Gun Street Girl

by Mark Timlin

  ‘I’ve told them that already.’

  ‘You know I don’t like this, don’t you?’

  ‘I know, but it’ll work.’

  ‘It better,’ he said and hung up. I uncrossed my fingers and hung up too.

  25

  I was too wired to sleep. I put my shoes back on and wandered about my sitting room, then tried the connecting door to Catherine’s apartment. It was still unlocked. I went through and stood in the empty sitting room and lit a cigarette. I opened the top drawer in the small bureau next to the french windows and poked around inside. I found her passport, Australian, in the name of Catherine Bennett. I turned to the page that bore her photograph and looked for a long time into the eyes that stared sightlessly back at mine, and hoped I wouldn’t let her down when morning came. I put the passport back and closed the drawer.

  I left the room by the door into the corridor and went back downstairs to Elizabeth’s rooms. I knocked once and she opened the door as if she had been waiting for me.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you again. I’m getting a bit edgy up there on my own,’ I said.

  ‘It’s no bother. I was getting a bit edgy myself.’

  We both smiled, but hers looked, and mine felt, a little strained. ‘Drink?’ she asked.

  ‘A small one.’

  She went to the sideboard and poured me a brandy. I sipped at the drink. ‘Can I look at the papers that Catherine brought with her from Australia?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why not?’

  She shrugged. ‘All right. They’re in Daddy’s study. In the safe with the money.’

  She took me down to the first floor and along the corridor and stopped outside a huge oak door with a brass handle. ‘I haven’t been in here since he died,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry if it upsets you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m used to being upset by now.’ She opened the door.

  It was a large room, the same size as the dining room which I realised was directly below us. The room was decorated like a gentlemen’s club, when gentlemen’s clubs were only open to gentlemen, had names like ‘Boodles’ and old retainers crept around with bottles of whisky and syphons of soda water on silver salvers. The colour effect was dark brown and maroon. Dark brown leather chairs, shiny and comfortable looking. Dark brown wooden panelling, and bookshelves whose surfaces had a patina that only age and a great deal of polish could attain. Dark brown carpet and curtains. There was a quantity of maroon, leather-bound volumes on the shelves. I wondered if they had been purchased by the yard. Faded hunting prints hung on the walls. The ceiling was brown too, stained by nicotine and time.

  A comfortable room indirectly lit by concealed bulbs of low wattage. A comfortable room where a man could escape from the pressures of family and business. A room where he could finally take a pistol and blow his brains all over the dark brown panelling. I noticed that a section of carpet behind the leather-covered desk that dominated the room was a slightly lighter shade than the rest. I guessed that was the result of cleaning the human tissue off the pile of the dark brown Wilton.

  David was standing in the centre of the room talking to a heavyset individual whom I had never seen before. The stranger was wearing a dark grey suit, white shirt with a dark tie neatly knotted and heavy black shoes that almost constituted a uniform, and there was a bulge under his left arm. I guessed he was our pet armed guard.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ demanded David. ‘Have the plans been changed?’

  ‘No, we go as soon as the rest of the money arrives,’ I said.

  ‘Mr Sharman wants to see the papers that Catherine brought with her,’ explained Elizabeth.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they’re there,’ I said.

  I could see his face redden even in the dimly lit room. He obviously wasn’t used to the hired help talking back in front of other hired help. It was bad for the MD’s image. ‘I don’t know if I can allow it,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot of money in the safe.’

  ‘Which I’m going to take out of here in a few hours’ time anyway,’ I said. ‘I’m not interested in that now. I want to see the papers. I don’t want to take anything out of this room. I’m hardly going to do a smash and grab in here with an armed man in the same room. If I wanted to steal your money, Mr Pike, I can do it tomorrow morning with your blessing.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ David took a key ring with two large keys attached out of his trouser pocket. He went across to one of the bookshelves and touched a hidden lever. A section of wall as big as a small garage door swung smoothly open. Behind the shelving was a safe door only slightly smaller than the piece of wall that had concealed it. The safe door was old-fashioned, all filigree work and ornate decoration that made it as much a work of art as somewhere to stash the family jewels. The words ‘SAUL AND NEPHEW BIRMINGHAM 1936’ were inscribed in gold, raised letters, two inches high, inside a stylised shield in the middle of the door. Red poppies with green leaves and stems and fleur-de-lys were picked out in enamel paint round the edges of the door. It was beautiful in sort of an industrial way.

  There were two locks in the door and David inserted the two keys on the ring, one after the other, turned them and pressed down and pulled on the metal handle. The door opened smoothly on its counterweights. The inside of the safe was large enough for a tall man to step inside and stand comfortably. Metal shelves lined the interior. There was a big, new glass-fibre suitcase pushed to the back of the safe. I imagined it held the money that had arrived so far.

  He ignored the case and took down a battered cardboard file from one of the shelves and a large briefcase that was lying next to it. He left the safe door open and carried the file and the case over to the desk. He opened the briefcase and took out a thick scrapbook with a creased and faded cover printed with huge daisies in sixties style. It must once have been brightly coloured but was now faded with age and use.

