by Mark Timlin
I went over and held her. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘It’ll soon be over.’
She clung on to me, and for a minute I thought she was playing the oldest trick in the book, but there were no kissings or strokings. She just clung on for dear life until the sobs began to subside.
Then she pulled away. ‘Sorry, Nick,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’
‘I do.’ It happens to me all the time. ‘You’ve just had enough.’
‘You can say that again.’ She moved up to the other end of the sofa. ‘I must look a mess.’
Just the opposite. She looked great. Streaky mascara and puffed-up eyes and all.
‘No,’ I said. ‘You look fine.’
She went off and washed her face and repaired her makeup. When she came back, we just sat there for the rest of the afternoon. Me back in the armchair, her on the sofa. We talked about old times, and Harry, and more old times, and after a bit what we’d been to each other. Precious little I’m afraid at the time. We were much better friends now.
Slowly the room darkened and she asked, ‘Are you hungry?’
‘After that lunch? No thanks.’
‘Do you have to go home?’
‘Not now. Not tonight. Tomorrow I’ve got some work on the case.’
‘So don’t go.’
‘I won’t.’
And I didn’t.
I picked up Robber the next morning the same time as I had on Saturday. We drove back to the garage and parked in the same spot as previously. Only this time I had to keep an eye out for traffic wardens.
The same Ferrari was there, and the same mechanic, only this time he was crawling under a Jag. Once again there was no sign of Groucho. ‘Do you think he’s got an office?’ I said.
‘Something like that. Doesn’t want to get his hands dirty here.’
A second mechanic drove up shortly after in a white Escort van and joined his mate on the Jaguar. We sat and waited for something more interesting to happen.
‘How was the widow?’ asked Robber after a few minutes.
I knew he was going to ask that sooner or later. ‘Fine,’ I replied.
‘Have a good day?’
‘Yeah. She made me lunch.’
‘Coo.’
‘How about your widow?’
‘Fine.’
‘Have a good day?’
‘Yeah. I treated her to Harrison Ford and a lamb Masala.’
‘Coo,’ I said.
And that was Monday. At six Groucho showed, closed up the place and went back to Hampstead.
‘One more day,’ said Robber. ‘And we’ll have to get there early. Find out where Groucho hangs out.’
The next morning we were there at eight. Groucho showed at nine and Robber followed him. We figured that, although Groucho knew him, he wouldn’t expect to see him in Dalston. It was all we could do, and we had to take a chance. He called me on my mobile ten minutes later to tell me that Groucho had gone to ground in an office over a betting shop, half a mile or so away. ‘This is the place we’ve got to watch,’ he said, and I drove up to where he was waiting and we parked in a supermarket car park so that we could easily see the front door of Groucho’s building.
‘I had a look round the back,’ said Robber. ‘There’s a fire escape, but the yard there is full of crap and doesn’t look like anyone’s been through it for years. Any comings and goings are round the front. At least I hope they are.’
They were. Both the young Asian and the bloke built like a steamroller called by before the morning was much older. Plus another three or four equally dodgy-looking characters.
‘Wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall in there,’ remarked Robber as yet another villainous individual sidled in through the door.
Men, and it was only men, came and went all day, but no one except the trio that had called on me did we know.
At six Groucho came out and walked in the direction of the garage. ‘Shit,’ said Robber. ‘Want another trip to Hampstead?’
‘But he might not be going to Hampstead,’ I said.
And he wasn’t.
This time he headed east and didn’t stop until he was on the outskirts of Romford. The nice outskirts of Romford where the houses were all seriously detached and in their own grounds, mostly behind high walls, and where uniformed security men patrolled in little blue vans. We dropped back until Groucho stopped outside an imposing set of iron gates, said something into an entryphone and was admitted.
‘The Laurels,’ said Robber, noting the name on the wall next to the gate as we went past. ‘I’ll check that out.’
We went home then. It seemed pointless to wait. There’s nothing more boring than surveillance.
