by Mark Timlin
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But not today.’
‘Are you two finished?’ asked Williams.
‘I am,’ I said. ‘I don’t know about Judge Dredd, the one-man army here.’
Hackett said nothing, but he was white with fury.
‘Good,’ said Williams. ‘Then let’s get on.’ He put both cassettes in the machine, pushed the ‘Record’ button, reeled off the time and date, those present and what the interview concerned. At last I was going to make a record. He sat down opposite me.
‘Mr Sharman,’ he said, ‘why did you go and see Stanley McKilkenney yesterday afternoon?’
‘I was just looking up an old acquaintance,’ I said.
‘Christ!’ interrupted Hackett. ‘We’ll be singing Auld Lang Syne in a minute.’ Williams gave him a dirty look.
‘How long since you’ve seen him?’ asked Williams.
‘A long time. Two years at least. Maybe three.’
‘And why yesterday?’
‘Spur-of-the-moment thing. You know how it is.’
‘So you’ve not been in regular communication?’
‘We don’t send Christmas cards, if that’s what you mean.’
‘No, that’s not what I mean at all. What I mean is, you haven’t been seeing him on a regular basis?’
‘I already said that.’
‘So can you tell me what transpired at the meeting yesterday?’ I must say he was beautifully spoken.
‘I bought him a couple of drinks. We talked about old times. I left.’
‘The landlady at the pub overheard you saying you’d see him again today.’
‘I already told you that. That’s why I was there.’
‘So suddenly, after a three-year gap, you decide to get together again after just twenty-four hours?’
‘He’s an attractive bloke,’ I said. I was starting to get pissed off, and thinking that maybe refusing a solicitor wasn’t such a good idea after all.
‘Come along, Mr Sharman,’ said Williams. ‘He was hardly your type. You drive an E-Type and wear Armani suits. He had a bus pass and shopped at Oxfam.’
‘It takes all sorts.’
‘So what were you – soul mates?’ Hackett.
‘Something like that.’
‘And you didn’t see him later last night?’ Williams.
‘No.’
‘So where exactly were you? Say between the hours of 10 pm last night and 2 am this morning?’
‘At home. I watched TV. Went to bed at twelve or a bit after.’
‘Alone?’
‘My morals are spotless,’ I said, although I was finding it harder and harder to find any levity in the conversation.
‘So you can’t prove it?’ Hackett.
‘Do I have to? I’ve known Stan for a long time. He wasn’t what I’d call a great friend, but he was harmless. I had no reason to kill him. I liked the poor little sod. Now why don’t you two get the fuck out on to the streets and find out who did?’
‘Tea, I think,’ said Williams, and gave the time and reason for interrupting the interview, and turned off the tape machine.
‘Now the fun begins, I suppose,’ I said.
‘No,’ said Williams. ‘Unless you consider station tea to be fun. Pete, will you?’ he said to Hackett. ‘I think I’ll be safe with Mr Sharman.’
Hackett left and I lit another cigarette. Things were getting serious. Perhaps it was time to give a bit. ‘Did Stan have any money on him when you found him?’ I asked.
‘Like?’ said Williams.
‘Like five tenners wrapped up together.’
He took them out of his pocket and threw them on the table in front of me. ‘Now how did you know that?’ he asked.
‘I gave them to him yesterday. And before you start, I didn’t go and try and get them back last night at the point of a gun.’
‘Why did you give them to him?’
‘He used to snout for me. Not high profile, just a bit of info here and there. I’m working on a case now. A murder. Last year. Local. Up at Crown Point. I asked him to sniff about for me. That was the down payment.’ I pointed to the money.
‘What murder?’
‘The Kellermans.’
He nodded. ‘Who are you working for?’
‘James Webb. Sandra Kellerman’s brother.’
He looked at the wall. I didn’t know what he was thinking.
‘Straight,’ I said. ‘Ask Robber.’
He looked back at me. ‘Jack Robber?’
‘That’s right. I went and saw him the other night. He’s had me followed for the last couple of days. They were with me when I went to the pub yesterday. They must have seen who I met. I’m hardly likely to go off and murder the poor bleeder after that, am I?’
‘Followed?’ he said, like he didn’t believe me. ‘By whom?’ I told you he spoke well.
‘Robber’s firm, I suppose. An Escort on Tuesday. A Montego yesterday.’
‘What colour Montego?’ He was suddenly very interested. Too interested. But it was too late to stop by then.
‘Red,’ I said.
‘Did you get the number?’
‘Christ, it wasn’t… ?’ I said.
‘Did you?’
I reeled it off from memory. I saw his fists clench. ‘It was, wasn’t it?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That was the car McKilkenny was found in. I think I’d better go and speak to Jack Robber.’
I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. Williams got up and went to the door and called the uniform back in and left us. I lit another cigarette. I sat, and the uniform stood, and we looked at each other. I remember doing that job myself, long ago. I always hated it. You’re not supposed to speak, see.
Five minutes later Hackett came in with tea and KitKats. If it hadn’t been so serious I would have laughed. KitKats, I ask you. Hackett sat down and ate his chocolate and drank his tea and didn’t say a word. That made three dummies in the room.
