He poured more drinks and Kenny was starting to get a little drowsy.
‘But it was a long stretch for Bilko,’ said Tony. ‘And it was hard on his missus, Cilla, too. She was working at the ice rink over Vauxhall way and found it hard to make ends meet. So, well, my little bruvver, he took it upon himself to keep an eye on Cilla. See that her needs were being met. And the like.’
‘Aha. Making sure she was being seen to?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so. They do say that the first time the expression ‘fanny rat’ was used was with regard to my little brother. And he was even worse when he was in that Pink Floyd rip-off band. Remember them?’
‘Yeah, they were called Barnaby Rudge, weren’t they? All paisley shirts and flowing scarves. Looked a bit girly, not that I’d say that to Terry, mind you! He loved all that preening and posing onstage. He took after your dad with the musical talent, though. And Marty was a bit tasty with the old banjo, too, when he was nipper. Pity he gave it up.’
Tony picked up the briefcase and put it on the bar.
‘Which brings us back to this’
‘Look, I’m sorry about …’
‘Shush!’ said Tony. ‘Don’t panic Captain Mainwaring! We can go looking for the real briefcase tomorrow. It’s not going to be too difficult to find, thank fuck. I don’t want just anybody getting hold of it but I think it’s in safe hands.’
He tapped the briefcase.
‘But this particular briefcase has, unfortunately, opened up a new can of very wriggly friggin’ worms.’
Tony clicked the briefcase open and took out a wad of documents.
‘The young man that you kidnapped. The one with my briefcase. Well, he goes by the name of Richard F Sanderson. Ring any bells, Quasimodo?’
Kenny shrugged.
‘Sanderson? Common enough name, mind you … as in Bilko?’
‘Bull’s-eye!’ said Tony.
‘Yes, Richard Sanderson is the son of my erstwhile colleague. Bilko is now the proprietor of a number of low rent boozers south of the river. And these are documents relating to his son who, apparently, owns a recording studio in leafy Chiswick. Looks like he’s done very well for himself, too.’
‘Which is good news…surely?’
‘Well, yes, and no. You see, it should be no problem getting the briefcase from Bilko. He is, in fact, one of the few people that knows of its contents. But I don’t want Marty or Tim involved. If they clap eyes on Richard Sanderson, then they, or he, could unlock a long hidden family secret and may be a fair bit pissed off.’
Kenny scratched his head. And then he had an image of the Cook brothers and Richard Sanderson. The long flowing blonde hair, the musical talent. And a smile broke out like a case of the clap.
‘That they’re brothers?’
Tony nodded.
‘Double top,’ he said gravely, and he finished off his drink.
EIGHTEEN
The roads from Anarchy Al’s place to Marty’s home were pretty much deserted. Marty was relieved that there were no copper cars about, too. He was a fair bit hammered and didn’t fancy the runaround of slipping them a backhander if he’d been stopped. Or worse, he might have been pulled over by one of those young squeaky clean careerists that were taking over the force, these days.
He was back home just before ten. The porch lights came on as he pulled up outside the house. He got out, slammed the car door shut and took a deep breath. He looked up at the massive Mock Tudor house thinking of how he’d really be glad to see the back of it. It was an expensive burden but he hated making decisions. He usually had the family for that.
He started walking up the gravel path toward the front door when he noticed that the car boot was still open. He walked back to close it and saw Bert Kwok’s head looking up at him. Bollocks, he thought. More fucking haste less fucking speed.
He was in a quandary, now. He didn’t want to take the head into the house because if Veronica saw it he’d be so far up shit creek an outboard motor wouldn’t help, let alone a paddle. So, what the fuck to do, then? The dope and the copious amounts of booze he’d imbibed were making it really hard to concentrate.
And then a little cartoon light bulb appeared above his head.
***
Richard was already well gone by the time he turned up at the Oxo Tower Restaurant. He tripped out of the lift when it got to the top floor and glared and growled at the yuppie scum that cluttered the place.
