by Mark Timlin
'Hello, Martin,' he said.
The Goon built a miniature wall of China out of mashed potato on the top of his fork, dipped it delicately into the greenish gravy and swallowed the portion. 'Hello, John.'
'How's it going?' asked Jenner.
'Not too bad.'
'How's Mum?'
'Same. Always moaning. Can't afford this, can't afford that.'
'Not working then, Martin.'
'Nah.'
'That's good.'
'Why?' The Goon's face darkened.
'Because I've got a proposition for you.' 'You?'
'Me, Martin.'
'Nobody calls me Martin.'
'They will if you listen to what I have to say.'
'Go on then.'
'I'm offering you a job.'
The Goon rolled the idea round the inside of his head like a pinball in a machine. 'Don't work,' he said. 'I get the dole.'
'What? A fiver a week? That don't go very far, now does it? 'Specially, Martin, when you're eating pies for three.' The Goon looked at him slitty-eyed.
'You taking the piss?'
'No.'
"Cos if you are…' He made to rise from his seat and John nudged his knee with the barrel of the revolver he'd slipped out from under his jacket. 'See that,' said John. 'Now, Martin, don't get me wrong. I'm only showing you this to make you listen.'
'Blimey,' said the Goon, peering under the table. 'Is it real?'
'Course it is.'
'Just like in the pictures.'
'Better. You want one?'
'A gun. Me?'
'Sure. Why not? Come and work for me and you can have one for every day of the week.'
The Goon sat back, ignoring his lunch, which John knew was a great leap, and ran that idea around the inside of his head too. 'Blimey, what do I have to do?'
'Look after me and Billy and Wally. Watch our backs.'
'What will you be doing?' The Goon wasn't entirely stupid. Just a bit slow.
John grinned. 'Making money. Making lovely money.'
'And you won't call me the Goon?'
'No fucker will ever call you the Goon again, I promise.'
'All right, John,' Mid the Goon, watching a skin form on the liquor on the aide of his plate. 'You're on.'
And so the Jenner gang became four.
'You awake, boss?' Chas's voice interrupted Jenner's reverie, and looking at the clock, he realised he'd been lying half asleep, half awake for almost an hour.
'Yes,' he mumbled through gummy lips. 'Took my dose a bit late, that's all.'
'Got a nice cup of tea for you. And the papers.'
'Thanks, Chas,' said Jenner, pushing himself up. 'What would I do without you?'
'Make your own tea I expect,' said Chas as he put down the tray and drew the curtains on to another cheerless London morning.
'Yeah. That'd be right.' Jenner looked at his old friend as he fussed around the room, tidying piles of clothes and magazines. 'Jesus, Chas, you're getting more like your mum every day.'
'She was a good old sort, my mum,' replied Chas. 'She patched us up enough times.'
'God, but she did too. And hid us out from a few foes.'
'She loved it,' said Chas. 'Now drink your tea before it gets cold.'
'All right, mum.'
Chas pulled an ugly face and went to the door. 'Oh and young Mark's getting antsy about doing the drop later. You'd better come down and give him the full SP.'
'He's a good boy, Mark, isn't he?' said Jenner. 'He'll do.'
'He needs some back up. It's too much for one.'
'He must still know some geezers he can row in. What do you reckon?'
'I suppose,' said Jenner. 'I was just thinking about the old days. The Goon and Wally.'
'What a fucking pair they were.'
'Wally could never handle it.' 'He did his bit.'
'Yeah. But the Goon…'
'Martin, you mean.'
'I never could get used to calling him that,' said John.
'Me neither.'
'But you've got a lot to thank him for.'
Chas leant against the door jamb.
'He saved my life that time.'
'Yeah, and paid the price.'
'We should go visit his grave. We haven't been for ages.'
'And his mum's next door.'
'He always was fond of his mum.'
'Another fine pair.'
'We'll do it, eh, Chas?'
