by Timlin, Mark
‘No sushi, eh?’ I asked with a little smile.
‘Very droll, Sharman.’
‘Why don’t you find another line of business? One that doesn’t give you heartburn.’
‘Ah, there’s the rub. I may hate the fuckers, but I’m good at what I do and I don’t rip them off for one penny. Everybody knows what it’s going to cost them out front.’
‘Really.’
‘Really. My charges are fair and I can sleep easy at night. There’s just one rule: no freebies. I charge for everything, including giving McBain’s private investigator crash business courses.’
I smiled again. Like I said, I was beginning to like the little bugger.
The waitress whisked away our empty plates and we finished up our glasses of red wine.
‘A bottle of Sauternes with the Roquefort, I think,’ said Kennedy-Sloane.
I was game. In fact I was well-pissed.
The waitress brought the cheeseboard and the bottle of sweet wine and we knocked it all back like troopers.
‘Some coffee and brandy,’ decided my host when our table was just a litter of dirty dishes. ‘By the way, I’ve got a little something for you.’
‘What?’ I asked through a mouth that felt as if it was made of rubber.
He produced the briefcase that he’d dumped under his chair at the start of the meal and placed it carefully in front of him on the table-cloth.
‘This,’ he said.
‘I’m none the wiser.’
‘You will be, but I suggest you open it in the loo.’
‘Is that a joke?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think so. McBain sent it round via that lumpen roadie of his. Though why he calls him that I don’t know. He hasn’t been near a road for years.’
‘In the loo,’ I said.
‘Good idea.’
‘Fair enough,’ I said, stood up, picked up the case and headed for the gents.
The case was black leather and heavy. The loos were black marble and very grand. It took me nearly five minutes to work out how to switch on the taps in the basins. It was all most civilized and designed for the thrusting big banger in a hurry. In a hurry to mess his mind up. There were lots of flat, mirrored chrome surfaces.
I ran my finger along one and found just a slight powdery residue on the tip when I looked. I shrugged. It was none of my business.
I took the case into one of the stalls and locked the door. I closed the toilet seat and sat down with the case on my lap. I clicked open the brass catches with my thumbs and opened the lid. Inside was the .44 Magnum McBain had shown me in his bedroom. It was tucked snugly into a heavy El Paso leather shoulder holster with elasticated back straps and a neat little loop to anchor it to your trouser belt. The gun was unloaded but there was a box containing six hollow point shells. Attached to the holster was an envelope. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper. On it was written:
This is for any elephants you might meet.
Take it with you.
I’m serious.
Love ya,
MM
Love ya, I thought. Fucking hippy. I closed the case and left the stall. I washed my hands and went back to the table. Kennedy-Sloane had hardly noticed I had gone. He was into a bottle of brandy and winning.
‘Drink?’ he asked.
‘Not for me.’
‘I’ll just settle up then.’ He carelessly tossed a gold Amex card onto the bill.
Sweet, I thought, well sweet.
The bill got paid, the rest of the brandy got drunk and somehow we got out of the place.
Outside on the pavement we shook hands.
‘Do you know what’s in the case?’ I asked.
‘I haven’t got a clue,’ he replied, ‘but those things don’t have safety-catches so I’d leave the chamber under the hammer empty.’
‘But you haven’t got a clue.’
‘That’s my story.’
‘And you’re sticking to it.’ I finished his sentence for him.
‘That’s right,’ he said with a drunken grin. Then his face got serious all of a sudden. ‘Are you really going to take the Divas on?’ he asked.
‘Why the hell not?’ I asked with a drunken grin of my own and hailed a black cab that was passing. The driver thought that Tulse Hill was in Russia. At least he seemed so reluctant to take me there, that it might just as well have been. I finally convinced him that there was no passport control on the way and he agreed to take me home. I waved to Kennedy-Sloane from the back window as we drove down Ludgate Hill. The cabbie got lost twice around Stockwell but we finally made it. I tipped him low too and he swore at me as he pulled away from outside my flat with a screech of rubber and a roar of diesel.
