by Mark Timlin
‘Clothes?’
‘What, more clothes?’
‘I hardly bought anything yesterday. Just some T-shirts and my new jeans you haven’t noticed I’m wearing.’
I must admit I hadn’t. I had a lot on my mind. ‘Sorry, darling,’ I said. ‘I was too distracted by your natural beauty to see them.’ She blushed, but I knew she liked it. ‘There’s not much choice locally,’ I said.
‘What about Croydon?’
‘You want to go to Croydon?’ I said in disbelief. As far as I was concerned it was a bit like saying you wanted to go to Middlesbrough.
‘It’s supposed to be good. Some of the girls at school told me.’
‘All right then. Croydon it is.’
We got ourselves together and went out to the car and I drove south. She was full of chatter as we went. ‘Do you think if I asked Fiona she’d let me go to work with her one day?’ she said.
‘On a shoot?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a thought,’ I said. ‘You really want to go?’
‘Yes.’
Christ, I could imagine her mother’s face. ‘I suppose so,’ I said. ‘But you’d have to promise to keep your training bra on.’ She looked as shocked as only a ten-year-old, going on eleven, can. Then she covered her mouth and laughed. So did I. Except I didn’t cover my mouth.
So far it had been a good morning.
It was about to change. For the worse.
I’d been following the main roads, and when I got close to Beulah Hill I looked in the mirror and saw a car coming up fast behind me with its headlights on full beam. I thought it was the law on the way to a shout and slowed down and pulled off the crown of the road. But it wasn’t police. It was an old blue Volvo, battered and scarred with rust. It pulled past me then cut in, and I saw smoke from its tyres as it braked. I slammed on my brakes so hard that my seat belt cut painfully into my shoulder. The front of the car dipped and I heard the sound of metal on the roadway. The Jaguar slewed into the middle of the road and stalled.
‘Arsehole!’ I said, and opened the door to get out. Then both front doors of the Volvo opened. Two men got out and came running back towards us. The driver was huge. Blubbery, with short hair the colour of carpet dust, wearing a nylon windbreaker and jeans. He was carrying a pump-action shotgun. The other man was much younger, wearing a single-breasted tan mackintosh. He was empty-handed.
The driver screamed: ‘Get out of the car. Both of you.’
I looked at Judith. She looked as scared as I felt.
Then the driver was at my door. He ripped it open and stuck the barrel of the gun in my face. ‘Out, you bastard. Out. Out. Out. Get the kid,’ he shouted at his mate.
I did as I was told and the passenger opened Judith’s door and dragged her out too. ‘Don’t!’ I said, and the geezer with the gun whacked me round the head with the barrel. Not hard enough to knock me out, but hard enough to hurt.
He stuck the muzzle of the shotgun back into my face. So close that I could smell metal and gun oil. ‘Where is it?’ screamed the driver at the top of his lungs. I noticed that other cars were stopping and people were getting out to see what was happening, and a little knot of pedestrians had gathered. But, wisely, well out of range.
‘What?’ I said.
‘What she told you about.’
‘Who?’
‘The fucking cripple, you cunt. Where is it?’
Natalie.
‘I don’t know…’
He hit me again. In the ribs this time. So hard I couldn’t speak. ‘We’ll kill the kid,’ he screamed.
I looked at him and I knew that if I survived the next few minutes I was going to do for him eventually. We stood like that for a few seconds that seemed like hours, then he pointed the gun at the bonnet of the Jaguar and fired. The shock from the blast shook the car and the windscreen imploded. Someone in the crowd screamed and suddenly a white Rover squad car with blue lights flashing overtook the queue of traffic that had formed behind us and sped along the white line in the middle of the road.
‘Fuck!’ shouted the driver, pumped the action of the shotgun and fired at the police car. It skidded to a halt and the gunman ran towards it, firing again. The passenger from the Volvo let go of Judith and ran after the driver.
‘In the car,’ I shouted. My head and gut hurt, but I’d survive. ‘Quick, Judith, get in.’