We agreed to meet early the next morning, and once again I called for Robber. On the way to Dalston his mobile rang, and when he broke the connection after listening for less than a minute, with only grunts as his contribution to the conversation, he hung up and beamed at me.
‘Bingo,’ he said. ‘Got the fucker. The Laurels is owned by a certain Mrs Tony Lambretta.’
‘Mrs?’
‘Oldest one in the book. Anything happens to Tony financially, or he gets his collar felt and the court confiscates. He owns nothing. All in the little woman’s name.’
‘Till the little woman runs off with the gardener.’
‘Not this little woman. Tony’d flay the skin off her alive if she as much as looked cross-eyed at the gardener. And she knows it.’
‘So. More results.’
‘No more results than my ex-employers could’ve got with a little digging.’
‘Perhaps we were just lucky. Or good.’
‘We’re good, Nick, but not so good that the Bill couldn’t’ve followed this up. Specially with their resources. No, mate. Something very funny is going on here.’
That was what I was afraid of.
‘So what next?’ I asked.
‘Next we go and have a look round Groucho’s office. We’ll do it tonight after he’s safely tucked up.’
We watched the office all that day too, and nothing much occurred apart from the faces we were coming to know popping in and out. Groucho did his usual routine come six o’clock, and this time he went back to Hampstead. When he was settled we drove back to Dalston and found a pub that did food. We stayed there until closing, and then I drove around in the car until after midnight.
The supermarket car park was empty and I tucked the Audi away in the far corner in the shadow of the back of the building. Then Robber and I crossed the main road and went down a side street to the alley at the back of the betting shop. He’d been right about the crap in the back yard. We climbed over the fence, picked our way through piles of wet newspapers and black sacks that rustled ominously as if full of a plague of rats, to the fire escape. We climbed the metal steps to the first floor and Robber checked the door and windows. ‘All tight,’ he whispered. ‘But I’ve got just the thing.’ From under his jacket he pulled out a short crowbar.
‘Subtle,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry about it. They ain’t gonna report this to the coppers,’ he said. ‘I bet they’d just love a visit from CID.’
He inserted the sharp end of the bar into the crack between door and jamb and leant on it. With a terrible sound of splitting wood and rasping metal the door opened. To me it sounded as loud as a seven-car pile-up, but no one in the vicinity seemed to notice. Maybe that sort of noise was par for the course at midnight in Dalston.
‘Come on, then,’ said Robber, and we went inside.
We’d both brought small torches from the car, and in their light we started to take a look round the place. It was just two rooms, both containing desks, chairs and filing cabinets. Off one of the rooms was a toilet, off the other a tiny kitchen. We went through the place and found absolutely nothing. The filing cabinets contained a few old newspapers, the desk drawers were full of air, there was no fax or answering machine, and the milk in the kitchen was off. A big zero.
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‘So what the fuck do they do here all day?’ I asked when our fruitless search was done.
‘Fuck knows,’ said Robber. ‘Plan bullion blags, I suppose. Come on, let’s get out of here. We’re wasting our time.’
We left the way we’d come and climbed over the fence back into the alley.
As we walked towards its junction with the side street someone stepped out from behind a skip that almost blocked the alley and said, ‘Find what you were looking for?’
It was sodding Groucho, overcoat on, and a mean-looking silenced automatic snug in his german. ‘Not much to see inside, is there?’ he said.
Robber and I turned as one to do a runner, and behind us stood the young Asian and Steamroller, also armed with silenced weapons. ‘Shit,’ I said.
‘Shit, is right,’ said the Asian. ‘You two really are inept.’
‘Is that right?’ said Robber.
‘Didn’t you think that thick biker would tell?’ said the Asian. ‘And fancy nicking his hand. That was hardly cricket.’
Cricket, I thought. Who did this fucker think he was? Imran Khan?
