Paint It Black

by Mark Timlin

  ‘Trust us,’ said Toby. ‘Think of your wife.’

  Trust. I’ve always said that is a big word.

  ‘Say I’m in,’ I said. ‘What’s the deal?’

  D’Arbley nodded. ‘Simple. I pay you half a million pounds between you for the job. One third up front. The rest on completion.’

  I nodded back. ‘So where is this bloke Schofield? He doesn’t sound like he’d be easy to get next to.’

  ‘He isn’t. This minute, who knows? He comes and goes like a shadow. But on New Year’s Eve he will be at his country house in East Anglia.’

  ‘Country house. Nice work. How do you know?’

  ‘We have our methods.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather risky for a man who’s so wanted?’

  ‘What better night for it? Most of the police in Great Britain are out looking for drunken drivers. The rest are drunk themselves.’

  ‘And Tyson will be there too?’

  ‘Where Schofield goes, Tyson goes.’

  I looked at Toby and he looked back at me. ‘OK, Mr D’Arbley,’ I said. ‘Count me in.’

  ‘I think you and I’d better go and have a chat,’ Toby said to me. ‘There’s a pub just round the corner.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ I agreed. ‘This is a lot to take in, in one afternoon.’

  ‘We’ll be in touch, Mr D’Arbley,’ said Toby as I collected my coat and my wits, and the man himself showed us to the door.

  The pub was small, with lots of plants in hanging baskets outside. They must have been a riot in the summer, but right then, on that November afternoon, they were bare and brown. A bit like the way I felt. Inside it was all neat and clean, with just a couple of customers. There was an open fire in there too. But a fake one this time, giving off more light than heat. Toby bought a couple of pints of lager and I sat at a table close to the fire and lit a cigarette. My head was still spinning from information overload and sorrow at the news of Jackie’s death.

  When he joined me I said, ‘Tell me about Jackie.’

  ‘I already did.’

  ‘Details.’ I realised how that sounded. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But we’re both in the same boat. I don’t want to sound callous, but since Dawn died, I’m not exactly filled with the milk of human kindness.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said. He looked inside himself and started. ‘You know that when we left England we headed for the Caribbean?’

  I nodded.

  ‘We travelled around the Gulf and the eastern seaboard of the United States and liked what we saw. The climate, the lifestyle, everything. So we decided to settle down there. Big mistake.’ His mouth twisted. ‘Like I told you we sunk our money, her inheritance and my savings, into a place in Florida. Near Key Largo. A nice place. Interstate highway one side, an estuary the other. A dozen rooms. A little shop for bait, beer and groceries. A couple of pumps for fuel for the boats and cars and a small diner. It had everything, or so we thought. We ran it with the help of a kid who looked after the pumps and the shop and a couple of local women who ran the diner. We looked after the hotel itself. It could’ve worked out fine. The water formed a natural harbour where people could tie up and recharge their batteries. Literally. That was the trouble. The harbour was perfect for landing contraband. Secluded and quiet. Oh hell, everyone knew about it. It’s a cottage industry down there. It’s kind of a depressed area. The eco-structure is shot to hell, from over-development and just plain greed. And every little helps. The guy who sold us the place took a kickback. Had done for years. Only he declined to tell us about it. I guess he just assumed we’d carry on. But Jackie and I didn’t see it that way. We were both tired of corruption. We’d seen enough of it in this country. We decided to make a stand.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And our staff quit. The local sheriff started hassling us. We were getting bogged down with visits from the health and safety. Then the bookings dried up. Christ knows how he did it – Schofield. But he did. We’d taken out a loan at the local bank. Suddenly they wanted paying all at once. The manager must’ve been in Schofield’s pocket. We were broke within a year. So we sold the place for a loss and moved to Miami. I got a job running security for a little carburettor factory on the local industrial park. Jackie went into decline. She was never that strong. Not physically or mentally, after what she went through as a kid. I had a day off and went to the market for groceries. Just another day, or so I thought. Whilst I was gone, it was only an hour or so –’ he sounded desperate – ‘she got the gun I carried at work, stuck it in her mouth and pulled the trigger.’

