The Turnaround

by Mark Timlin

  I finished the joint and dropped the roach in the ashtray. The music was mellow. So was the dope. It was me that wasn’t. I got up and wandered round the room. I lit a Silk Cut and poured Jack Daniel’s over ice from the fridge. I stayed up late and finished the bottle. Don’t get me wrong, there was only a drop. Eventually I went to bed and lay on my back and watched the wash of light from the car headlamps criss-cross the ceiling. It wasn’t the way I’d planned the evening to end. But you can’t always get what you want. Seems to me too often you get what you deserve.

  Eventually I fell asleep.

  6

  The next morning I decided to go back to Crown Point and start doing a house to house in case the police had missed anything. It was a slim chance, but I had to do something. So I got up early again, fed Cat and then took myself to my favourite café in Norwood Road where I got double egg, bacon, sausage, tomatoes, baked beans, fried slice, tea, toast and heartburn all for a couple of quid. How bad? Refills of tea on demand. I took the Telegraph with me for the crossword. I did seven clues. Not good. I was too busy thinking about the Kellerman murders. I gave the paper to the cook, paid the bill, took a mint and walked back to get the car and drive to Crown Point again.

  There was a silver Ford Escort parked opposite my house with two people sitting in the front. I clocked them as I got in the E-Type. Two blokes sitting well back so I couldn’t see their faces. The car was a foreigner. It didn’t belong in the area. When I was on the force I met villains who knew every car in their district. They could spot strange wheels at a quarter of a mile. It kept some of them out of nick for years. It’s a lesson I’ve never forgotten.

  I started the Jag and pulled out into the road and turned right. It was the long way round, but I wanted to see if they would follow me. They did. As I drove up towards Streatham, the Escort did a swift U-turn behind me. I drove through the avenues and headed west along the back streets. I stopped at the junction with Leigham Court Road, indicated left, turned right, causing a Thames van to skid broadside, turned sharp left into a narrow one-way street the wrong way, and accelerated down it, flashing my lights and forcing a Golf convertible on to the pavement. I turned left again, then right, and cut into Streatham High Road in front of a garbage truck, and the Escort was nowhere to be seen. So it looked like someone was coming out of the woodwork. I thought of the photos that Robber had given to me and shivered involuntarily.

  Still I carried on. I got to the close about ten. There were five houses in sight of the Kellermans’. They all had reasonably extensive grounds and the immediate neighbours had high walls or fences separating them. But someone might have seen something.

  And not told the police? Fat chance.

  None of the houses was numbered. They all had names. The first one I tried was called Buck House. Very droll, I thought. There was no one at home but the au pair, an engaging girl from what I translated as one of the Benelux countries. I had to translate because she spoke not a word of English. So she wasn’t much help.

  Next: Psycho’s Place. I swear to God. What the fuck were these people on? I rang the bell. A jolly-looking individual in a Marks and Sparks summer-weight cardie appeared at the door a moment later. I introduced myself. He looked vaguely interested, but didn’t invite me in. ‘I’ve been here less than a year, old mate,’ he said. ‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ I said, and turned to go. Then I turned back. ‘Why do you call the house Psycho’s Place?’ I asked. ‘You a Hitchcock fan or what?’

  ‘Funny story,’ he said. ‘Last year Stuart Pearce scored a penalty for Nottingham Forest against Luton in the eighty-ninth minute. Alec Chamberlain was the goalie. Brought the score to two all. And it brought my score up to eight draws. I won half a million quid that afternoon. Bought this.’ His gesture encompassed the building. ‘I was that far away – ’ he held his finger and thumb in front of himself about a quarter of an inch apart ‘– to losing the whole lot. Pearce’s nickname’s “Psycho”. When I found out what he’d done, I named the house after him. Good, eh?’

  ‘Marvellous,’ I said. ‘Good morning.’ And left.

  Just as well it wasn’t ‘Bite your legs’ Norman Hunter who scored, I thought, as I walked down the drive.