‘Beer,’ he barked at a good looking barman with a scar across the bridge of his nose. ‘And a cheap one, too.’ He put a twenty pound note on the bar and turned around to take in his surroundings. It was an impressive place alright. There was a great view across the Thames – St Paul’s Cathedral, the Gherkin building – but the customers grated on him like fingernails down a blackboard.
‘Classy joint, eh?’ said a familiar voice.
He turned.
‘Do you come here often?’ said Monika, precariously balancing a tray of empty glasses on one hand.
Richard tried to think of something witty to say but the booze wasn’t helping his thought process a great deal.
‘I went to a pub on the moon once. It was crap. No atmosphere,’ he said.
Monika forced a smile.
‘Did you know, that this place used to be a power station for the Post Office and it was bought by the Oxo Company?’ said Richard. ‘You know? The people that make the gravy? They made the windows into the shapes of the letters O.X.O. because they weren’t allowed to advertise on the building. Clever fuckers. Now it’s just a place for WANKERS!’
‘Yes, I had heard that before,’ said Monika. ‘In fact, someone told me it last night, one or a hundred times!’
Richard turned as the barman put the drink on the bar.
‘Anything else?’ he said to Richard.
‘The loot of all the world would come in handy,’ said Richard. The barman looked confused.
‘Or a packet of crisps, if you sell anything as common as crisps.’
Monika tapped his arm. ‘I’ll be finished about two,’ she said. ‘If you’re conscious by then you can come and help me with my other job, if you like?’
‘What job is this then?’
‘All good things come to those who wait,’ she said.
‘Okay, Clarice,’ said Richard, dribbling beer down the front of his shirt as he tried to make a Hannibal the Cannibal sound.
***
From the corner of his eye, Terry Cook could see the overweight Prison Warder shuffling around. He could hear the fat fucker wheezing too. Could almost feel his breath on the back of his neck. He’d make the twat wait, though. Nothing could be important enough to warrant bursting into the television room during a Lovejoy marathon. He picked up a custard cream biscuit and dunked it in his tea. When he took it out the biscuit crumbled on the table. Terry started on the breathing techniques that Al Devon his old probation officer had taught him in the anger management classes.
But then the screw leaned forward, close to Terry’s ear. Terry could smell garlic, whisky and peppermints and stopped the deep breathing.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you Mr Cook but this is important,’ he said in a grating Brummie accent.
Terry slowly turned to look at the warden, who held up a mobile phone. ‘Urgent call. From your brother. Very urgent,’ he said. Terry glared at him.
‘It had better be,’ he whispered, not wanting to spoil the other inmates’ enjoyment.
‘It is,’ said the fat screw. ‘He said to say that it’s about your son.’
***
Veronica was watching Strictly Come Dancing on TV downstairs when Marty got in. She was shouting angrily at the massive television screen in Spanish. Marty crept in as quietly as possible, hoping that he could sneak in without her seeing him. But then she turned.
‘Hey, Marty, what have you got there?’ she said.
Marty held up the bowling bag and, grinning, said, ‘Hola! I thought we’d start bowling again, when you get u
p and about. And then we can use our ‘magic hour’ for some ‘quality time’ together. What do you think?’
‘Good idea,’ said Veronica.
She grinned and turned back to the TV.
‘Puta madre!’ she screamed.
Marty was as pleased as punch that she hadn’t seen the blood dripping from the bag before he managed to shove it in the cupboard.
He knew she’d go off her rocker if she thought he was taking work home with him.
NINETEEN
Ron Moody put away his mobile phone and looked around the room. The pub wasn’t exactly five star material, to say the least, but it would have to do. It had been nigh on ten years since he’d last been in the place and it had certainly gone down the nick since then.
The tables all seemed to have broken legs, so they stood at weird angles, the chairs were a mish-mash of styles and the walls were covered with peeling posters of long haired rock bands who were exposing their ample breasts to the camera. Not the most handsome of men, either. He supposed it was what he should have expected from a twenty four hour Heavy Metal Pub.
He’d wanted to meet in The Oyster, an overpriced but stylish lesbian bar in Earl’s Court. The country and western music that they always played there could be a pain in the jacksy but it suited Ron’s purposes often enough. No one would expect a top drawer fence like him to meet his clients at such a place. But, since it was just after eight in the morning The Oyster was closed. And so he’d had to meet here, in The Leather Stallion in Brentford, which never closed.