  I looked at my untouched drink on the table in front of me. ‘I’ve got to take a piss,’ I said, and went to the gents. I stood by the sink and looked in the mirror. My face without the beard was old and hard. I’d aged ten years since Dawn had been killed, and the blood ran bitter and sour through my veins. Now another friend was dead. How many more, I thought, before this is all over?

  I went back to Toby and said, ‘What do we do?’

  He took a thick envelope out of the inside pocket of his dark overcoat and passed it to me. ‘The plans of the house and its grounds, and photos of Tyson and Schofield. Schofield’s is lousy. He doesn’t like publicity for obvious reasons. It’s the only one of him in existence as far as we know, and it took months to get. They’re for you to keep. Read, learn and inwardly digest.’

  My old granny used to say that. ‘You must’ve been pretty sure of me,’ I commented.

  ‘I was.’

  I nodded and opened the envelope. The maps and plans I laid aside for later, and concentrated on the photographs. One was clear: an eight-by-ten of a handsome young bloke of about twenty-eight. If I had anything to do with it, he’d never see thirty. The other was smaller. Snapshot size and grainy. Not very clear. Taken on the run. The man photographed could have been any age between forty and sixty. Dark haired, with a face you wouldn’t look at twice. You wouldn’t maybe, but I would. He was the man who’d had Dawn, Daisy and Tracey killed. My heart was cold as I looked at it.

  ‘How do we do it?’ I asked.

  ‘Leave that to me. Have you got a bank deposit account?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Do you have the account number handy?’

  ‘I’ve got a card.’

  ‘Let’s have a look.’

  I pulled out my credit-card holder, found the card for my high-interest account and passed it over. Toby took down the details and said, ‘Check it later in the week. You should find that half of one third of half a million quid has been deposited.’

  ‘What will the taxman say?’

  ‘Tell him you had a win on the horses.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Listen, Nick,’ he said. ‘It’s been fun, but I’ve got a lot to do. I’ll be in touch with you later. I’ve still got your number.’

  ‘I’ll wait for your call.’

  With a brief goodbye, he left the remains of his pint and split.

  I sat and made pictures in the flames of the fake fire. Bad pictures, like bad dreams, so I left too.

  I used a phone box on the corner to phone Chas in Wapping. ‘Long time,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah. Can I see you?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘It’s been months, Nick, and now all of a sudden – ’

  ‘Yeah,’ I interrupted. ‘I’ve got a lead on who killed Dawn and Tracey.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Bloomsbury.’

  ‘Do you know a boozer called the Queen of Spain underneath Holborn Viaduct?’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘Be there in half an hour.’

  I was. Chas rolled in ten minutes later.

  ‘You look terrible, Nick,’ he said.

  ‘Nice to see you too, Chas.’

  He smiled, and I bought him a scotch.

  ‘So tell me,’ he said.

  ‘Does the name Derek Schofield mean anything to you?’

  ‘Christ, you love to mess ar
ound with the big boys, don’t you?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Big-time entrepreneur. And I mean B-I-G. Billionaire. You know the deal.’

  I didn’t, but I was learning. ‘Know what he looks like?’ I asked.

  ‘No. No one does. He makes Howard Hughes look like a party animal. Doesn’t like publicity, big time. Has lawyers on the case twenty-five hours a day. It’s even said that he has half a dozen ringers all over the world at any one time, living in his houses or booked into hotels under his name to confuse the issue.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Fuck knows. The geezer’s mental maybe. But what’s he got to do with Dawn and Tracey?’

  ‘I heard he had them killed.’

  He looked amazed. ‘Schofield? Jesus. If that’s right, it’s the story of the year.’

  I could see the headlines in his eyes, and I leant over and gripped his hand. Hard. ‘Not a word on this, Chas. Not to anyone. Understand?’

  ‘OK, Nick. Take it easy. That’s my typewriting hand you’re grinding to pulp.’

