Be-Bop shook his head and pushed his way through a group of confused Japanese tourists and towards the first black cab in the rank.
‘I tell you something Keith,’ said Be-Bop, as he dragged open the door to the taxi. ‘Cutlass is paying me big friggin’ bucks for this job and he needs to, as well.’ He spat on the pavement. ‘’Cos I really, really fucking hate London.’
***
‘Sorry, dear,’ said Cilla when she banged into the piggy-faced American nun for what seemed like the one hundredth time. She’d fallen asleep on the plane and now she felt really groggy. And clammy, too. She couldn’t wait to get into the shower and then get stuck into a fry up. And she was gasping for a cigarette.
It felt as if she’d been waiting for hours to collect her suitcase. She’d packed in a hurried panic and probably didn’t need most of the stuff she’d brought but it was better to be safe than sorry. She was still wearing the same glittery gold dress that she’d gone to bed in on New Year’s Eve. Well, the early hours of New Year’s Day, to be precise.
Eventually her massive gold suitcase arrived on the carousel. She snatched it up and struggled with it as she marched towards customs.
‘Can’t wait to get outside. I could murder a fag,’ she said to the nun. The nun looked shocked at first and then slowly nodded, her eyes turning dark.
‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘But we must take comfort in the knowledge that they will all suffer an eternity of damnation within the flames of hell.’
This got Cilla’s back up immediately. If there’s one thing she hated almost as much as he ex-husband it was homophobes. She wasn’t too fond of septics in the first place, apart from that nice George Clooney, but she did have a hell of a lot of gay friends, especially in Spain, and she was livid. She waited until they got through customs and then walked up and tapped the nun on the shoulder.
‘Excuse me love, have you got a pen?’
‘Yes,’ said the nun and she started to root in her leather shoulder bag.
‘Good,’ said Cilla. ‘So, you’d best fuck off back there before the farmer finds out you’re missing.’
And then she stormed off toward the exit.
When Cilla got outside she shivered and lit up a Silk Cut. It was like heaven
When the James Bond theme started to play, she took a pink iPhone from her handbag.
‘Hello Goldfinger,’ she said. ‘How’s the government work?’
She laughed.
‘Bloody freezing here, I can tell you, Terry.’
She laughed again.
‘Hold on a minute, Tel,’ said Cilla.
‘Know anywhere I can get a sherbet, darlin’?’ she said to a suntanned man in a cowboy hat who was spitting chewing tobacco into the gutter.
He pointed towards a taxi rank.
‘Ta, darling,’ she said, and lit another cigarette.
‘Yeah,’ she said into the phone. ‘I just hope I can get to Richard before the excrement connects with the ventilation system. BFN!’
There’s no place like home, she thought, as it started to hailstone, and she wondered whether she’d brought those nice red shoes she’d bought in Madrid.
TWENTY
Kenny had never been a gambling man and he’d never understood the appeal of having a flutter on the gee-gees or the dogs. Poker and card games always confused him too. And the attraction of all of these one armed bandits with their flashing lights and annoying sounds was even more of a mystery to him. They really did his head in. Especially when he had a hangover. It was bad enough that they had them in all the pubs but even greasy spoons had them these days. It was like there was no escape from them, sometimes.
That’s why he always went to one of the Cabman’s Shelters for breakfast. The taxi drivers’ cafés had been set up at the end of the nineteenth century to give the cabbies somewhere to pop into for a mug of slosh or a bacon sarnie. The law at the time stated that the Shelters could be no larger than a horse and cart, so they didn’t block the traffic. As it was, they looked like big green garden sheds or the groundsman’s huts that you see near a bowling green.
There was a legend that Jack the Ripper had turned up drunk at a Shelter in Westbourne Grove at the height of his reign of terror in the East End. The story went that the teetotal cabbies had convinced him to take the abstinence pledge and so ended his wicked ways. Once upon a time there’d been hundreds of Cabman’s Shelters across London but these days they were few and far between and usually only in the posher areas.
Kenny stood in the wan light outside the Cabman’s Shelter on Embankment Place near the Player’s Theatre, where they used to have the Victorian Music Hall, and let rip with a rattle of early morning farts before going in.