She did as she was told and I slid behind the wheel and hit the ignition. The front seats were covered with pieces of laminated glass, but we both ignored the discomfort. The V-12 engine caught first time. I slammed the car into gear and took off with a scream from the drive wheels. I pulled out past the Volvo and took off in the direction of Beulah Hill. I turned left by the TV mast and took the first side road I saw, cutting through the back doubles towards Upper Norwood. Judith sat white-faced next to me.
‘Are you all right?’ I said. Christ, let her be all right, I thought.
‘Daddy, what happened?’ she said. Her lips were white and I knew she was going into shock. I stopped the car, leant over and reached for her. She clung to me tight. She was shaking but unhurt.
‘You’ll be all right,’ I said. ‘You’ll be all right.’ But I was cold with fear for her. Those bastards were going to pay for that fear.
I looked behind me but the street was clear. I sat back and breathed deeply. My ribs felt like they were broken, but I doubted that they were. I looked in the mirror at my head where the gunman had hit me. There was some blood in my hair, but nothing too serious by the looks of it. Too bad if it was.
‘Did they hurt you, Daddy?’
‘They tried their best.’
‘Will you be all right?’
‘I’ll live,’ I said. ‘Just so’s you have to look after me in my old age.’
She smiled despite herself. She thought that I was joking, but she was probably the only one who would.
I drove straight to my pal Charlie’s garage in West Norwood. He runs a legit car sales, servicing, mechanical breakdown and crash repair business behind the High Street there. I’ve often suspected that it’s a chop shop on the quiet but never liked to ask. He looks after my cars for me. Always has. In fact, it was him that rebuilt the E-Type when I first got it cheap while I was in the job. Currently he was storing a Pontiac Trans-Am for me and I needed some wheels with all round glass to drive. I took the Jaguar directly into the yard at the back of the premises and parked close to the body shop.
Charlie spotted me from his office window and came out to see what was occurring. He took one look at the car and shook his head sadly. ‘What have you been up to now?’
‘I fancied some fresh air.’
‘Sure you did,’ said Charlie.
I got out of the car. My legs were still shaking. Judith got out too and I put my arm around her. ‘You remember my daughter Judith,’ I said.
‘Course I do. Hello, Judith pet. My, but you’re getting big.’
Judith put on a brave smile, but said nothing. I squeezed her tight.
‘You’re not doing too bad yourself,’ I said, referring to the paunch which Charlie’s smart double-breasted was doing its best to disguise. ‘Too many business lunches?’
‘Don’t change the subject, Nick.’ He touched the holes in the bonnet of the Jaguar. ‘What the hell’s been going on?’
‘Metal fatigue,’ I said.
He shook his head again. ‘Better not let Talulah see it.’
Talulah was the mechanic who actually worked on my cars. She was young and fierce, and took no nonsense from men. The way she acted, you’d think that she owned the cars, and grudgingly loaned them to me.
‘Is she about?’ I asked.
‘You’re lucky,’ he said. ‘She’s out on a breakdown.’
‘Can I leave this for repair?’ I touched the roof of the E-Type.
He sighed. ‘I’d never hear the end of it if I said no.’ I think he was as wary of Talulah as I was.
‘It’s in a bit of a state anywa
y. Could do with a complete overhaul.’
‘Well you certainly haven’t improved the bodywork.’
‘I’ve been thinking about a re-spray. Red would be good.’
‘Well, at least it wouldn’t show the bloodstains.’
‘Funny. I’ll take the Tranny.’
‘No you won’t. The head’s off. Valve flutter.’
‘Shit,’ I said.
‘Not in front of the kid,’ he said.
Judith scowled at him.
‘And talking of heads, what happened to yours?’
‘Walked into a door.’
‘Not your day.’
‘You could say that. Now, have you got anything I can use as a loaner?’
‘Sure. But I’m not going to lend you anything decent if it’s going to come back in this state. I have got a business to run, you know?’
‘So what then?’