  I looked down, saw that he was right and relaxed my grip. His skin was white with pressure and he eased his fingers.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ I said. ‘Bad day.’

  I took out the envelope Toby had given me and extracted the picture of Schofield. ‘Know him?’ I asked.

  Chas looked at it and shook his head.

  ‘That’s Schofield,’ I said.

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jesus. Can I have this?’

  ‘No, Chas,’ I said. ‘I just wanted your confirmation.’

  ‘I can’t confirm a thing. I’ve never seen him.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Chas wanted to know the whole story. I wouldn’t tell him any more, but did promise that if I found out any further information he’d be the first to know. It was only then that he’d let me go.

  I went home and drank myself stupid. More stupid than usual. I rolled a couple of joints and watched TV. I woke up at three a.m. in my armchair with the screen full of snow and an irritating whine coming from the closed down station, and decided that it was at last time to go and see where Dawn, Daisy and Tracey had died. Then I fell asleep again. I woke up at seven and felt just fine. Apart from a mouth that tasted like a dead dog’s armpit, and a nasty headache.

  I made some tea, and at a more reasonable hour called Charlie on the phone. ‘I need a motor. Now,’ I said when he answered.

  ‘And a very good morning to you too, Nick,’ he said back.

  I suddenly felt shitty again. ‘Sorry, mate,’ I said. ‘Nought out of ten for communication skills. How are you?’

  ‘Just fine.’

  ‘I really need a car for a couple of hours. Maybe all day.’

  ‘I said there’d always be one here for you. Anything in particular?’

  ‘No. Just as long as it goes.’

  ‘All my cars go. At least till they get to the bottom of the road.’ And he laughed his car dealer’s laugh. ‘I’ve got just the thing. Another Range Rover. A special. It’s got a big block Chevy V8 lump through a Blazer turbo 400 auto four-speed gearbox. Beefed up suspension and brakes and the biggest tyres you’ve ever seen. I got it as part of a debt from some nutty bastard who thought that the end of the world was coming before Christmas.’

  ‘And isn’t it?’

  ‘His did, when the VAT men went in.’ And he laughed again.

  Charlie continued to tell me all about the high-performance cylinder heads, but I really wasn’t interested, even though I pretended to be, because I always had been in the past. Frankly a rusty Fiesta on a T-plate would’ve done me that day.

  ‘Sounds great,’ I said. ‘Is it ready to roll?’

  ‘I’ll get it gassed up, check the oil and water and you can have it when you like.’

  ‘About half an hour?’

  ‘You got it.’

  And we rang off.

  I walked up to his place. It didn’t take long and helped clear my headache.

  I saw the motor before I saw Charlie. It was parked half on and half off the pavement outside his lot. It stood very tall on wide, chromed wheels with tyres that had enough tread to rip up tarmac as it went. The Rover was sprayed a sort of muddy green, and huge matt black crash bars were mounted front and back to protect the lights and frighten cab drivers. There was a power hump on the bonnet and the windows were tinted dark grey. All in all it looked like something you’d use for a bit of recreational ram-raiding if the shops were shut and you needed an extra pint of milk.

  Charlie was leaning against a black 8 Series BMW drinking a cup of tea out of a Styrofoam cup, taking the winter air, with an eye out for likely punters, when he saw me. He was tarted up in a beige cashmere overcoat with a black velvet collar over a purple mohair three piece, pink tab-collar shirt and Guards tie.

  ‘Don’t move,’ I said. ‘I want to remember you just like you are.’

  ‘Nick.’

  ‘Charlie.’

  ‘Your carriage awaits.’

  ‘Subtle.’

  ‘Shit off a shovel, son.’

  ‘Am I insured?’

  ‘Sure. I’ve put you on the books as a consultant.’

  ‘Consultant on what?’

  ‘Christ knows. Trouble probably.’ He took a set of keys out of his coat pocket and lobbed them over. ‘Enjoy,’ he said.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Cuppa before you go?’

  ‘No thanks. I want to get there.’

