by Mark Timlin
‘I got the gun he was carrying, Mr L,’ said Mr Average. ‘But I ain’t searched him yet.’
‘Do it, then,’ said Mr L. Tony Lambretta as I lived and breathed. But for how much longer? I wondered.
Mr Average gave Lambretta the Browning, moved round carefully so as not to get in the line of fire, and gave me a brief but thorough search. He found my wallet in my hip pocket. When he put his hand up to my groin, I said, ‘You should work at Burton’s. You’d enjoy it.’
‘Shut the fuck up!’ screamed Lambretta.
Sense of humour bypass.
Me? After all that coke I could see the funny side of it. After all that coke I could see the funny side of the Holocaust.
‘He’s clean,’ said Mr Average, straightening up and taking my gun out of his pocket.
‘Who the hell are you to come to my house with a gun?’ said Tony Lambretta, his voice a little calmer.
‘You’ve got guns,’ I said.
‘This is my house.’
I said nothing.
‘What if my kids had been out at the pool?’
Nothing.
‘You would’ve killed one, maybe?’
I shook my head at that. ‘No, Mr Lambretta,’ I said. ‘But I might’ve taken one hostage.’
He kicked me then, running forward and trying to land one in my groin, I turned slightly and took it on my thigh. But it still hurt like fuck.
‘His name is Sharman, boss,’ said Mr Average after checking around my credit cards.
‘Sharman,’ said Lambretta with barely controlled fury. ‘He’s the bastard’s been sticking his nose in with that fucker Robber.’
‘We just never learn,’ I said mildly.
‘You’re dead, you fucker,’ said Lambretta his finger tightening on the trigger. ‘Dead. Just like your friend’ll be when we get hold of him.’
‘We’ve all gotta go some time,’ I said.
‘I’ll get Jules over here,’ said Lambretta to Mr Average. ‘You lock this piece of shit away upstairs till we need him. Make sure he stays there.’
Jules. Groucho. Shit.
Mr Average poked me hard in the ribs and gestured that I should precede him. I did. Out of the room and up a wide flight of stairs like something out of Gone With the Wind to the first floor, then along the hall. When we got to a room at the end he said, ‘Inside,’ and I just knew he was going to give me a whack on the head.
No more, I thought. I’ve had enough of head wounds. If he hit me from behind I’d be bound to fall on my healing wound, and if I turned he’d hit me at the front, and either way I might end up with my brain spilling out of my skull. Three days I’d been out of it the last time. Who knew how long it might be before I came round if I got hit again? If ever.
But turn I did, and Mr Average looked at me, the Colt pointing at my abdomen. He hadn’t cocked it so it was on double action. Just a fraction of a second slower to fire than if he’d cocked the hammer. And it’s so easy to miss with a small handgun, even at close range. A centimetre of movement of the muzzle end could mean a foot or more at mine. It was worth the risk. The worst that could happen was that I’d end up dead. And the coke made me fearless.
‘It’s unloaded,’ I said.
I knew he hadn’t checked it, and for one brief second he believed me and looked down at the gun in his hand. It wavered, and I did exactly what his boss had tried to do to me. I kicked him so hard in the nuts that I expected his bollocks to pop out of his mouth.
Man, but that speed made me fast.
The pain paralysed his trigger finger just like I’d prayed it would. He gave me one agonised look, made a strangled cry, and fell to the thick carpet with hardly a sound, the gun bouncing off the pile in front of him.
Then I kicked him in the head just to make sure.
I went through his pockets and found my wallet, then I found his. His name was John Duncan. He had a wodge of large denomination notes and a bunch of credit cards, so I nicked the lot. Then I tied his hands behind him with the silk tie he was wearing. I pulled it so tight that I heard the stitches rip and I knew that even a trip down Sketchley’s wouldn’t put Humpty together again. I hoped it had been expensive.