Hank Stone, The Leather Stallion’s owner, was an old schoolmate of Ron’s and was also in his sixties. He had a well-dodgy ginger syrup, that looked like it would be quarantined if he ever went out of the country, and a big blonde handlebar moustache. He’d always been a bit of an oddball when it came to his appearance, but he looked even more weird than usual dressed in old combat trousers and a scuffed biker’s jacket.
‘You have a gig last night, Hank?’ said Ron.
‘Yeah,’ said Hank, with a burp. ‘I was playing with Pulp Metal, my youngest son’s thrash band, until the early hours. The old drummer got banged up for selling fake snuff films over the interweb.’ He yawned. ‘We were playing at The Studio From Hell, you know it?’
‘Isn’t that the converted Methodist Church over Fulham? At the back of The Blue Lagoon?’ said Ron.
‘That’s the one,’ said Hank.
‘Good crowd, was it?’
‘Not exactly. It looked like a fancy dress party where everyone had come as a table and chairs,’ said Stone.
‘Ka-ching!’ said Ron.
Stone leaned over the bar and plucked a bottle of Magners Cider from somewhere below. He twisted off the bottle top with his teeth, turned slightly and farted. A small wet patch slowly spread over the arse of his trousers as he scooped a handful of peanuts from an ashtray and rammed them in his mouth.
‘How’s tricks, Ron?’ said Hank, spluttering out bits of peanut.
‘Mustn’t grumble,’ said Ron. ‘But I will.’
‘How’s your old mum doing? I saw that nurse that looks like Hattie Jacques taking her out in her wheelchair the other day.’
‘Yes, she was taking her to Leicester Square to see Mamma Mia again.’
‘Blimey, she must have seen it thousands of times, hasn’t she? She must love the show, eh?’
‘She’s got Alzheimer’s, Hank. Every time’s like a new experience for her,’ said Ron.
‘True, true,’ said Hank.
Hank yawned again and went through a door behind the bar. He picked up a remote control and pointed it at the television. Much to Ron’s relief, a Judas Priest song that had been playing stopped as Ian MacShane’s face appeared on the screen.
Ron looked at his watch. She was late.
‘You’re up bright and early, ain’t you, Ron?’ said Hank, yawning.
‘Money never sleeps, Hank,’ said Ron.
Ron finished his cup of Earl Grey as Lynne Callaway rushed into the room, dragging a small pink suitcase behind her.
‘About time Miss Callaway,’ said Ron. ‘I’m all for a dramatic entrance but I’m still a tad worn out after the last couple of days’ celebrations and I could use a bit of shut eye.’
‘Sorry, Ron,’ she said. ‘Getting a cab this morning was about as easy as me getting a shag from Cliff Richard.’
She placed a Harrods shopping bag on the table and slid it over to Ron.
‘Have a gander at that little lot while I get the drinks in,’ said Lynne.
‘Two teas please,’ she said to Hank who was rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
‘You know, I won’t be able to pay you that much, if you want the cash now? But if you can wait for the banks to open tomorrow, I’ll be able to get you some more dosh.’
‘I know,’ said Lynne. ‘But there’s a flight to Tenagrief in a few hours and I want to be on it.’
‘Won’t that look suspicious to the filth?’ said Ron. ‘Doing a bunk straight after the shop you were at gets knocked over?’
‘I don’t care,’ said Lynne. ‘It was nothing to do with me and, anyway, I’ve got a three week sick note from Dr Khan. I’ve got post-traumatic stress disorder and I’m off to recuperate, aren’t I?’
‘That Which Does Not Destroy Us Makes Us Stronger,’ said Ron.
‘Except piles,’ said Hank, bringing over the drinks. ‘They bollocks you up for the rest of your life. Trust me.’
***
‘Faster, Pussycat!’ laughed Monika, as she raced the white transit van along Holland Park Road and swerved it up on to the pavement, outside the entrance to Notting Hill Gate tube station. She narrowly missed the shutters and steered the van toward the Oxfam shop. It screeched to a stop just outside the door.