‘I’ve got just the thing for you. Over here.’ Judith and I followed him round the back of the workshop. Parked against the wall was a dark blue, P-reg, Mkl Ford Granada.
‘What, this?’ I said.
‘You’re lucky to get anything. Now, remember, there’s no MOT. No tax. No insurance. The body’s held together with filler but the engine’s good for another hundred thousand miles.’
‘Haven’t you got anything else?’ I asked hopefully.
‘No. Take it or leave it. And make up your mind quick. I’ve got work to do.’
I opened the driver’s door. Inside it smelled a bit of mildew and the upholstery was threadbare. But at least it was clean. I checked the pedals. The milometer read sixty thousand. A bit optimistic, even for Charlie I thought. The rubber was worn through to the metal on the accelerator. The keys were in the ignition. I sat behind the wheel and started it. The engine caught first time. I let it idle. It didn’t seem too bad. The oil pressure was up and the engine was firing on all cylinders. I put it into drive and the gear box took up smoothly.
‘Thanks, Charlie. I’ll take it,’ I said. ‘How much?’
‘How long?’ he asked.
‘Who knows?’
‘Forget it. I’ll chuck it in with the repairs to the Jag.’
‘Cheers,’ I said.
‘But if you wreck it, I’ll charge you five hundred quid.’
‘Book price?’ I asked.
‘My book.’
‘In you get, Judith, before Uncle Charlie changes his mind,’ I said. And before Talulah gets back and gives me a bollocking about the Jag, I thought.
She did as she was told and I wound down the window and shook hands with Charlie through the gap then drove off.
27
I wasn’t going home. Not then. It was too dangerous. I drove down to my local bar and parked the Granada round the back out of sight. Judith and I went in by the side door. The place was deserted at that early hour. I sat her at a table at the rear of the restaurant, out of sight of the front windows, and went and bought two cups of cappuccino. I took them and went and sat down with her. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked. Stupid question. How would the average ten-year-old be after being fired at by some lunatic with a semi-automatic shotgun?
She nodded.
‘Good girl,’ I said. What other response was there? She could have been killed. And it would have been my fault. I went cold again at the thought of it. ‘I’ve got a couple of phone calls to make. I won’t be a minute.’ I got some change at the bar and went to the telephone. I had my notebook in the pocket of my leather jacket. I tapped out Natalie Hooper’s number. The telephone was off. Not just not being answered like before. No ringing tone. No answerphone message. Just a single tone backed by a wash of static. A small hole in the Telecom system. The operator wasn’t much help. The line was out of order. No reason. She’d report it to the engineers. She wasn’t even interested when I told her that the phone belonged to a registered disabled person.
But I knew what had happened. As clearly as if I’d been there myself. I should have called the police. Maybe she was hurt. But I doubted it. These guys didn’t operate like that. Get in their way and you ended up dead. Unless you were very lucky. I had been so far. Perhaps my luck was about to run out. I suspected Natalie’s already had. And if it had, I wanted to be the one to find her. But what had put them on to her at that late date?
I couldn’t think about that right then. I had Judith to worry about. I had to get her somewhere safe. And quick. I called Fiona. She wasn’t at home. The answerphone was on. I didn’t leave a message. There was no point.
Finally I rang James Webb. He answered on the third ring. ‘Jim, it’s me, Nick Sharman,’ I said.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Don’t ask. I want to see you.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s a long story. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.’
‘Sounds mysterious.’
‘It is. Are you going to be in all morning?’
‘All day,’ he said.
‘I’ll see you in a bit then,’ I said and hung up.
I thought about phoning Robber then, and thought better of it. I could talk to him anytime. I went back to where Judith was sitting. The colour was beginning to come back into her face. I was proud of her. She was playing with the froth in her coffee but looked up at me as I sat down. Once again she reminded me of her mother when she loved me.
‘Hi, babe,’ I said.
‘What are we going to do?’ she asked.
‘I’m going to see someone.’
She noticed my inflection. ‘What about me?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve tried to get hold of Fiona, but she’s not in. What do you want to do?’