I cocked the Colt and crept downstairs, where I could hear Lambretta holding a one-sided conversation with the phone. I waited until he hung up before walking back into the room overlooking the patio. Lambretta was gazing out over the garden away from me; the Browning was on the top of the bar maybe ten feet from where he was standing. Perfect. He heard my footsteps on the marble and said, thinking I was Duncan, ‘You got the bastard sorted?’
‘He’s sorted all right, Mr Lambretta, but I think we’re talking about different bastards. Now just keep your hands where I can see them.’
He spun round and I showed him my gun before walking over and picking up the automatic and putting it in my pocket. ‘What the f—?’ he said.
I winked at him. ‘Can’t get the staff these days, can you?’
His eyes went to the door.
‘No. He won’t be down.’
‘You cunt.’
‘Granted. Are we alone?’
Lambretta nodded and I believed him. ‘Jules is coming,’ he said.
‘He’ll be a while. And I won’t be stopping. But before I go you can answer me a couple of questions.’
‘What questions? I ain’t answering any questions. Fuck you.’
‘Then I’ll shoot you and leave you for Jules to find. I don’t give a shit, Tone. I’m wanted for attempted murder and lots more, thanks to you and your mates. If I’m going down I might as well go down for something I did do.’
He didn’t say much to that. Could’ve been due to the fact that by then I was foaming at the mouth from the coke. I must’ve looked like a rabid dog seeing a pond full of water.
‘Are you carrying by the way?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Because you’ve got such a great minder, is it? I’d think again. But just for the record slip off your jacket.’
He did as he was told. I could see no sign of a gun. ‘Pull up your trouser legs,’ I said.
‘Do what?’
‘Just in case you’re wearing an ankle holster.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he said, but he did as I told him. Nothing.
‘Good enough,’ I said. ‘So why did you kill Harry Stonehouse?’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t piss me off!’ I screamed. ‘I know you done it.’
‘That bitch—’ he said, but cut himself off and clamped his mouth tight shut.
‘What bitch?’ I asked. But I could guess.
He shook his head, but he’d partway answered my question.
‘Where’s the money?’ I asked.
‘What money?’
‘The money from the 4F security van blag. Twenty million in old notes. That money.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
I squeezed the trigger and the Colt jumped in my hand, and more by luck than judgement a plaster bust of Elvis from the Vegas era that was standing on a tall chiffonier about three feet from where he was standing exploded into powder.
‘You’re fucking mad,’ he said in the aftermath of the shot.
‘Fucking mad,’ I said. ‘And getting madder by the second. So tell me about the money.’
‘There’s no money here.’
‘I didn’t expect you’d keep it under the mattress,’ I said. ‘But you’ve got it, ain’t you?’
He seemed to regain his confidence then, as if I’d asked the wrong question. ‘You going to kill me?’ he said.
And crazy as I was, I wasn’t. Going to kill him, that is, much as I might want to, and I think he knew it.
‘Not today,’ I said.
‘You’d better piss off, then,’ he said. ‘Jules won’t be on his own.’
He had some bottle, I’d give him that, and he was right. I didn’t fancy a gun fight. And besides, the shot had given me a headache right on my scar.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘And you’re going to walk me to my car. Come on.’ I knew I’d been at the right place, but this was the wrong time. I wanted to go and have a think. Regroup and marshal my forces, however pathetic they were.
I walked over, grabbed Lambretta by the shoulder and shoved him out into the hall. ‘How do the front gates open?’ I said.
He pointed to a console covered in buttons by the front door. ‘Go on, then,’ I ordered.
He walked over and pressed one. It could’ve been a panic button for the security firm that toured the area but I doubted it. I didn’t think Lambretta wanted any witnesses. ‘Door,’ I said.
He opened the wide front door and together we walked down the drive. The gates stood open and I held the gun tight to my side as I made him walk with me to where I’d left the Montego.
I got in and touched the wires together just like Ricky had said and the engine started first go.