18
I telephoned Jack Kitchen as soon as I got to the office the next day. When I told him who I was and why I was calling he wasn’t exactly enthusiastic.
‘Another one,’ he said.
‘Another what?’
‘Another one of McBain’s chancers who thinks he can put the bite on Charlie Diva. Beware, he bites back.’
‘So I’m not the first?’
‘Not by a mile. McBain’s wasting his time. He’ll never see a penny.’
‘So there is a penny to be seen, is there?’
Kitchen shut up like a clam. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are?’ he asked.
‘Look me up in yellow pages.’ I said. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
He didn’t reply.
‘A bloke called Christopher Kennedy-Sloane put me on to you.’ I passed on the message I’d been given, verbatim. I could almost feel him relax down the phone.
‘It’ll cost you,’ he said. ‘And I’ll tell you now that it’s a waste of money.’
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ I said. ‘How much?’
‘Five hundred.’
‘For a chat?’
‘For ten minutes of my valuable time. And there are conditions. Come on your own, nothing in writing, and I go when I feel like it. Now do you still think it’s worth it?’
‘It’s McBain’s money,’ I said. ‘Will you give me a receipt?’
‘No.’
‘Fair enough. Where and when?’
‘I’ll be in the pub next door to my office at twelve. Bring cash.’
‘How will I -’ He put the telephone down on me. ‘– Know you?’ I said to the dead receiver.
I took five hundred from McBain’s advance and put it in a plain envelope. I drove down to Wandsworth to the address on the card that Kennedy-Sloane had given me. It was just as I had pictured it. A terrace of rundown shops, half for sale, half unsaleable, with a nasty little boozer tacked on the end. Warm beer, stale sandwiches and a dirty look from staff and customers alike as a welcome.
I sidled through the door and looked around. The bar was about as lively as a mortician’s retirement home.
There were two or three lethargic drinkers at the bar and all the tables were empty except one. A husk of a man sat hunched up in a chair in front of it with a half-empty pint glass and a half-full ashtray in front of him. He was wearing a suit that would never come back into fashion no matter how long he hung on to it. Cheap checked material with lapels like Concorde’s wings and bell-bottomed trousers. He was smoking an untipped cigarette as if his life depended on it, or his death. He looked as if he’d fallen on hard times in about 1975 and hadn’t recovered yet. I walked over to the table and he looked up.
‘Mister Kitchen,’ I said.
‘That’s me,’ he said through a cloud of smoke and a coughing fit.
‘Nick Sharman,’ I said. ‘I called you.’
He didn’t stand or offer his hand, but I didn’t care. This wasn’t social.
‘Drink?’ I asked.
‘Pint of bitter.’
‘Any one in particular?’
‘It doesn’t matter, they’re all lousy in here.’
Good start, I thought.
I ordered his pint and, bearing in mind what he h
ad said, a bottled lager for myself. The barman took the bottle from the cold shelf but as I picked it up it was warm to the touch. I didn’t bother saying anything. What would have been the point? I paid and took the drinks over to the table. Kitchen didn’t thank me.
‘Have you got the money?’
I nodded.
‘Let’s have it.’
‘Let’s talk first,’ I said. I felt an irrational urge to annoy the man.
His attitude changed and a whine came into his voice. ‘How do I know you’ve got it?’
I took the envelope from my pocket and held it under the table and opened the flap so that he could see the bundle of notes.
‘All right?’ I asked.
‘All right,’ he agreed reluctantly and lit another cigarette.
‘Tell me about Mogul,’ I said.
‘This is confidential, right,’ said Kitchen. ‘Like I said, I don’t sign papers, I don’t say anything in front of witnesses and I don’t accept summonses to appear.’
‘No summonses,’ I agreed. ‘No hidden tape recorders. No nothing. Just the story and the dough is yours.’