  ‘This is everything,’ he said, and went back and closed and locked the safe.

  ‘I’d like to go through them.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ He gave the keys to the guard and said, ‘I’ll leave you in charge. Lock everything away when Mr Sharman is finished.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ll wish you all goodnight,’ said David.

  ‘Goodnight,’ I said in reply.

  Elizabeth echoed the sentiment but made no move to go. David hesitated, then left the room and slammed the door behind him.

  ‘Do you mind if I stay?’ Elizabeth said to me.

  ‘No, but this might take a while.’

  ‘I don’t mind. Take your time.’

  ‘Has anybody ever been through these thoroughly?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve glanced at them, maybe Daddy did.’

  I pointed to the chair drawn up close to the desk and facing the room. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Not if you don’t. Daddy was sitting there when he died.’

  I looked at the section of panelling behind the desk and wondered if the bullet had gone straight through Sir Robert’s head or bounced around inside his skull for a split second and stayed there. I suspected the former with a big-calibre gun like a Webley, but I didn’t ask. I could see no trace of a bullet hole in the wall and all the panelling seemed to be of a similar age, but I guessed that the Pikes could afford the services of a decent chippie to do any renovation that was necessary.

  I sat in Sir Robert’s seat and lit the desk lamp that was in front of me. I pulled the scrapbook over and opened the cover. The book was about half full of clippings from various newspapers. There was no indication what papers they were from or the dates that they were published except where the scraps themselves included that information. The earliest with a date attached was a yellowed cutting from The Australian of 8 January 1965 concerning the birth of Elizabeth Pike in England. That must have been about when Catherine’s mother started the book. The last was a slightly fresher piece of newsprint from the Interna
tional Herald Tribune, dated 20 December 1981, and was filled with rumours of a takeover of Pike’s by an American conglomerate. I estimated that there were maybe forty clippings in between. Forty in sixteen years. Not bad for someone who shunned publicity, and all from papers that were not from his native land.

  I could still see the lonely child in the sterile hotel rooms perusing the papers she found or bought or stole and cutting out articles about the stranger who was the father she’d never known. It was a sad thought. The saddest thing of all was that on the pages between the clippings was a series of drawings, crudely executed in a childish style. Little square houses with chimneys puffing smoke and flowers in the garden. Little cars and trucks with PIKE written on the side. Little cats and dogs and women pushing prams. One drawing was of three matchstick figures. The tallest wore a top hat and smoked a pipe. The middle figure wore a skirt and carried a shopping basket, and the smallest held a balloon shaded in red ink. Underneath, in childish capitals, was written: DADY, MUMY AND ME. On another page was scrawled in thick crayon: I LOV MY DADY BUT HE DONT LOV ME. I thought of my own daughter living in another man’s house and felt tears prickle behind my eyes.

  I closed the scrapbook and pulled the file towards me. I hesitated for a second and then opened the box that held Catherine Pike’s early life.

  There was the steamship ticket that had taken her mother away to her exile. Catherine’s birth certificate, with the father’s details left blank. School records and reports which were indeed as sketchy as she had said. Medical records for both Catherine and her mother. Her mother’s death certificate and details of where and when she had been buried. I took out each piece of paper, one by one, and read them carefully. One particular document that had been folded and pushed down to the bottom of a doctor’s file made me stop and think. I carefully smoothed it out and left it to one side. It took me more than an hour and a half to empty the file, and I had forgotten that the guard and Elizabeth were still in the room. When I picked up the pile of documents and put them back in the file she said, ‘You were very thorough.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, looking at my watch. ‘I quite lost track of time.’

  ‘You must have been a good policeman.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I’m sure you were.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Are you any the wiser?’ she asked.

  I smiled. ‘Maybe.’ I picked up the single sheet I had laid aside. ‘Do you mind if I hold on to this?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something and nothing.’

  She shrugged. ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and folded the paper again and put it into my shirt pocket. I stood up and put the scrapbook back in the case and spoke to the guard who was sitting ramrod straight in a leather chair by the door. ‘You can put this stuff away now,’ I said. ‘I’m all finished with it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ He locked up the papers again and pushed the section of bookcase back to hide the door.

  ‘It’s very late,’ I said to Elizabeth. ‘I think I’ll try and get an hour or two’s sleep before dawn.’

  ‘I’ll try, too, but I don’t think I’ll succeed.’

  ‘Try anyway,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you to your door.’

  She smiled and took my arm. We wished the guard goodnight and left the study and all the bad memories it held. I walked her upstairs to her door where I left her and continued up to my own apartment, where I undressed and lay on top of the bed and tried to sleep. But as hard as I tried, my thoughts kept straying back to the lonely child in a succession of hotels in Australia and the miserable life she must have led, and I could feel a terrible anger beginning to boil up inside me.

  26

  At five twenty-five the next morning I was lying in bed looking at the light coming through a gap in the curtains in my bedroom. As I watched it change from blue to pearl to white, and the rectangle it formed on the wall move imperceptibly across the room, the internal telephone rang. I hoisted the receiver and stuck it under my chin. ‘Yeah?’ I said.