‘Never mind about that,’ said Groucho to the Asian. Then to us: ‘Did you think we wouldn’t suss? We’ve been watching you all week.’
And I never noticed, I thought.
‘And we’ve been watching you,’ said Robber. ‘Did you have a pleasant evening with Tony Lambretta?’
‘Don’t think you’re so clever,’ said Groucho. ‘You only know as much as we want you to know. And sod all use it’ll be to you.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ said Robber. ‘Shoot us?’
‘Yeah,’ said Groucho and fired his gun. It made no more sound than someone spitting on the pavement, and the round hit Robber in the chest. In the faint light from the street lamps in the side road I saw a look of surprise spread over his face and he put his hand on his front where the bullet had entered.
Things went mental for about ten seconds then, although thinking back it seemed like two hours and everyone moved in slow motion like a Sam Peckinpah movie.
Robber turned to me, the look of surprise turning to horror. I reached for the Colt that was in the waistband of my jeans and I backed against the fence behind me as the Asian and Steamroller fired simultaneously. The Asian’s bullet hit Robber in the side and Steamroller’s hit the fence beside me, knocking a huge splinter out of the wood. I found my Colt and dragged it out, cocking the hammer as I did it, but it snagged in the material, and before I could fire, Groucho turned his gun in my direction. I saw his finger tighten on the trigger and the stab of flame as he fired, and I can almost swear I saw the red hot bullet leave the muzzle heading for me just as Robber staggered into me. He took Groucho’s bullet in the shoulder, and the slug passed clear through him, showering me with blood, and the bullet spun up and hit me in the head like I’d been clouted with a piece of lead pipe. We both went down and I must’ve passed out for a few seconds. When I came to I was underneath Robber and could feel blood pumping out of his chest wound and soaking me. The alley was empty and I was bleeding like a stuck pig myself from the wound in my head which throbbed like the worst hangover headache I’d ever had. My eyes were full of blood and I reached up and wiped the thick, warm goo away to clear them. I had no idea how long I’d been out, but looking at the state of Robber I knew it had been too long. He was dying in front of my eyes from his wounds and loss of blood.
I rolled him gently off me, stuck the gun I was still holding into my pocket and felt the bulk of the portable phone I’d been carrying around since he’d given it to me. Thank God, I thought, dragged it out, prayed that it hadn’t been broken, flicked it on, saw the display light up, dialled nine-nine-nine, and pushed the ‘SEND’ button.
‘Emergency. Which service do you require?’ a female voice said into my ear.
‘Ambulance. Quickly. There’s a man dying here.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘He’s been shot at least three times and he’s losing blood fast.’
‘Can you give me your name and location? As you’re calling from a mobile station we cannot find you from the number we have.’
Shit, they had the mobile number. Modern technology is hell on people’s privacy.
‘At the back of a row of shops off Dalston High Street,’ I said. ‘Opposite the Gateway supermarket. We’re in an alley behind a betting shop. I don’t know the name of the side road. Look, he’s dying. For God’s sake get an ambulance here quickly.’
‘It’s on its way. And the police.’
‘Whatever. Just hurry them up, there’s not much time.’ And I cut off the call before she could ask who I was again, and I wondered in whose name Robber had put the telephones he’d bought.
Robber’s chest wound was sucking badly and blood was still pumping out, and I cradled his inert body with one arm and stuck the other hand over the bullet wound and pressed down hard to try to quell the flow.
He opened his eyes then, looked straight into mine in the thin light and said, ‘Don’t let me die.’
‘You ain’t going to fucking die,’ I replied, and he stopped breathing. Just like that.
No, I thought. Not you too. Not another. Not another person close to me dying. I won’t let this happen. Not again. ‘Jack,’ I yelled. ‘Jack, you fucker. Don’t do this to me. Don’t you fucking dare, you bastard.’ And I took my hand away from his wound and struck him in the face as hard as I could. And miraculously, he gulped deep in his throat and started breathing again just as I heard the sound of sirens in the distance.