‘Hey Ho, Let’s Go!’ she shouted, and Richard and Pamela opened the doors, rushed out of the van and ran up to the shop. Giggling like school kids, they drunkenly picked up armfuls of whatever had been left outside as donations. The black bags spilled out Paulo Coelho books, Coldplay CDs, scented candles, and expensive designer clothes.
They scooped it all up and threw the stuff into the back of the van, gasping and laughing simultaneously. Richard collapsed into the passenger seat next to Monika.
‘And … what now?’
‘And now,’ said Monika, ‘we head down to Kensington High Street, find the Scope and the Red Cross shops and do the same thing again before it gets too light.’
***
The train rattled and shook like a drunk in the first stages of withdrawal, dragging Be-Bop DeLuca out of his shallow sleep. Little Keith De Luca sat opposite him, still yammering away about some stadium gig he’d been to in Scotland a week or so before. It was just Be-Bop’s luck that his sister’s youngest was another wannabe musician. The kid was built like a brick shithouse, so he more than served his purposes as a bodyguard, but he could talk a glass eye to sleep.
‘It’s amazing that they make so much money considering how crap they are,’ said Little Keith. ‘The bastards really pack the crowds in, though. And the punters lap it up, they really do.’ He finished the rest of his can of Strongbow and started to roll a pin-sized roll up. He was gasping for a tab. ‘The only good musician in the band was the drummer, though.’
‘Drummers are not musicians, Keith. I’ve told you before,’ growled Be-Bop, as he stood to his full six-foot-six. ‘They’re navvies.’ He stretched, yawned, and massaged his shoulders. It had been a long journey down from Sunderland. And he was still rough from the New Year’s Eve gig he’d played on the cruise liner in Newcastle.
The train pulled into Kings Cross station and Be-Bop put on his black overcoat and black beret. He picked up his saxophone case and got off the train.
‘The thing is, I’ve got nothing against The Police,’ said Little Keith, who trundled after Be-Bop like a pet dog.
‘When he was singing about shagging prozzies and schoolgirls, old Stink was alright. But then he went all Guardian reader, Feed the Whale
s and that. And, you know the main problem is there are loads of ’em out there. My mate Bryn Laden calls them The Men Who Would Be Sting. I mean, if I hear one more friggin’ gravelly voiced acoustic guitarist singing about fields of friggin’ barley I’ll shoot my fuckin’ ears off like that Welsh painter, Vincent Van Go Go Goch.’
They stepped onto the platform and Be-Bop stopped and looked around the train station. He looked up at the arched ceiling as daylight cut through the gaps.
‘What a shit hole,’ he said.
‘And that Katie Mealy-mouth, she’s even worse. I mean, how the fuck does she know how many bikes there are in Peking?’ said Keith.
Be-Bop could feel his head pounding and wished Keith would shut the fuck up. Must be a cokehead, he thought. Just like his mother.
‘Now, when I was in a band we had this cracking singer. Cormac Brown. Real blue eyed soul stuff, he was. But he did a bunk and now he’s halfway through a sex change and works as a drag queen called Ava Banana. Heard of her?’ said Keith.
‘Can’t say that I have,’ said Be-Bop.
Pigeons fluttered about as they walked through the front doors of the station. A tall man in a monk’s habit wandered around handing out leaflets for a Belgian theme restaurant. Be-Bop’s stomach curdled. Little Keith shivered and pulled a denim jacket over his Tom Petty T-shirt. A blob of pigeon shit landed on his shoulder. He scowled.
‘Reckon we need a cab, then,’ said Keith. A ratty looking teenager shuffled up to Be-Bop as they walked up to the taxi rank.
‘Spare us a quid for a tube ticket, mate,’ said the scrawny, tattooed Scot, shaking and sweating cobs.
‘I’ll spare you the back of my hand,’ said Be-Bop, glaring.
‘For fuck’s sake, I don’t do fisting!’ said the horrified youth, pulling his Burberry cap over his face and storming off.
Guns of Brixton Page 7