  He didn’t ask where and I was grateful. I just unlocked the driver’s door and got in. The interior was pale beige leather. I settled behind the wheel, adjusted the seat for height and rake and switched on the engine. The big Chevy lump came to life with a rumble like a bear being woken early from hibernation, grey smoke belched from the exhausts and the needle on the fuel gauge swung round to F. I put my foot on the brake and engaged ‘Drive’. The Rover tried to leave without me at less than a thousand revs, and I knew I was going to be in for a fun day. I tooted the horn, Charlie raised his hand, I took my foot off the brake pedal and dribbled another few hundred r.p.m. The Rover’s huge back tyres squealed and before I knew it I was thirty yards down the road, and a rep in a Cavalier had aged ten years as I cut him off. I drifted the motor down Norwood Road, getting the hang of the power steering. By the time I got to Brixton I was used to the car and let it have its head on the Stockwell Road and up to the river. By the time I hit Park Lane I was showing off and almost forgetting the point of my journey, as I enjoyed the power that the Range Rover put through the huge tyres that sounded like tank tracks on the road.

  The Edgware Road was as crowded as usual, but when I hit the motorway, I put my foot down hard and before the rev counter got to five thousand I was doing close to a hundred and thirty m.p.h.

  It took no time at all to get to Dunstable, and it was only when I saw a signpost for junction eleven that I remembered why I was there.

  I went past it, under the bridge where the crash happened, and it started to rain. All the way up the motorway the sky had got darker and I could see the wind coming up, as the tops of the trees alongside the road began to dance and sway. By the time I reached the next turnoff I needed the wipers on double time. I came off at junction twelve, swung round the slip roads and came back on to the highway, heading south. Within a couple of minutes I was back at the bridge, indicated left and pulled on to the hard shoulder, switched to emergency blinkers and got out of the car.

  I pulled up the collar of my leather jacket against the weather and walked up the grassy embankment towards the support of the bridge above me that Tracey’s car had hit. There were some scars on the concrete and black stains from the smoke. Behind me, the traffic rushed towards London and I could feel the draught of its slipstream and the boom of the engines that echoed around me. From somewhere across the fields that stretched towards the town I heard the motor of a light plane or helicopter, but couldn’t see it for the ceiling that the bridge m
ade above my head. At least under there I wasn’t getting soaked, just feeling some peripheral drops that the wind blew under it. I stood on the grass and looked for tyre tracks, but the grass had had all summer and autumn to fill them in and I could see nothing. Not that I could’ve seen much anyway, because my eyes filled with tears, and I leant my head against the cold concrete and wished I was dead myself.

  That’s where the Old Bill found me. They drove up in a Range Rover of their own a couple of minutes later. It was dripping with emergency gear and had its blue light flashing, but the siren was silent. They parked theirs behind mine and two coppers wearing lime green fluorescent jackets got out. They walked across the grass to join me.

  The first one to reach me was the shorter of the two, puffy faced, with a dark moustache and eyes that were too close together. This one’s going to be trouble, I thought as he spoke.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Has your car broken down?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know it’s an offence to stop on the hard shoulder unless it’s an emergency?’

  I did. I could’ve even quoted the subsection of the Road Traffic Act that he was referring to, given a little time.

  I nodded.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So?’ I said back.

  He sighed and turned to his mate, who was a few years younger, a good many pints and meat pies slimmer, and who I could see had blond hair under his peaked cap. ‘What do you reckon, John?’ Moustache said.

  The blond one shrugged, then looked at me. ‘It’ll be a lot easier if you just get into your car and go,’ he said to me.

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Then we nick you,’ said Moustache. There was a trace of a country boy accent in his voice which made it hard for me to take him seriously.

  ‘So nick me,’ I said. ‘I’ll come quietly.’ Stupid. I told you that.

  Before he had time to make his move, the one he’d called John said, ‘What’s the attraction?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘This place.’

  I pointed at the scarred and stained concrete buttress. ‘My wife was killed here last March.’