He would give it till ten then he’d go.
‘Pigs might be watching us, man,’ Little Bigger said. He sat forward. ‘I mean we don’t know that they ain’t.’
Young Young looked at him then, the pudge of his fingers, the swollen weight of his belly. He was much shorter than Young Young, squatter, with two chins bunching into his neck. Same mother, different father. Young Young’s had been six and a half feet in his socks. Little Bigger was the elder by five years. He could remember Young Young’s old man in the house, walking around naked half the time, his thing dangling between his thighs. He used to see him cross the landing, a lodger in his mother’s house. In from Jamaica with nowhere else to go. A friend of a friend of a friend. That was in Brixton before Young Young was born. He had got his mother pregnant before moving on. Young Young had his build, his dick and his eyes, sharp points
of coal that never joined his mouth in a smile.
Little Bigger fetched more beer from the kitchen, flipped the tops off and handed a bottle to Young Young.
‘You can’t go to Jimmy Carter’s on your own, man.’
‘You come with me then.’ Young Young got up then, towering above him. For a moment Little Bigger looked up at him, then he dropped his shoulders and slowly shook his head.
They left Carmel in the flat and went down to the street. Starlit night with a chill on the air that set their breath in smoke. Young Young blew on his hands and felt in his pockets for car keys.
He drove, his brother silent in the seat alongside him. They trundled through Willesden Green and turned right on the High Road before heading north toward Cricklewood.
‘Nobody bad-mouths me, man,’ Young Young said very quietly.
Little Bigger glanced at him. Young Young was watching the road, his face still and cold.
A two-tone police car passed them at the lights and Young Young gave them the finger in the rear-view mirror. Then he grinned and punched his brother on the upper arm. ‘Relax, man. I can take the fucker one-handed.’
‘He’ll have brothers with him.’
‘So.’ Young Young felt under his seat and brought up something black and heavy. ‘I got mine don’t I.’
Little Bigger looked at the cold steel of the Uzi. ‘Put it away, man.’
Young Young tucked it into the seat behind him.
‘Don’t kill him. You kill him and we really are in the shit.’
‘I ain’t gonna kill him, man. Just mess up his face a little.’
‘He won’t be packing, brother. Not in Jimmy Carter’s.’
‘Carter’s an Irish prick.’
‘Yeah. But a tough one. He’s got serious friends, man. Stepper’ll go ape if you mix it up with him.’
‘Listen.’ Young Young jabbed out his chin. ‘I ain’t gonna let no Yardie fuck trash my name. You dig.’
Holden Biggs played eight ball pool in Jimmy Carter’s snooker hall just off Kilburn High Road. Stocky, skinheaded black man with fists like hams that engulfed the cue he was holding. A second man stood next to him resting on his cue. Two more sat on stools at the bar. Along from them, pencil in one hand, ginger-haired and sweating, Jimmy Carter did his figures.
All the snooker tables bar one were taken. Men mostly, Irish. A couple of punky-looking white girls played on the second pool table.
Young Young cruised past the hall and spotted Biggs’ 2.8 Capri. He was an illegal, one of the Tottenham team whom Carmel had put up as Stepper’s favour to his neighbours. Young Young was around Carmel at the time and the word was that Holden Biggs was bad-mouthing him. Six feet six of brainless pussy was how it was told. Young Young thought about the word coming off the street as he parked further on. Biggs had had a big mouth even when he was at Carmel’s. Big man back home so he told it. He was yappy and disrespectful. Young Young had already threatened to close his mouth for him in the flat. It was after, when Holden hit the streets, that the pussy cracks started.
He sat with the engine running, aware of the barrel of his gun against his back as he leaned over the driver’s seat and sized up the two white men in penguin suits on the steps of Jimmy Carter’s. Reaching behind him he lifted the Uzi and got out of the car. He pressed the gun into the waistband of his jeans and flipped his jacket down over it. His brother shifted across to the driver’s seat.
‘Spin it around. I won’t be but a minute.’
Young Young started walking along the pavement back towards the snooker hall on the other side of the road. A woman walked past him and the scent of cheap perfume filled his nostrils. He felt an itch in his loins and smiled. He knew where he’d go after this.
Again he thought about Biggs. Stepper had told him to be cool. Chill out, baby, he had said. That mouth you’re hearing is looking to get you killed. He had let it go. But the word kept coming up from the street and after a while he could not let it go any more. He was Young Young, the Harlesden Daddy’s armour. He had a reputation to think of.
Then last Friday he had been out with a girl from the Archway. A pub close to Tottenham and Biggs there with his buddies. Then the cracks had been to his face and if there wasn’t seven of them he would have done him there and then.
He nodded to the bouncers and pushed open the doors.
Jimmy Carter went behind the bar and poured Caffreys for a punter. He saw Young Young walk through the door, so tall he had to stoop to get in. Bobby Simpson, the crop-haired bouncer from downstairs came in behind him and glanced toward the bar.
Biggs was bending for the five ball, chalk freshening the end of his cue. Young Young saw him and his eyes seemed to glint in the overhead lights. He pushed between two snooker tables, his gait long and loose and easy. As he got to the pool table he felt the adrenaline begin to rush and the gun was hot at the base of his spine. Biggs had not seen him, concentrating now on the six ball. Young Young moved to the wall and picked a cue from the rack.