Williams came back about twenty minutes later. He dismissed the uniform before he spoke. He didn’t put the tape recorder back on. ‘I’ve spoken to Detective Inspector Robber,’ he said. ‘You were followed for one day. Or part of it. Apparently you lost them. It was the Escort. He knows nothing about a Montego.’
‘So?’ I said.
‘So you can go. It looks like the Kellerman case is active again. Take my advice and stop working on it, as of now.’
‘Unless, of course, Stan was into something else,’ I said. But it was a slim chance.
‘I doubt it,’ said Williams. ‘He’s been on these streets for over fifty years, apart from when he’s been inside. The worst that’s happened to him was a broken ankle a couple of years ago. Then you come along and get him involved in something and he’s dead within twenty-four hours. You were right, Stan was a decent bloke as villains go. You’ve already got a lot to live with, Sharman. Now there’s one more on your conscience. I wonder how you manage to sleep at nights.’
I didn’t bother telling him that most nights I didn’t. Or that when I did, how the nightmares haunted me. I don’t think I’d have got much sympathy. None in fact.
‘Do you want your fifty quid back?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Maybe his wife…’
‘I’ll make sure she gets it,’ he said. ‘I expect Jack Robber will be round to see you. And, Sharman, if he’s not, I will be. You haven’t heard the last of this.’
Hackett saw me off the premises. He didn’t say a word. I walked back to the pub, picked up my car and drove home.
Slowly.
11
W hen I got back to my flat, I phoned Webb and told him what had happened.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said.
‘It’s true.’
‘And they really thought that you did it?’
‘I don’t think so. It was convenient. I was there. But if it had anything to do with me asking him to help, then I’m responsible.�
��
‘And me.’
‘No, I involved him.’
‘Do you think it was to do with Sandy’s murder?’
‘Probably.’
‘Do you think he found anything out?’
‘We’ll never know now. Maybe it was a warning.’
‘A warning?’
‘To me. To get lost.’
‘And?’
‘The police warned me off too. They’re looking for Stan’s killer or killers now. They’ll look into any connection between his murder and the murder of your sister’s family. The case is live again. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
He was silent for a moment. ‘So you’re quitting?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You really are scared.’
What the fuck did he know? ‘Like I told you, every day of my life. If you want your money back…’
‘No, keep it.’
‘Thanks a bunch,’ I said. ‘Listen, Jim, I’ll catch up with you another day. I’ll get the keys of Oakfield back to you.’
‘There’s no rush.’
‘And take it easy, Jim. There’s at least one mad bastard still out there. Five people are dead. So watch yourself.’
‘And you.’
‘I’m an expert.’
‘Bye, then.’
‘Bye,’ I said, and hung up the phone.
But it wasn’t quite over for me yet. I took out the photo of the Kellermans that James Webb had given me, and I looked at it hard and long. Then I got into the car and drove to the cemetery. I found the grave easily. I read the inscription on the collective tombstone. It didn’t say much. The grave was neat and well tended. I bought a cheap bunch of flowers at the stall at the entrance to the cemetery and arranged them in one of the pots at the corner of the plot.
I was glad to be off the case. It had been a fuck up from the beginning. I looked at the photo again as I stood there, then I went home.
That night I got drunk alone. I drank toasts to Stan and Wanda and the Kellermans. When I finally slept I dreamt of them all. They were by the pool in the photo. They were having fun but I knew it couldn’t last. Something unspeakable was coming that would end in blood and pain. I tried to warn them but they wouldn’t listen. I screamed and screamed at them until I woke myself up, and I still don’t know to this day if I was screaming out loud.
I didn’t sleep again that night.
The next morning I went to the bank and took out the thousand quid in cash that Webb had paid me and took it round to Stan McKilkenney’s flat. He and his wife had lived in the same council block in Sydenham since I’d known him. Thank Christ she wasn’t there. I didn’t want to face her. Their married daughter was. I gave her the money. She told me that her mum was at the undertakers. I didn’t leave a name. I wanted Mrs McKilkenney to keep the money, not burn it. I said I was an old friend.
Some friend.
I went back home and got drunk again. I tried to stay that way all weekend.
12
By Sunday I was so well into a three-day drunk that I was down to the cooking sherry and out of cigarettes and Cat had temporarily left home and taken up residence with the Indian family who lived four doors down and fed him leftover chicken tandoori and lamb tikka. At twelve I went to the off-licence for supplies. Just as well. In the afternoon Detective Inspector Robber came to call.
Apparently he’d been ringing the bell for more than five minutes when the people in the ground floor flat took pity on him and let him in. When he knocked on my flat door I thought it was one of the neighbours inviting me to an ‘At home’ with wine and quiche and Chris Rea on the CD player. He was lucky I answered at all.
‘Are you deaf?’ he asked when I finally opened the door.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Come in and have a drink.’ After three solitary days with only a succession of bottles for company, even Robber was welcome.
He did as I asked and sat in the only armchair and looked around the room. ‘This place is a tip.’
‘The cleaning lady took umbrage with my lifestyle. Beer, Scotch, vodka – what do you want?’