  At the third house, Trencher’s Farm, I struck lucky. I got invited in for a beer, and for probably the umpteenth time Geoffrey Godbold told me his story. Geoffrey is married to Arabella. They have a son called Anthony, and a dog called Trollope. I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions from that. On the night of the 28th of March the previous year, Arabella had been giving Trollope (a Highland Terrier) his nightly constitutional. Once back on the close, she took Trollope off his lead so that he could do in private anything he was loath to do in front of his mistress. He ran between the front gates of Oakfield, and through the open front door. Arabella followed and found him lapping blood out of Sandra Kellerman’s eye socket. The eye apparently was elsewhere.

  Geoffrey told me the last part with some relish. ‘She picked up the dog and ran back here as if the hounds of hell were after her. I called the police and ambulance and went over and had a shufti. Took my bloody Webley with me just in case.’ He explained: ‘I’ve been vice-chairman of the local gun club for years.’

  A one-man Tet Offensive, I thought.

  Geoffrey told me that he found the bodies and waited, gun in hand, for the law to arrive. ‘They bloody nearly ran me in,’ he said. ‘First bloke on the scene almost shit his pants when he saw the side arm.’

  I wasn’t surprised. I think I might have needed a change of underwear myself, turning up at that house on that night to find that gorehound standing in the passage waving a bloody great cannon around.

  ‘Soon got it sorted out though,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Explained I’d never had any trouble with the neighbours.’ He brayed a particularly unpleasant laugh, and I thanked him for his help and left my beer and the house.

  That was it for Crown Point for me that day.

  On the way home I checked the local newspaper office files on the story of the murder. I’d given up any idea of a kind policeman donating his. Robber had told me a bit in the pub when I’d met him – more than he’d probably meant to – but not enough. I wanted all the information I could get. The consensus was that it had been a professional killing. No one had been seen going in or out of the house. No clues were found. Nothing that was released to the papers anyway. No shotgun cartridges, no footprints, fingerprints, and the only strange tyre tracks that had been found were unidentified. Whoever killed the Kellermans had got in and out clean. Just like Robber had said.

  I made a note to check that with Webb, amongst other things. Just to be sure.

  But the first call I made when I got in was to Swansea. I had the number of the Ford that had followed me that morning. It’s illegal to obtain information from the DVLC unless authorised, difficult too, but possible if you know the ways and means. I do. The licence number I had memorised was issued to the Metropolitan Police. How convenient. I telephoned Gipsy Hill Police and got through to Robber, the nosey bugger. ‘Are you having me followed?’

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘You want to get a better car or a better driver. What are they teaching these boys at Hendon these days?’

  ‘Bollocks!’ he said.

  ‘Listen, you’ve only got to ask and I’ll tell you where I’m going. I’ll post an itinerary on the door every morning if you like.’

  ‘I wanted to see if you’d take my advice.’

  ‘And knock it on the head?’

  ‘S’right.’

  ‘Or maybe see if I stirred up anything that would do you a bit of good.’

  ‘Don’t take liberties, Sharman. And also, if you’re seen driving like you were this morning again, I’ll have you nicked. Now piss off, I’m busy.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Robber,’ I said. You’ll have to catch me first, I thought, as I hung up.

  Next I phoned James Webb. He confirmed the informati
on I’d got from my meeting with Robber, and latterly from the newspaper files.

  ‘Any news for me?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, I don’t think this case is quite as dead as you seem to think.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m being followed.’

  ‘Followed? Who by?’

  ‘The police. Our mate Robber’s stuck a car on my tail.’

  ‘Why’s that, do you think?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, but it’s obvious the case isn’t closed.’

  ‘They haven’t done much.’

  ‘Maybe more than you know, Jim. He was certainly upset when I started putting my oar in.’

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ I said. ‘I’m having second thoughts. Second bad thoughts.’

  There was a long pause before he spoke. ‘I’ve paid you. I’m counting on your help.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘But just for a week. Step softly, Jim. If you see or hear anything weird, call me.’