‘All right, where do I start?’
‘At the beginning,’ I said. ‘That’s usually a good place.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The beginning would be good.’ And so he started. ‘I went to work for Mogul in ’67. I was working in the accounts department at Decca. I met a bloke called David Hemple. He’s dead now. He was a chartered accountant and managed a couple of bands. I did some work for him at the weekends. Then he signed a band to Mogul and I started doing more and more work for him until eventually I was earning more than my day job. Hemple got an office in Mogul’s old building and I went to work there too. Then Hemple had a run in with Charlie and quit, and Charlie offered me a full-time job. I took it like a shot. I was married with a couple of kids and the money was good, very good, and the perks were good too.’
‘Such as?’
‘Car, I signed my own expense sheets. Trips abroad. Women, booze.’ He smiled at the recollection and I saw that one of his front teeth was missing. ‘I built my own little empire. I would have been all right but I just spent too much money. I was on the booze heavily too.’ He looked in disgust at his pint. ‘Brandy was my tipple then, and only the best. Then I got involved with a woman. You know what I mean.’ He gave me a conspiratorial look which I didn’t take as a compliment. ‘And then I got caught with my fingers in the till.’
‘Police job?’ I asked.
‘No. Not the Divas. No police. They have better ways.’
I didn’t ask for details. ‘And the accounts you were working on, for Mogul. Were they bent?’
‘Double bent. I saw what Diva was up to and I thought that I could do the same. The trouble was it got out of hand and we almost killed the golden goose.’
‘Which was?’
‘The bands of course.’
‘The Boys?’
‘Sure, and the rest, but we ripped McBain off something shocking. He was The Boys really. The rest of the band were a bunch of berks. But McBain could write songs and play the guitar. I was a fan see,’ he said wistfully.
‘But you still knocked him.’
‘I’m not proud of it, it was the only way to keep my head above water. But Charlie Diva knocked him more.’
‘How?’
‘Every way from Christmas. It was daylight robbery and the poor bastard was so out of it all the time he didn’t have a chance.’
‘And if we went to court? Made the accounts public. They must still have records, even going back that far.’
Kitchen was starting to get agitated. ‘I already told you. No courts.’ He looked around in panic. ‘Just give me the money and leave it. You’re wasting your time. Plenty of others have tried but Diva scared them all off. I don’t know why McBain is bothering again. He should let sleeping dogs lie.’
I could see there was no point in pursuing the matter, and I could recognise blind terror when I saw it. The Divas were shaping up to be a right pair of scum-sucking bastards. I handed over the package and Kitchen stuffed it into his pocket. He finished his drink and left me to finish mine. But it was too warm and I left it.
I followed him out of the pub two minutes later and for all the impression I had made I might never have been there.
19
The next few days I spent trying to get an appointment with the Divas, making love to Jo and looking after Cat’s kittens. Not necessarily in that order.
I also spent an afternoon with my daughter. Under the terms of the divorce settlement I was allowed reasonable access. In fact my ex-wife Laura tried to keep me as distanced from Judith as was possible. I have to admit I hadn’t been the greatest father when Laura and I were married. Since the divorce and Laura’s subsequent re-marriage to a dentist from Forest Gate named Louis Rudnick, I guess I’d become even worse.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love Judith or want to see her because I actually worshipped the ground her size threes walked upon. It was just that I hated to say goodbye to her after one of our infrequent visits so much that it hurt less not to see her than to see her and then see her go.
If you think that’s bullshit, just lose a daughter of your own and tell me about it.
Anyway, one afternoon after another morning of fruitless calls to Mogul Incorporated trying to get an appointment, I grabbed the nettle and gave old Laura a bell.
She recognised my voice straight away, as one does tend to do when you’ve been married for ten years and parted for a few more, and the temperature dipped to the low twenties and I remembered why we weren’t married anymore.
‘Hello Nick,’ she said lifelessly.