I reversed out from the undergrowth and turned the car round, then let the window down and for the first time he looked scared, as if I might just shoot and run.
‘I’ll be seeing you again,’ I said. ‘Count on it.’ And I slammed my foot down on the accelerator, fishtailing the car away, and shooting dirt and grit over his flash whistle.
On the way back to town I decided I’d really fucked that one up. I’d need more time with Lambretta. Much more time. And some kind of leverage. I could’ve taken him with me, I supposed, but where? I had nowhere to go. I could hardly take him back to Diane’s with me. That would’ve pleased her no end. Having Tony Lambretta as a reluctant lodger.
I suppose I could’ve shot him, but what would’ve been the point? At least I was damned sure Robber had been right in his hypothesis. And alive Tony Lambretta could lead me to the cash and what really happened to Harry Stonehouse on his ten months away. Dead, he’d’ve been no use to me at all.
I skirted the West End and headed towards Fulham. On the way I keyed Nancy Stonehouse’s number into my portable. She answered quickly. ‘Are you alone?’ I asked.
‘Nick. Thank God. Yes, of course I’m alone.’
There was no of course about it, but I let it go. ‘Is the house being watched?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. Should it be?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me. Got your car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. Get in and drive over the river. Go to Barnes. There’s a pub there called the Rising Sun. Right in the middle of the village. Meet me there in half an hour. Make sure you’re not followed.’
‘This all sounds a little melodramatic.’
‘Melodramatic,’ I said. ‘Robber’s in hospital with three bullet holes in him. I get a face full of lead, and . . . listen, I’ll tell you all about it when we meet. Just make sure if anyone follows you you lose them. If you can’t, go back home and I’ll call you later. Don’t, whatever you do, let anyone come after you to the pub or I’m in deep shit.’
‘OK, Nick,’ she said in a chastened tone.
I was at the boozer within fifteen minutes and stuck the car on a meter opposite the pub although there was a big car park at the back. Whatever Nancy thought, there was a chance someone could be watching and I didn’t rate her as a stoppo driver. So I sat in the car and watched the pub, although I was dying for a drink.
She turned up dead on time, drove round the back of the building and I checked the cars that came after her. No one seemed interested and I watched as she came round the front again and went into the bar. I reckoned she was clean, so I left the Montego, stuck half a quid in the meter like a law-abiding citizen, and went into the boozer after her.
She was sitting at a table with a drink in front of her. ‘Hello,’ I said.
‘There was some sod watching the house,’ she said and my stomach did a somersault.
‘What kind of car?’
‘Black Ford, I think.’
A black Ford. Could be the good guys or the bad guys. But at least it proved someone was still interested.
‘I left him this side of the bridge when I did an illegal U-turn,’ Nancy went on. ‘Last seen fuming between a bus and a post office van.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘’Course I am. I know it round here. There’s lots of little streets to get lost in. Don’t worry, I made sure.’
There’d been no black Fords following her, I was sure of that. ‘Great,’ I said, and nodded at her drink. ‘You all right?’
‘Another gin’d be good.’
‘I thought it might,’ I said, and went to the bar and got myself a pint and a large Vera for the lady, as the barman put it.
When I was sat down with a quarter of the pint inside me and a cigarette lit, I said, ‘Know a face called Tony Lambretta?’
I could tell by her eyes that she did. ‘Who?’ she said.
Bad sign.
‘Lambretta,’ I said. ‘Like the motor scooter.’
She shook her head.
I leant over, took her wrist and squeezed it hard. ‘Nancy,’ I said. ‘I know you. I know lots about you. I’ve seen the little birth mark on your thigh. I’ve even kissed it. Now don’t fuck about with me, there’s a good girl, or I’ll break your fucking wrist.’
She twisted her hand away and I saw that the barman had noticed. I smiled an all boys together smile, hoping he’d think it was just a little domestic about the price of peas or something. He grinned back and resumed polishing a glass. We men have to stick together in the battle of the sexes.