In one smooth, uncluttered movement, he brought the heavy end down over Biggs’s head. It bounced off bone and jarred up his arm. Biggs’s head thumped the table and blood flew in a spurt from his nose. The second player took one pace and Young Young flat-footed him in the stomach. Biggs was holding his head, crying aloud and spitting bloodied teeth onto the blue baize of the table. Young Young grabbed him by the collar and hit him again with the cue. It snapped against his face and then Young Young threw him against the wall.
One of the other blacks was off his barstool and feeling for the knife in his pocket. Young Young rolled his eyes and hit him roundhouse style, knocking him against the bar. Biggs was a crumpled sack on the floor, blood and mucus dripping from his head and nose. Young Young took the Uzi from his belt and waved it at the bouncer who was all but on him now.
‘Whoa!’ The bouncer jumped back, palms out in front of him. ‘Hey. Hey. Take it easy.’
Young Young was breathing hard.
The bouncer took three steps backwards and then Carter came round the bar. ‘You stupid black bastard.’ His lips were curled over his teeth. Young Young stared at him.
‘Guns in my club is it?’ Carter seemed oblivious to the weapon that Young Young was pointing at him. ‘You want me to tell ye about guns?’
Young Young stepped towards him now and Carter hesitated. The black’s face was the still cold of a killer. Dead eyes, flat in their sockets like a shark before it bites.
Young Young paced towards Carter, who was back against the bar now. Young Young stopped. Slowly he reached out with his empty hand and squeezed Carter’s features together. Then he lifted the Uzi and poked the barrel into his nostril. ‘Guns is it?’ He mimicked the Irishman’s accent. He stroked the trigger with his index finger. ‘All I got to do is squeeze and you’re all over the paintwork.’
For a long moment he stared into Carter’s eyes and he could smell the fear in his pores. Young Young smiled, only not with his eyes, then he shoved Carter into the stools and emptied the magazine in the ceiling.
Outside, Little Bigger threw open the passenger door of Young Young’s Rover and he piled in. They drove off, the back end slewing wildly and the tyres screeching on tarmac.
‘I heard shooting, you fuck. Who the hell did you shoot?’
‘Relax, brother.’ Young Young was laughing. ‘I wasted furniture is all.’
‘Biggs?’
‘Busted his skull with a pool cue. Carter fancied it till I shoved my gun up his nose.’
They got back to the flat and Young Young leaned across his brother and pushed open the driver’s door. ‘Out.’
‘Where you going?’
‘Pussy hunting.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes, now. I need an alibi. So do you. You was shagging Carmel. Got it?’
Little Bigger gaped at him. ‘Stepper’s gonna love me for that.’
‘Fuck Stepper-Nap. This is me and you, brother.’
His brother stared at him. �
��You’re crazy, man.’
‘Out.’ Young Young slipped into the warmth of the driver’s seat and wound the window down. ‘Later,’ he said and drove off.
Eilish was getting ready for bed. James was downstairs watching TV. She was bathed and warm and about to step into the silk of her nightdress when she heard a car outside. Downstairs, James heard it too and he moved to the window. Not Stepper-Nap. He knew the sound of the Mercedes. No, it was the other one, midnight-blue Rover. He felt his heart slowly sinking. The tall one with the evil look in his eyes and the children were sleeping upstairs.
Young Young parked the car and walked up to the front door. Sweat crept on his flesh now and the pump of his heart was stiller. The night freshened the skin of his face and he felt the familiar ache in his loins. No Merc. The Daddy was home with his woman and his young ones like he always was on a Wednesday. He was Thursdays and weekends if he got lucky. Midweek was for other takers. He pressed a long finger into the doorbell.
In the lounge James had switched off the TV and was sitting on the edge of the chair with his hands deep in his armpits. He heard the bell, swore softly to himself then heard his sister’s feet on the stairs.
Young Young walked into the hall and looked down at Eilish.
‘I wasn’t expecting you, baby.’
He lifted her right off her feet and marched her backwards into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
James sat where he was, listening to her moaning. Had she no shame? Her children upstairs and everything. His face buckled and he bit down on his lip. Then he got up and went quietly upstairs.
In the kitchen Eilish pushed Young Young away from her. ‘Not here,’ she said. He kissed her face and her neck, lips bruising hers and she could feel him against her. ‘Quietly,’ she said. ‘The children are sleeping and there’s my brother.’
‘Fuck your brother.’ Young Young hoisted her against the sink.
Later, in her bedroom, Young Young lay on his back as she ran her fingers over the tight knots of his flesh. She could hear James on the landing. She closed her eyes and the past grew up in her mind.
Lonely nights, years before, Tommy in her bed with his wild green eyes and his shock of black hair that danced on her face as they made love. She could feel him now, pressing his body into hers while James hovered outside. Words like I love you in her ear, and then thoughts of Tommy’s wife and his four tiny children in front of the TV or in bed but oblivious to her husband, their father, in the arms of a nineteen-year-old girl with fire-coloured hair.