'Yeah. Soon as the weather improves.' And with that he was gone. Jenner drank his tea, got up, went to the lavatory where, as usual, it took him a few minutes to get a dribble of urine to flow. 'Fucking cancer,' he said to himself in the mirror as he shaved. 'It'll be a good job when I'm out of all this.'
He dressed and went downstairs where Mark was moodily watching morning TV. 'You all right, son?' asked Jenner as he entered the living room.
'Not too bad. But I'll be happier when that gear's out of the house and you've got your money.'
'All in good time, son,' said Jenner, looking at his watch. 'This afternoon will do it.'
'Where?'
'Cash and carry in Loughborough Junction. But this time you'll be doing the carrying and they'll be paying the cash.'
'How much?'
'Enough. A tidy little profit for all of us. You'll be able to get some new jeans.'
Mark looked ruefully at the faded pair he was wearing. 'These have got months left in them yet.'
'Get yourself a nice suit. Some white shirts and some knitted ties.'
'You've been watching them Quentin Tarantino films again, Uncle, haven't you?'
'No I ain't. I was watching Michael Caine the other night in Get Carter. What a bloke.'
'What? Fat and bloody useless.' Mark knew how to get Jenner riled. He'd teach him to take the piss out of his best Levis.
'Caine is king,' said Jenner.
'Used to be maybe. Now he's just a soppy old luvvie.'
'Bollocks,' said Jenner, easing himself into his armchair with a grunt.
'You all right, Uncle?'
'I will be. Where's Chas?'
'Sainsbury's. He took the Bentley.'
'He bloody would. Fancy making us a nice cup of tea then?'
'Yeah, all right. Then I want to know exactly what's happening after this. OK?'
'Done.'
Mark went about his chore and returned with two cups.
'Right,' said Jenner when he'd taken a sip. 'The cash and carry's run by a pair of Paki likely lads.' He told Mark the address. 'It's right behind the station at Loughborough. I've been doing business there for years. They're good as gold for ragheads.'
Mark smiled. 'Do you call them that?'
Jenner dismissed the question with a scowl. 'Tommo and Ali run the joint,' he continued. 'You'd think they were as poor as church mice from the way they carry on, but believe me these boys are minted. Both got nice houses in Southall. But they dress like tramps and they always try and beat down the price. But I've done a deal. Now the only problem is, sometimes they're a bit… you know… slipshod in their counting. So you're going to have to count the cash on the spot I'm afraid.'
'How much?'
'Three hundred thousand.'
'And I've got to count it?'
'Terrible job counting money, ain't it? What's the matter with you? There'll be a nice bonus in it for you when you come home, don't worry.'
'The geezer yesterday had a note counter. You got one?'
'Fuck off. Let your fingers do the walking.'
'All right, Uncle. Do I go on my own?'
'That's the plan. Don't worry, they ain't going to kill you and eat you. You ain't Halal.'
'Funny.'
'I try.'
'It weren't them who put the word out about the swap, was it?'
'No. Why would they? They want that stuff as bad as we want their money.'
Mark hung about the house for the rest of the morning, waiting for the time to pass until his appointment. At two-fifteen Jenne
r got the bag of cocaine out of the safe. 'I'll take the gun too,' said Mark.
'You don't need a gun.'
'I think I'll be the judge of that.'
'It'll show disrespect.'
'Only if I have to show it, and if I do, it'll be me that's being disrespected, won't it?'
'Fair enough.'
Mark strapped on the pistol and took the case of drugs to his motor. It was freezing out and his shoes slid on the pavement. He drove carefully to Loughborough Junction and parked the car on a meter in a side street close to the station. He checked the roads around the cash and carry for suspicious-looking people sitting in cold cars who could have been the Bill, but all seemed serene.
Eventually, as three o'clock struck from a church clocks he approached the old Victorian building with its sign: 'Ali Tommo's Booze Emporium'. He could tell it had once been a school, the tall windows now either entirely covered with sheet metal or barred. The playground was a carpark/rubbish dump and he had to pick his way carefully through the garbage. Mark squeezed through the thick metal sliding front door and into a warehouse packed with boxes of cigarettes, wine, beer and spirits.