Robber was still breathing, though with difficulty, when the ambulance and police car arrived simultaneously.
The paramedics took over, fixing up a drip and field dressings and informing the hospital that an emergency gunshot wound case would be coming in within minutes. I stood with my back against the fence, my legs trembling, covered in Robber’s and my own blood that had started dripping down my face again, and one of the coppers from the squad car said to me, ‘Exactly what happened here?’
‘Dunno,’ I replied. ‘I was walking home when I heard someone shout and I found him.’
The copper looked at me cross-eyed and shone his torch on to my face. ‘You’ve been hurt yourself.’
‘I banged my head on the edge of the skip,’ I said, gesturing in its direction. ‘When I found him.’
‘What’s your name?’ the second copper asked.
‘Harvey. John Harvey.’ He’s a writer. I had one of his books on my bedside table at home, and it was the best I could come up with at short notice.
‘Address?’
I hesitated. I didn’t have a clue about any local street names.
‘Twenty-two . . .’ I hesitated again.
The first copper looked at the second, and I saw the faint nod he gave his colleague. ‘I think we’d better have the medics look at you then take you to hospital. You’re bleeding badly,’ he said. ‘Then maybe you’ll remember where you live.’
‘It’s all right,’ I protested. ‘Just a scratch.’
‘No, sir,’ said the first copper, still a little unsure. And it was the little I was living in, and he took hold of my left arm.
‘Look out, he’s got a gun,’ yelled the other policeman, and I had. As the first one got hold of me, I’d slipped my right hand into my jacket pocket and brought out the Colt and stuck it into his face.
‘Back off, boys,’ I said. ‘And give me some air.’
The paramedics looked up from their work. ‘Don’t stop,’ I shouted. ‘Keep going. I’m not going to hurt you.’
They did as they were told, as I forced the two Old Bill out of the alley and into the side street. ‘Start walking,’ I ordered. ‘In that direction.’ And pointed away from the main road. ‘And don’t look back.’
They did as they were told, and I walked up to the squad car, shot out the front tyre and legged it towards the car park where I’d left the Audi, my head feeling like it was going to drop off at any mome
nt.
I got into the car and leant my aching head against the window, leaving a smear of blood on the glass. I started it up and swung out of the car park and headed towards central London. There was no one in sight. As I drove off, the ambulance pulled out of the side turning and raced off with its siren wailing. There was no sign of the two coppers.
I drove slowly, wiping more blood out of my eyes and wondering where the hell to go. Between the police and Groucho’s boys I couldn’t go home. I thought about trying Nancy Stonehouse. But if the police identified Robber and tied him to me and the case, the filth would be all over Fulham like a rash before the sun rose. And what if Jack died? It would be down to me. Another fuck-up in a career so full of them I should get mentioned in dispatches. Fuck me, I was certainly going to get mentioned in the Met’s daily orders. Pulling an unlicensed gun on two police officers, destroying police property, leaving the scene of a crime. Plus whatever else they could pin on me in the way of petty or serious misdemeanours. Outstanding behaviour. I was a one-man crime wave, and it was still a long time till breakfast.
As I drove sedately through the East End I saw lots of police vehicles heading in the direction I was coming from, blue lights flashing and sirens screaming, but no one took any notice of me.
So it had to be Diane, and I hated to involve her but I had no choice. She was the only friend I could turn to, even if I screwed her up in the process. I pulled out my portable phone and keyed in her number. Since I’d known her she’d left her parents’ home in Essex and rented a tiny flat in Maida Vale. It was nothing to do with me, but thank Christ she had. She answered on the tenth ring, sounding sleepy and disorientated.
‘Whassamatta?’ she said when she realised who it was. ‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘I’m in a bit of trouble. I need a place to stay for a bit.’
‘What kind of trouble?’ She sounded wide awake then.
‘Bad trouble. I’ll tell you all about it later.’
‘And you want to stay here?’