‘Hi.’ I greeted her like a chat show host. ‘How are you today?’
‘Surviving.’
Nothing changes, I thought, and dropped my bright persona. In a more normal voice I went on, ‘I wondered if I could take Judith off your hands one afternoon this week – it’s half-term isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes it’s half-term, or yes I can take her out?’
‘Yes, it is half-term and yes you can take her out if you must, except don’t get her all upset.’
‘Why should I do that?’ I asked. ‘I want to spend a few hours with her, not pull her pigtails.’
‘You’re so funny,’ said Laura.
She used to think so.
‘Is she there?’ I asked after a moment.
‘No, she’s out with Louis.’
‘How is your favourite orthodontist?’
‘I don’t know why you bother to ask when you really don’t give a damn.’
‘Just being polite.’
‘Save it, Nick. I would.’
‘Yes, perhaps you would,’ I said. ‘What day would be convenient?’
‘Any day, you choose. We’re not doing anything special.’
‘How about tomorrow?’
‘That’s fine.’
‘I’ll pick her up at twelve,’ I said.
‘Don’t bother to come into the house. She’ll be waiting, so don’t you dare be late. And for Christ’s sake Nick, be sober.’
‘What do you take me for?’ I asked.
‘If I had all day I’d tell you. Just don’t upset her by being late.’
‘I won’t, I promise, and tell her that my cat has had kittens.’
‘Jesus, Nick, you are getting domesticated! I don’t believe it. Haven’t you drowned them in a bucket yet?’
I said, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Briefly,’ she replied. ‘Just long enough to bring Judith back to the door.’ And with that she hung up.
The next day dawned grey and overcast but I felt fine and spun over to Forest Gate mid-morning with a new Lester Bowie tape oozing out of the stereo speakers.
I pulled up outside the dentist’s fully-detached at eleven fifty-nine precisely and touched the horn. I saw a downstairs curtain flip back and a little blonde head appeared, then disappeared as quic
kly as it takes to tell. Then the front door burst open and my daughter Judith hit the garden path like a tiny hurricane in a Fair Isle sweater and denim dungarees. Laura appeared at the door behind her and called her back to wrap her up in a red cloth coat. Judith jumped up and down impatiently and I climbed out of the car and perched on the side of the wing whilst I waited.
Judith bore being dressed and as soon as her coat was fastened she kissed her mother and tore towards me. Laura watched from the open doorway. I waved but she didn’t respond, just went back inside and closed the door behind her. Judith flew through the front gate and came into my arms like a ton of wriggling bricks. I swung her up for a kiss and noticed that either she was getting heavier or I was getting older, then realised with a jolt that it was both.
I kissed her on both cheeks and buried my face in her long silky yellow hair that smelled of Sunsilk and little girl.
‘Hello, Daddy,’ she said, ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too, sweetheart,’ I replied.
‘I haven’t seen you for ages.’
‘I know, love,’ I said, feeling a sword enter my heart and twist. ‘I’ve been very busy.’
She struggled free from my embrace and ran round the car.
‘I love your car, Daddy,’ she said. ‘Can we go fast?’
‘Not too fast,’ I replied.
‘Louis bought a BMW, but I said yours is faster. It is, isn’t it?’
‘A BMW eh?’ I said. ‘How do you know about BMWs?’
‘Everyone knows about BMWs,’ she said scornfully. I kept forgetting she was getting older. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I forgot.’
She pulled open the passenger door and clambered onto the leather seat of the Jaguar. I climbed into the driver’s seat and only gave one longing glance back at the anonymous front of the house where my wife and daughter lived as we drove away.
I drove back to Tulse Hill via McDonald’s, where I watched Judith swallow a Big Mac, an apple pie and two milkshakes so thick they were almost solid. She was dancing on her little plastic seat in excitement at seeing the kittens and pigging french fries like they were going out of fashion. I drank a black coffee and watched her eating fast food so fast it hardly touched the sides.