A little bloke in a turban was minding the store and Mark approached him. 'Tommo, Ali?' he said.
'Who wants 'em, geezer?' the Asian replied in a cockney accent.
'I got a delivery.'
'All deliveries at the back. Can't you read?' and he motioned with his chin to a sign on the wall that said just that.
'I can read,' said Mark. 'But I have to see them personally.'
'Where you from?'
'John Jenner.'
The Asian's face changed in a split second. 'Why the fuck didn't you say so, geezer?' he demanded. 'Come on. I thought it might be you, but I had to make sure. Can't be too careful.'
He slammed the sliding door shut and led Mark through the maze of shelves and halfopened boxes to an office in the back. Two middle aged Asians were sitting in front of a heater in a room that smelled of coriander, sweat and tobacco.
'Geezer for you from Mr J,' said Mark's guide.
The two Asians sat up and took notice at that. 'You're Mark?' said the older of the pair. He looked like someone out of a 1970s sitcom in his flares, skinny sweater and patchwork bomber jacket.
'That's right.'
'I'm Ali.'
'Nice to meet you.'
'Same here. Mr J says you the bizzo. Come in. Wanna drink?'
Mark shook his head and hefted the bag he was carrying. 'I've got this for you.'
'No problem.'
'And you've got something for me.'
'Sure,' said the other man in a suit two sizes too small. Mark assumed he was Tommo. 'Here.' He shifted a pile of newspapers to reveal a scruffy suitcase. He hauled it on to the desk and unzipped it. Inside it was packed with cash.
'I've got to count it.'
'No, geezer,' said the Asian who'd brought him through. 'It's all there.'
'Sorry, I've got orders.'
'Fair enough,' said Tommo. 'Take your time.'
Mark started sifting through the money. It was in all denominations from tenners up. Some was loose, some was banded and at the bottom there were a whole load of fifties in bank bags marked '£5,000'.
Even so, it took Mark what seemed like hours to count it all. When he was finished his fingers were stiff and his hands black with ink and dirt from the money. The Asians had long ago checked the contents of the bag Mark had bought and were celebrating by sampling the warehouse stock. 'I thought you lot didn't drink,' said Mark when he was finished.
'It's God's gift to us all,' said Tommo raising a bottle of white rum. 'Enjoy.'
'I'll pass for now,' said Mark.
'Is it all there?' asked Ali slyly.
'To the pound.'
The trio all crashed their various bottles and laughed uproariously. 'Told you. When Ali and Tommo make a deal it stays made.'
'Better to be safe than sorry,' said Mark, although he felt that somehow they were all enjoying a joke at his expense. 'I'll be off now.'
Suddenly all business, Tommo put down his bottle and said. 'Use the back way just in case.'
'Just in case of what?'
'Who knows?'
Shit, thought Mark. If some fucker's waiting outside…
But there was no one. Tommo let him out into a dimly lit alley and Mark slid his hand into his jacket and felt the warm and reassuring butt of this pistol. And even his car, although out of time at the meter, was ticketless when he got back to it.
Mark shoved the money into the boot and drove home.
'Everything all right, son?' asked John Jenner when he got back into the house.
'Couldn't be better.'
'All the dough there?'
'Every penny.'
'Diamonds those two.' Jenner opened the case and found one of the bags of fifties in the suitcase and tossed it to Mark. 'You've done well. Go out and spoil yourself.'
'Cheers, Uncle,' said Mark. 'Maybe later. Right now I'm going back to bed, it's been a stressful few days.
'Youngsters nowadays,' said Jenner to Chas, who'd joined them. 'No fucking stamina.'
Chapter 12
Sean Pierce was summoned into his DI's office the next morning.
'Guv?' he said.
'You saw about this thing down on the motorway the other day,' said Detective Inspector Alan Mobray once Sean was seated in the uncomfortable visitor's chair in front of Mobray's desk. The DI didn't like anyone to feel too comfortable in his presence, including his own troops.