  ‘I will.’

  I asked him if the Kellermans had been buried or cremated. He told me they were buried in Streatham cemetery. I asked for the plot number. He asked me why I wanted it. I said I was going to visit the grave. He asked me why. I told him because it was there. It wasn’t the most pleasant thing to say but it shut him up. I felt lousy about it after, but I was beginning to hate the case, and I was getting jumpy.

  Finally I telephoned the BBC. Got through to the right person too. After twenty minutes of being transferred round the Television Centre, I spoke to a female researcher in the Crimewatch UK office. Her name was Norah. She sounded young. I gave her the full half hour. Who I was and what I was doing, and what I wanted. She talked to me although probably she shouldn’t.

  It transpired that, after the segment on the murders, only five calls were received. It was a very poor response. Every one turned out to be a hoax or malicious.

  I thanked her, and she told me it was a pleasure and waited for me to ask her out, to tell her all about what I was doing. I let her wait. I had enough women problems as it was.

  That was me for the day. I walked down to Norwood and had a Chinese. I hate eating on my own. Then I went to the bar and had a few beers. It was very crowded that night. So crowded, in fact, that if I sat very still I could pretend I was invisible.

  7

  The next morning I phoned Jim first thing. I apologised for cutting him off the previous day and tried to explain how I felt: jumpy, as if something bad was going to happen soon. Then he started apologising too. We both accepted each other’s apologies and that was that.

  Then I asked him for the address and number of Natalie Hooper, Kellerman’s secretary, and the number of The Intercontinental Carpet Company’s accountant. He gave me both. I told him I’d get back to him.

  I stayed on the phone and tried the secretary. An answerphone cut in after the third ring. I left my name and number. Then I tried the accountant. His office was in Croydon and his name was Andrew Cunningham. He worked for a firm with a lot of names on the letterhead. His was last on the list, but at least it was there. He was in when I called, and told me he could spare me fifteen minutes at four-thirty that afternoon. He almost made me feel honoured. I made the appointment.

  Then I telephoned a few people I knew. They were all in the business one way or another. All professed ignorance of the murders and all wondered why I was chasing the case at such a late date.

  So did I.

  Even when I offered cash incentives I got no takers. It was obvious that, if I wanted some information, I’d have to get my boogie shoes on.

  So around lunchtime, I decided to make a tour of some of the boozers I know where the lads hang out. Or in police parlance, ‘where known criminals consort’. It’s got a lovely ring to it has that expression. You sort of expect spit and sawdust, striped jerseys and black sacks with SWAG stencilled on them. Don’t you believe it! These days villains love their comforts as much as anyone. I was followed by a red Montego. I made a mental note of the licence plate, but didn’t bother to try and lose the tail.

  The first boozer I touched down at was a bit of Olde England down by the gasworks at Sydenham. The place groaned with false timbers and wrought iron. The missus groaned with false eyelashes and wrought twenty-four carat gold. I bought a bottle of Grolsch and we had a good old giggle together when I popped the china top.

  ‘Does Stan McKilkenney still drink in here?’ I asked her.

  ‘You know Stan?’

  ‘Like a brother.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I expect he’ll be in in a minute.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’ll wait.’ It’s amazing. I hadn’t seen Stan in two or three years, but I knew if he wasn’t banged up he’d be in that bar sometime during the lunch hour. It never ceases to amaze me how little people change their habits. I sat on a bar stool and looked at the menu chalked on a blackboard on the wall. I’ve never liked pub food. I had too much of it when I was in the job. It’s always meant to be like your mother made. My mother is a chronic cook. Her gravy comes in slices and you can sole shoes with it. I was mentally tossing up between the delights of Lord Kitchener’s steak and kidney pie and Mrs Bridges’ special sausage, mash and onion when Stan McKilkenney chose that moment to come in and save my digestion.