‘Well, look who it isn’t,’ said Lena, as he walked through the door. Lena was the last woman in London to have kept her beehive hairstyle from the fifties, and she always dyed it an array of bright colours. Today it was a Day-Glo pink. ‘Haven’t seen you around in donkey’s years, stranger.’
‘Yeah, I’ve been abroad,’ said Kenny.
‘Oh, I thought you’d been a man all your life,’ said Lena, filling a massive plastic tomato with ketchup.
Kenny winked at Lena and sat down. He picked up and scrutinised a laminated menu that was stained with brown sauce. A radio played Melody FM and David Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’ finished, to be replaced by the song that he did with Queen.
‘What you been up to, then?’ said a constantly constipated looking man in his sixties whose name Kenny could never remember.
‘All kinds of everything,’ said Kenny. ‘Like the Dana song.’
‘Eurovision Song Contest winner 1970,’ said Lena.
‘That’s the one,’ said Kenny.
He suddenly felt a nervous twinge in the back of his neck as he remembered that the old bloke had a son who used to be in the Flying Squad. Out of all of the various sections of the police force that he’d had run-ins with, Kenny hated the Flying Squad the most. Nasty bastards they were. He always thought The Sweeney television series painted them in far too good a light, though he always liked John Thaw. He never could stand Dennis Waterman, mind you. But then, who could?
‘Really,’ said the constipated looking bloke, twirling a straggly hair from one of his bushy grey eyebrows. ‘Been keeping your nose clean, then?’
‘Of course!’
‘Well, that’s good then. There are consequences to all of our actions, you know?’ said the old bloke, pointing a rolled up tabloid newspaper like a conductor’s baton.
‘Yes, and if a butterfly beats its wings in the forest, a one handed man claps and a tree falls down,’ said Kenny.
The old man snorted. Kenny ignored him and looked back at the menu.
‘What can I do you for?’ said Lena.
‘A Full English Breakfast and a mug of slosh, Lena. Milk and two sugars, please’
Kenny picked up a couple of newspapers from a pile. He scoured The News of the Screws first, and then the rest of the tabloids, looking for information about the previous day’s pile up.
He wasn’t too worried, though, since he knew that Half-Pint Harry Hebb’s body had been secretly disposed of at Anarchy Al’s place and the police reports regarding the smash-up had been more than a little economical with the truth. But he was still more than a little relieved when he saw that the newspapers had reported the smash up as a joyriding offence and made no connection between it and the robbery at The Picture Palace.
Tony Cook’s influence was widespread. One of Tony’s detective pals had even reported that it had ‘absolutely no connection’ with what was being described as ‘The Drag Mob Robbery’. Kenny chuckled at the artist’s representation of the robbers who looked more like Xena Warrior Princess and her girlfriend than Kenny and Big Jim.
They were, however, still on the lookout for a Richard Sanderson of Chiswick who had been involved in the smash-up and never been seen since. There was a picture of Richard in one of the papers, playing in a punk band called
The Drop, and he really did look more than somewhat like a young Terry Cook.
***
Richard rolled over and picked up the small, half-full, bottle of water from the floor beside the bed. He glugged the warm liquid down and still felt parched. A blade of light was slicing through the blinds and slashing his eyes. He closed his lids and lay back down.
‘Well, it’s maybe legal, but I’m not sure if it’s particularly ethical,’ said Richard, in a croaky, sandpapery voice.
‘Ha! But what do you care about ethical? You told me your daddy used to be a bank robber, didn’t you?’ said Monika as she propped herself up. ‘All we do is collect the things that rich English people don’t want and throw away. And then we transport them to Poland for poor people to buy in second-hand shops! What is the harm in that?’
She took the water from Richard, took a swig and made a face when she saw that it was empty.
‘I suppose you could argue that it’s the redistribution of wealth meets the free market economy. Does it bring in much money?’ said Richard.
‘Not bad, if we go to the charity shops around Kensington,’ said Pamela, as she closed the bathroom door, wrapped a blue towelling dressing gown around herself and sat on the side of the bed. She took a joint from an ashtray on the bedside table and lit it up.