‘Scotch,’ he said.
‘Ice?’
‘Water.’
I made him a drink, gave it to him, then poured one for myself and perched on the kitchen stool. I was so drunk that the air in the room felt like Vaseline and I had a nagging ache behind my eyes that made me squint. ‘So what’s new, Inspector?’ I asked and lit a cigarette. My fingers were shaking so much I had to hold the match with both hands.
He didn’t answer. ‘What’s all this about then? Feeling a bit sorry for yourself?’ His voice sounded like it was coming out of a tube tunnel.
‘And others,’ I said.
‘Bollocks! You haven’t got it in you.’
‘Is this a social call?’ I asked. ‘Because if it is, and that’s all you can say, you can fuck right off.’
‘You going to make me?’
At that moment I don’t think I could have got myself out of the flat, let alone him. ‘No,’ I said, and took a swallow of my drink and spilled some down my chin and shirt front. See what I mean? ‘Have you got anyone for Stan’s murder yet?’
‘I wondered when you’d ask. No, not yet.’
‘Another triumph for our boys in blue.’
‘You really are a prick, aren’t you?’
‘I think the jury’s still out on that one,’ I replied.
‘Not from where I’m sitting.’
‘OK, Mr Robber. Now the pleasantries are out of the way, what do you want?’
‘What do you think, Sharman? A man was murdered last week. You were one of the last to see him alive. You gave him money to ask around on your behalf. I want to know what you know.’
‘Didn’t Williams fill you in?’
‘Some. But you tell me.’
‘Is this your case now?’
‘If it has anything to do with the Kellerman murders, it’s my case.’
So I told him. Everything I knew. It was precious little. When I’d finished, he said: ‘And you’ve stopped working for James Webb?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
He shrugged. ‘But I’m not you,’ he said.
Thank God, I thought. ‘Do you think the person or persons who killed Stan are the same ones who killed the Kellermans?’ I asked.
He nodded.
‘The car you found Stan in – was it stolen or what?’
He nodded. ‘That morning. From Penge railway station.’
‘Did you find anything in it?’
‘Only him.’
Funny, I thought.
‘You should have phoned in about it following you,’ he said.
‘I phoned in about the other one and got a flea in my ear, as I remember. Maybe you should have kept a tail on me a bit longer.’
But there was really no point in ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’.
‘And I let them follow me,’ I said. ‘Shit! I could have lost them easily too.’
We sat in silence again. ‘So I might be next?’ I said eventually.
‘I’m surprised they haven’t done for you already.’
‘Nice of you to say so.’
He shrugged again. I was just another bright spot in his day. Through the haze of booze I was starting to get his drift. ‘You want me to carry on, don’t you?’
‘Christ, but you’re quick.’
‘Like a Judas goat?’
‘You’re already in the frame, son. I reckon the only reason you’re walking about is because they don’t know how many friends you’ve got.’
‘And how many is that?’
‘I could be one if you let me.’
‘Christ, we’ll be engaged next.’
He grinned. It wasn’t a pretty sight. ‘So?’ he asked.
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Don’t take too long. Cartridges are cheap.’
‘How reassuring. Want another drink?’ I did.
‘Just the one,’ he said.
‘Late for lunch?’
‘No. Pizza Hut stays open especially for me.’
‘Not married?’
‘Not in this job.’
Not in this world, I thought, looking at him. I poured a couple more drinks and lit another cigarette. The house and street were Sunday quiet. Someone far off was using a power mower. It was a far cry from talk of shotguns and murder. We drank our drinks in silence. When he finished his, he left. I was suddenly sober and missed having someone around for company. The phone rang. It was Mayhew. Even his cheery voice couldn’t help.
‘I’ve drawn a blank on what you asked, Nick. Sorry, mate, no one knows a thing.’
‘It’s OK, Terry, I’m not interested anyway. I’m off the case – it’s got too serious for me.’
‘That doesn’t sound like you.’
‘Yeah, well, it was one of my New Year’s resolutions to stay alive.’
‘Come and tell me about it.’
‘Thanks, Terry, I might just do that.’
But I didn’t. I poured another drink and switched on the TV. As I sat in the chair Robber’d vacated and sipped at my vodka, I thought about what he had said.
I sat there for the rest of the day, just thinking and drinking.
It was something to do.
13
On Monday morning I woke up with the mother of all hangovers. My head felt like it was made of glass and full of nitroglycerine just ready to explode. Cat came back from his travels, with the milk, and I was feeding him when the telephone rang.
‘Mr Sharman?’ a female voice asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Mr Nicholas Sharman.’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Sister Mackay here.’
‘Yes?’ I said, but I knew.
‘From Princess Margaret Ward at St Thomas’s Hospital.’
‘Yes,’ I said again.
‘It’s about Mrs Wanda Rice.’
‘Yes.’
There was a pause. ‘You are down as next of kin, you know, Mr Sharman.’
‘Am I?’
‘Well, don’t you know?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t,’ I said. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Don’t you know that either?’
‘No.’
The Sister sounded annoyed at my ignorance. ‘Mrs Rice came in last Thursday for an operation. You do know that?’