‘Go with you.’ That’s just what Laura would have said under the circumstances. It was getting spooky.
‘I don’t know, honey. It could be dangerous.’ What a stupid thing to say. It already was dangerous.
‘I don’t care.’
‘I do. And Christ knows what your mother would say if she knew.’
‘We won’t tell her.’
‘How about I take you over to Louis’s mother’s?’ I refused to call her Judith’s granny. She wasn’t. Any more than Louis was her father.
‘No, Daddy. She’d lock me up in a cupboard and feed me seedy cake.’
‘I’m sure she wouldn’t,’ I said. But I wasn’t. Anyone with a dentist for a son was suspicious in my book.
Judith pondered for a moment. ‘Well, maybe not the cupboard. But she’d feed me seedy cake for sure.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she hates me. She loves Joseph, but she hates me.’
Joseph, if you haven’t already guessed, was Laura and Louis’s son.
‘I’m sure she doesn’t,’ I said. But I felt a stab of pain for my daughter.
‘She does. That’s why she wouldn’t have me to stay with her. She says I’m like you.’
‘She doesn’t know me.’
‘She’s heard enough about you from Mummy.’
‘Nothing good, I hope.’ Some fat chance.
‘I’ll say,’ she said, and dived so deep into her coffee cup that when she came up for air there was a blob of froth on her nose. People you love do such beautiful things sometimes. I removed the froth with my thumb and sat back and sucked it.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘You can come with me. But you know I could get into terrible trouble for taking you.’
‘I told you I wouldn’t tell.’
‘Drink up then. We’re off to see someone.’
‘Who?’
‘The guy that hired me for a job.’
‘Does that mean I’m a detective too now?’
‘If you want to be.’
We finished our coffees and went back to the Granada. I turned in the direction of Crystal Palace again. I had James Webb’s address on the card he’d given me on the day we’d met. I got Judith to look up the street name in the A-Z. She found it right away. It wa
s on the Dulwich border. The expensive side. A wide, tree-lined street of large semis, all with big front gardens and garages attached. Not as flash as Oakfield, but not bad at all.
Webb’s place was halfway down on the right. I parked and climbed out. The street was hushed and there wasn’t a soul to be seen. ‘Come on then, slowcoach,’ I said to Judith. ‘Let’s go and see the man.’
‘What man?’ she replied, and we were into one of her favourite routines.
‘The man with the power.’
‘What power?’
‘The power of the hoodoo.’
‘Hoodoo?’ she asked with a big grin creeping across her face, all troubles seemingly forgotten.
‘You do,’ I said.
‘I do what?’
‘Remind me of a man.’
‘What man?’ she shouted. That particular routine could go on all day, and often had when she was younger.
‘Come on, dopey,’ I said. ‘Let’s go. This is serious.’ But what can you do? I do what? Now she had me at it.
We got out of the car. I took the keys but left it unlocked. Who was going to nick it? The man with the power maybe. We walked up the path together and Judith held my hand. Christ, she was only ten.
I rang the doorbell and Webb answered. ‘Come in.’ He showed us into a big living room on the right of the hallway. There was no sign of his wife. The room was decorated OK. A bit too ‘memories of a fortnight on the Costa Del Sol’ maybe. But OK. ‘This is my daughter,’ I said. ‘The domestic responsibility I told you about. Judith – Mr Webb.’
‘Jim,’ he said. She shook hands solemnly. ‘Sit down,’ he said. We sat down together on the fat cushions of an overstuffed sofa. Jim remained standing.
‘What happened to your head?’ he asked.
‘A slight contretemps.’
‘I see,’ he said, but he obviously didn’t. ‘Do you want something to drink?’
I looked at Judith. Now she was a detective I half expected her to ask for a Martini cocktail. Gin. Five to one, with an olive. ‘Can I have a Coke?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ said Jim. ‘Ice?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Nick?’
‘Got a beer?’
‘Sure,’ he said again, and left us alone.
I looked around the room again. ‘Nice place,’ I said.