‘Move up,’ she said to Monika and crawled into the bed beside her.
‘But, I think it’s a bit risky these days,’ said Richard. ‘There are so many CCTV cameras around London now. They could capture your number plate.’
Monika laughed.
‘If it were our van, that may be a problem but Pamela picks the transport up before we go on our shopping trips.’
‘Stolen vehicles too! Who have I got mixed up with?’
‘An international gang of criminals,’ said Monika, with a grin.
‘The iron fist in the velvet glove,’ said Pamela, raising a fist.
‘I know people who pay good money for that,’ said Richard. 'Anyone fancy a cuppa? I’m parched.’
***
Bilko hung up the phone and walked over to the mirror in the hallway. He looked friggin’ good. Brown brogues, dogtooth suit, Ben Sherman shirt. The lot. And he’d even got a suedehead haircut. He’d been to Curl Up & Dye, over in Canning Town to see Jimmy Buckle. Or was it Tommy? He never could tell. The Buckle brothers were identical twins and both were pug ugly, with black Magnum moustaches and broken noses. But they were the best barbers in the area.
He looked well tasty, he thought. The business. He picked up his Crombie and the briefcase and then headed into The Dirty Digger.
He poured himself a small Grant’s whisky. The pub was in a state; tables were overturned, chairs broken and the Guinness mirror that hung above the door was shattered. The night before, a gang of midget bikers from across the river had got into a fight with some pissed up squaddies. Bilko had to break it up with his cricket bat. It was the most fun he’d had in years. He smiled as he walked out into the street.
It was a typically granite gray January morning. Bilko wasn’t too surprised to see Sleepy Pete, a can of Foster’s in his hand, stagger up as he locked the pub’s front door.
‘You open yet?’ said Sleepy Pete. He blew his nose into a Spiderman napkin.
‘Not till Sheila the Sheila turns up at twelve,’ said Bilko. ‘That place needs a good clean up before we can let the punters in and I’ve got some financial matters to attend to.’
‘Yeah, I can see you’ve got your business gear on,’ said Sleepy. ‘You off to court, then?’
‘Cunny funt,’ said Bilko, checking the gun in his jacket pocket.
SOMEBODY GOT MURDERED
TWENTY ONE
Be-Bop had never really got the hang of incense or wacky-backy, despite being a jazz musician and a child of the sixties. The smell of both usually made him feel more than a little queasy and the combination of that sickly aroma and the unpleasant sight in front of him was pretty much making him ready to hurl a pavement pizza.
Aldo Calvino lived in a massive Edwardian townhouse in Chelsea, just off the Kings Road. The exterior of the house was very impressive; Be-Bop thought it looked like something out of Upstairs Downstairs. But the interior, unfortunately, was an Estate Agent’s nightmare and certainly wasn’t wafting in the welcoming aromas of baking bread and freshly ground coffee. Just a toxic miasma of incense, piss, shit, and booze. And sweat. Especially sweat.
The main source of the piss and shit smell was presumably the dozens of cats and dogs that ran around the place, fighting and shagging each other. The stench of sweat, however, was from Aldo himself, who was sat imperiously on a rattling stair lift that seemed to wheeze with the strain of his immense weight as it crawled down the winding staircase. Aldo was wearing a paisley silk robe that was barely covering his girth, especially his breasts which would make a Page Three girl envious. He sipped from a decanter of whisky and was clearly as pissed as a fart.
‘Ah, what do we have here? A blast from the past that is positively seismic!’ croaked Aldo as he got close to the bottom of the stairs.
‘No, well I don’t get down The Smoke that often, Aldo. Not that fond of the place, to be honest,’ said Be-Bop.
‘No, but that would be because you are northern scum, eh?’ said Aldo, laughing and coughing. ‘You are innately incapable of appreciating the finer things in life.’
Aldo was usually known as either Google or Mr. Babbage, after the computer on Family Fortunes, because he had a mind like a database and forgot nothing. Well, when he was sober.
He also controlled a swarm of informants that buzzed around London collecting information. The homeless, taxi drivers, postmen, buskers, prostitutes. If you wanted to find someone in London, then Aldo was your man.