  He didn’t see me and went straight to the bar. The missus spoke to him and just for a moment his expression slipped and I saw naked fear on his face. When you live like Stan lives, strange men of a certain age making enquiries about you behind pub bars often means Old Bill is looking for a convenient body to pull in for questioning. When he looked over to where I was sitting and recognised me he blew a sigh of relief and came over. I watched him as he crossed the carpet towards me. Stan was middle-aged and fighting a heavy rearguard action. He fancied himself as something of a dandy, but take my word he was never going to get into Britain’s ten best dressed. He had an unfortunate and enduring faith in man-made fibres. And I swear he was colour blind.

  That day he was wearing a coffee-coloured pork pie hat tilted forward over one eye. His grey hair had been Grecian 2000’d into yellow streaks and he had sideburns Elvis would have envied before he went into the army. His shirt was bottle green and unbuttoned halfway to his waist. The long points of the collar were artfully arranged outside the lapels of a pale blue suit with a waisted jacket, and a subtle flare at the ankles of the trousers. On his feet he wore fake white Gucci shoes with tarnished gold chains across the tops. There was an equally tarnished gold chain nestling in his grey chest hair. He was a sartorial disaster. He even made the pub grub look attractive.

  ‘Nick Sharman,’ he said when he got up close. ‘Well, I’ll be buggered.’

  ‘Stan the man,’ I said, picking a piece of lint from the shoulder of his jacket. ‘You looked a bit worried there, my son. Who were you expecting? The forces of law and order?’

  ‘No. I’m clean these days, Nick.’

  ‘Seems to me I’ve heard that song somewhere before, Stan.’

  ‘It’s true. As I live and breathe.’

  ‘I believe you,’ I said. ‘I always used to, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘You mugged me off rotten.’

  ‘You were always fair, Nick.’

  ‘That’s not what my guv’nors used to say.’

  ‘It’s all part of the ebb and flow of life.’

  ‘Philosophy, Stan. I love it.’

  ‘I went to the Greek Islands last year,’ he said. ‘You’d be amazed what I learned. I bought a book.’

  ‘Christ, Stan, that’s a first.’

  ‘No, Nick, I’m a great reader.’

  ‘Sauce bottles?’

  ‘No, books.’

  ‘Picked it up inside, did you?’

  ‘I was librarian last time,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Great career move, Stan. I’m proud of you.’

  ‘So what can I do for you?’

  ‘Information, Stan.
Pure and simple.’

  ‘How much?’ He rubbed a finger and thumb together. I told you he never changed.

  ‘For free. To pay back for some of those times I believed you, when maybe a more diligent officer would have dug deeper.’

  ‘That’s history, Nick.’

  ‘Give me a break, Stan. I’ve given you more than your fair share in my time.’

  ‘What about a drink then?’

  ‘Vera?’ I asked.

  ‘Double.’

  I called over the missus and ordered him a large gin and tonic and waited for her to leave before continuing: ‘So what’s occurring?’

  ‘Seems like I should ask you that. What do you want to know about?’

  ‘Kellerman. Know the name?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘A whole family murdered in Crown Point. Shot. Big house. He was in the carpet trade.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Do me a favour, Stan. Do you remember the case?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Know anything about it?’

  ‘Fuck off, Nick.’ He almost choked on his gin. ‘When did I ever use violence?’

  ‘Not you yourself, you prat,’ I said. ‘Have you heard a whisper?’

  ‘It was fucking years ago.’

  ‘Fifteen months or so,’ I said. He took another long swallow of his drink. ‘Another?’ I asked.

  ‘Wouldn’t say no.’

  I’d never known him to before. I got in another beer for me and a reprise of the gin.

  ‘Heavy duty,’ he said.

  ‘That’s a fact,’ I agreed. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Come on, Stan,’ I said. ‘You know everything that goes off around here.’

  ‘Well…’ he said. But he did, and we both knew it. ‘Why are you interested?’

  ‘Professional. The brother of Mrs Kellerman has no faith in the judiciary.’