‘There’s no need to threaten me,’ she said.
‘I think there is. I nearly got killed the other night.’ I moved my hair to let her clearly see the healing scar. ‘So did my mate. Now I want to know exactly what’s going on. Thanks for your show of concern, by the way.’
She frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Nick. It’s just that I’m not used to all this.’
‘Get used to it,’ I said. ‘I don’t think the fat lady’s going to be singing for a bit. This one won’t be over till it’s over, and something tells me we’ve hardly started yet.’
Her frown deepened and she lit one of my cigarettes. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I suppose I’d better tell you everything.’
‘Good idea.’ I lit another cigarette myself and yawned. The speed was still inside me, but I recognised signs of a crash coming.
‘God,’ she said again. ‘This is difficult. I haven’t been exactly honest with you.’
‘You amaze me.’
‘Are you going to listen or what?’
‘I’ll listen.’
So she told me.
‘I don’t know where to start, really.’
‘The beginning is usually good.’
‘It’s not as easy as that. Where does one thing end and another begin?’
I shrugged and hoped the conversation wasn’t going to get too Zen-like.
‘I told you that Harry and I were leading separate lives at the end.’
I nodded.
‘Well I was, but Harry was still in love with me. There’d been other men . . .’
I knew that too. Obviously. I’d been one of them. ‘Lots?’ I asked. I didn’t want to, but I had to. No one wants to be seen as just one of a crowd.
She guessed my reasons for asking. ‘Not a lot. A few. I didn’t screw the milkman and the bloke who came to read the electricity meter if that’s what you’re thinking.’
That was exactly what I’d been thinking, but I said nothing.
‘Did Harry know?’ I asked.
She nodded.
‘All of them?’
‘Most.’
‘Did he know about me?’
She nodded again.
‘When it was going on?’
‘Probably. We were never exactly discreet, were we?’
‘Shit,’ I said. And he’d kept phoning to invite me to meet him for a drink. Poor fucker.
‘He didn’t care,’ she said. ‘No, that’s not true. Of course he cared. He loved me. But he’d forgive me anyt
hing. That’s why I never left. I never found anyone better. It was easy with Harry. I did what I liked and he accepted that.’
It sounded as cold and lonely as hell to me. Because I reckon that if there is a hell it’s not hot like they say in the Bible. I imagine it would be as cold as the inside of a freezer. And dark. And you’d always be alone so that you could consider what you’d done to end up there.
She stopped and took a drink and lit another of my cigarettes.
‘I know where he was for that time,’ she said eventually.
And I suppose that was when I stopped liking Nancy Stonehouse.
‘You what?’ I said.
‘I lied to you. I know where he was for the time he went missing.’
‘Where?’
‘He was in a witness-protection programme.’
Robber had been dead right.
‘Jesus, Nancy,’ I said. ‘You’ve made a right fucking fool out of me.’
‘No. Listen.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘He was involved in that big robbery at 4F.’
‘You amaze me.’
‘They got away with twenty million.’
‘I’m aware of the figures.’
‘The police kept on at him. Him doing the job he did. He knew all about the lorry’s route and the radio codes. They never let him alone.’
‘They tend to do that.’
‘He was at his wits’ end. Being in the job for so long gives you a different perspective. You don’t understand what it’s like to be on the other side of the law.’
I do, I thought.
‘And in the end he told them everything. He informed on the men who did it. At least the ones he knew about. It was all planned so that only one or two people knew everyone involved. Very professional.’
‘And they got nicked.’
‘The ones he told about, and then some of the ones that got arrested informed on others. If you see what I mean.’
‘I see. And the rest went off to Spain.’
‘Some of them. Some of them stayed. The unimportant ones on the periphery. And some of the planners Harry didn’t even know about. There were a lot of people in on it.’
‘And you knew all about it.’
‘Not then. Afterwards. After he vanished.’