As he reached the bottom stair, Pella, Aldo’s androgynous albino assistant, rushed forward and helped him to a standing position.
‘Well, aren’t you going to introduce yourself?’ said Aldo, as he clapped eyes on Little Keith. He looked at him suspiciously.
Keith introduced himself, trying not to breathe.
‘He’s my nephew,’ said Bilko.
‘And do you have your uncle’s psychopathic tendencies? I do hope so!’ said Aldo, draining the last of the booze. ‘I need someone for a clean-up job in Prague in a couple of days. Your uncle last worked with for me a number of years ago when I sent him over to Lyon to pick up an errant bride and he came back with a veritable harem! Which he mysteriously ‘mislaid’ somewhere near Dover, I might add. However, I do believe the body count for that little sojourn was well into double figures!’
Be-Bop’s expression showed no reaction.
‘We won’t be staying that long, Aldo,’ said Be-Bop. ‘Got to get back and feed the whippets and race the pigeons.’
‘Oh, I’m sure that’s true but I do hope you have time for a little snifter before you scarper, gents?’ said Aldo. ‘Remember, we are all in the gutter but some of us a looking at it through the bottom of a rather nice glass of gin and tonic, eh?’
‘Aye, why not. A little eye opener would come in handy. But we can’t hang around for too long. I’ve got to bugger off back up to civilisation tonight. I’ve got a gig at an old gifs’ home tomorrow morning. If I miss the train we’ll have to get the National Distress coach and I’d rather stick needles in someone’s eyes than do that again.’
‘Ah, the glamour of the rock and roll lifestyle!’ said Aldo, gesturing towards his library.
***
The dome of St Paul’s Cathedral was stark white against the charcoal grey sky as Richard and Monika wandered along the South Bank of the Thames, hand in hand. A gangling, long haired guitarist stood outside the Tate Modern playing Van Morrison’s ‘Tupelo Honey’.
‘No, The Beerhunter’ as in The Deerhunter, the Vietnam film,’ said Richard. ‘You remember it, don’t you? Or is it too much before your time? It’s a bit before my time to be honest.’
‘We have DVDs in Poland, you know?’ said Monika. ‘That�
��s the one with Robert De Niro and Meryl Streep.’
‘That’s the one. It was after our drummer saw Christopher Walken in the film. He became obsessed with him. And he had this great idea of how to choose someone to go out in the rain for more drink when we were having a booze up and we’d ran out of gargle.’
‘Important stuff, then?’
‘Oh, yes. He’d put six cans of lager on a table and make the lads turn their backs. Then he’d really shake up one of the cans something rotten. Next, the lads would take turns picking up a can and opening it up over our heads. The one that was soaked in cheap booze was the one that got the job.’
‘Doesn’t sound like a lot of fun,’ said Monika.
‘Exactly!’ said Richard. ‘And that was about as wild as my rock and roll life got, I’m afraid. Although, I did once play darts with Alvin Stardust.’
‘Who…?’
‘Never mind,’ said Richard.
A group of shivering Spanish teenagers in identical red T-shirts rushed past trying to control massive, flapping umbrellas.
‘Teacher, it is cold,’ they shouted,
A chubby man with broken glasses and a clipboard walked at the front of the group and just ignored them, muttering to himself.
‘Now, that is a shitty job,’ said Richard.
‘He should quit. There’s no feeling better that quitting a job that you hate,’ said Monika. ‘It’s like a massive orgasm.’
‘Well, that’s not necessarily a good thing. You know what the French for orgasm is, don’t you?’ said Richard.
Monika shook her head.
‘Le Petit Mort,’ said Richard.
‘Which means what, exactly?’ said Monika.
‘The Little Death,’ said Richard, chuckling. ‘Miserable buggers, eh?’
Monika laughed. ‘Ah, the famous French sense of humour. That explains why they’re such bad tippers.’
‘Yeah, I’d heard that. But you won’t have to put up with it for much longer. You’ll be as free as a bird after you give the job the elbow tonight, eh?’ said Richard.
Guns of Brixton Page 8