  ‘The rest of the money is here,’ said David Pike into my ear.

  ‘Good,’ I said, and put the receiver down.

  I rolled out of bed and went to the bathroom. I took a piss, cleaned my teeth, had a lick and a promise of a wash and went back to the bedroom. I put on my watch. Five thirty-three. I pulled on a shirt and jeans and stuffed my feet into soft leather loafers. I picked up the piece of paper I had rescued from Catherine’s box file the previous night and dropped it into my shirt pocket. I was ready.

  I lit a cigarette and took a bottle of soda water from the fridge, knocked the cap off and swallowed half the contents in a gulp. I leant against the frame of the French window and waited for the Australians to call.

  The external phone rang at six on the dot. I picked up the receiver. ‘Sharman?’ said a voice. I recognised the ginger man’s accent.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You know who this is.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Got the money?’

  ‘It’s here.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Where’s the meet?’ I asked.

  ‘Hammersmith. There’s a building site just off the flyover. Shakespeare Grove. It’s Saturday, there’s no one about. We’ve made sure of that.’ He gave me directions. ‘Take the big Roller. That’s the only car we want to see.’

  ‘It will be,’ I said. ‘Get Catherine to the phone.’

  ‘You’re wasting time.’

  ‘I want to hear her voice,’ I insisted. ‘And make sure she’s there when I bring the money. It’s strictly a COD transaction this morning. Please don’t ask for credit as a refusal often offends.’

  ‘You’re in no position to haggle.’

  ‘Wanna bet?’ I said. ‘Now get her to the phone.’

  The receiver his end banged against something hard and I heard a muffled cry. It was a woman’s voice.

  ‘Catherine?’

  ‘Please,’ was all she said and the phone was snatched away.

  ‘Now get the money and get going,’ the ginger man said.

  ‘Okay, I’m on my way,’ I said and hung up.

  I took Endesleigh’s card from off the bedside table and picked up the receiver again. I even punched out the first two digits of his office number before I gently put the receiver back. I never was much of a team player.

  I left the room for what I thought was probably the last time and walked down the two flights to the first floor. I hesitated on the landing on Elizabeth’s floor but didn’t go to her door. If we had anything to say, we could say it later, if I was still around. If not, then anything we said now was a waste of time. So I kept going.

  I knocked on the library door at seven minutes past six precisely.

  David Pike answered the door. He was dressed in a suede Levi jacket and blue jeans. On some people, yes; on him, no. The security man was standing by the open safe, the big glass-fibre suitcase beside him.

  ‘They’ve called,’ I said, ‘and made the meet. Is that the money?’ I nodded at the case.

  ‘Yes,’ replied David.

  ‘Is it all there?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like much.’ By the look on his face, David was offended by my comment. I changed the subject. ‘What are you carrying?’ I asked the guard.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your gun, what is it?’

  He looked at David, who nodded at him to speak. ‘A thirty-eight Taurus.’

  ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘We’re wasting time,’ I said to David Pike.

  ‘Give it to him,’ he said to the guard.

  ‘I can’t do that, I don’t even know him.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, hand it over,’ I said.

  ‘Do as he says,’ instructed David. ‘I’ll take full responsibility.’

  Reluctantly the guard unbuttoned his coat and slid the revolver from it
s holster and gave it to me. The gun was nickel plated with a short barrel and a nice heft. I checked the cylinder. It was fully loaded with five thirty-eight special cartridges.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll get it back to you.’ And I slid the gun into the waistband of my jeans and pulled the shirt tail out to hide it. The metal of the gun was cool on my skin and it dug into my hip uncomfortably.

  ‘Got any spare ammunition?’ I asked.

  The guard scowled and pulled his jacket back. In five loops on the leather of his shoulder holster were five spare cartridges.

  ‘I’ll take those too.’

  He squeezed them out and dropped them into the palm of my hand. I put them in the back pocket of my jeans.

  ‘So where is this meeting then?’ asked David.

  ‘That’s my little secret,’ I said.

  ‘You won’t leave here with the money unless you tell me.’

  ‘Suits me,’ I said. ‘I don’t intend to.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  I walked past the guard and hefted the case. It weighed a ton, but I supposed it would have to with all that cash inside. I picked it up and took it over to the desk and hoisted it on top. The guard looked at David, but he calmed him with a glance. I flicked the catches and they opened. I lifted up the lid and looked at one million pounds sterling in the flesh for the first time. It was quite a sight. I heaved the case up and emptied the money out. The neatly banded bundles skidded across the leather, some tumbled to the floor. I went to the bookcases and started pulling out maroon-bound volumes and putting them in the case.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ demanded David.

  ‘I’m doing what your father should have done years ago. I’m going to get a little justice for your sister Catherine.’

  I finished filling the case with books, closed the lid and snapped the catches closed. I swung the case off the desk and felt it for weight. It was pretty close to when it had been full of cash.

  ‘But the money –’

  ‘Fuck the money, David Pike, and fuck you too!’

  ‘I’ve never heard such –’