'Thing, guv?' The DI was known to be a bit of a poet on the quiet and didn't always explain exactly what he was thinking about, rather hoping that his subordinates could read his mind.
'Drugs exchange at a Little Chef near Basingstoke. It's all in the morning's orders. Someone told tales out of school. Local drug squad nicked a couple of krauts with the dough. Some kid got away with the gear and wreaked havoc on the M4.'
'Yes, guv,' said Sean. 'I saw it. What's it got to do with us?'
'Maybe nothing. But a whisper came up from the nameless, faceless grass who's been feeding the drug squad information and whose identity we're not privileged to know.'
'A whisper about what?'
'Who. An old villain who's been a bit quiet lately.'
'Guv?'
'John Jenner. Know anything about him?'
Sean felt his stomach lurch. Of course he knew about Jenner. His father had been in his gang, and of course the father of Jenner's adopted nephew, Mark, had been murdered by Jimmy. Then there was that business with Linda…
'No, guv,' he said.
'Then you're just about to. Take anyone who's free and give our Mr Jenner a visit. Bobby Childs will probably be best.'
This was the moment Sean had been dreading since he'd been transferred to Streatham nick. A face to face with Jenner.
'Yes… Childs,' said Mobray looking at his watch. 'Dig him out of the canteen. That's where he seems to spend most of his time lately.'
Childs was a DC coming up to retirement. A good, solid, old fashioned copper which was probably why he'd been sidelined from promotion. Good, solid coppering was out of fashion in the new Metropolitan Police Service - as opposed to the old police force, which was what Childs continued to call it. Force being what he'd been used to wielding in the good old, bad old, days before PACE and when PC still meant police constable. 'He'll fill you in,' Mobray went on. 'They've had their share of run-ins in the past.'
'Jenner got much of a record, guv?' asked Sean, although he probably knew it as well as his own name.
Mobray shook his head. 'Slippery bastard,' he said. 'Never done a stretch. Time on remand is all. Then, before the trial, witnesses start forgetting such things as their own names or else relocate somewhere quiet and far away like the Hebrides.'
'I know the type.'
'Well, get to know this individual,' said Mobray. 'He may be a bit past it, but I'd still like to see him do some time.'
Sean nodded.
'Go on then,' Mobray said when Sean made no attempt to move.
'Sorry, guv,' he said, and left the room closing the door quietly behind him.
As Mobray had had predicted, Childs was sitting at a table in the canteen drinking a cup of something warm. 'Bobby,' said Sean.
'Yes, young man. What can I do for you?'
'John Jenner.'
'Christ. That's a name from the past.'
'Could be current.' Sean told him what the DI had told him.
'Beautiful,' said Childs. 'That's one fucker I'd love to see banged up before I go. Would make growing my sweet peas down in Kent even sweeter.'
For their retirement, Childs had bought himself and his wife a freestanding caravan on a site near Canterbury. He often showed photos around the squad room of its interior, all swagged curtains and etched glass. Outside was a large garden that Childs intended to turn into a new Eden.
'Let's see what we can do then,' said Sean.
They signed out for an unmarked car and headed towards Jenner's address. An address that Sean knew well, though he feigned ignorance. 'Nice gaff,' said Childs. 'The wages of sin. Had it for years. Used to live there with his missus Hazel. Fabulous woman, I've got to say. What she ever saw in that bugger I'll never know.'
'Children?' asked Sean.
'Strange one,' said Childs. 'One daughter. Martine. Like her mum. Then there's the lad.'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah. One of our own.'
'How do you mean?'
'The son of a copper. Billy Farrow. DS shot dead in Brixton way back in the early eighties. The boy was brought up by his mother. But she fell in with a bad lot. Started on the sauce, got married to a right bastard. Then she died and he disappeared. Meanwhile…' He let a moment pass. 'Meanwhile, the boy - Mark I think his name was - was being looked after by Jenner and Hazel and some old lag who drives Jenner about. Part of the family. Seems there was some history between Jenner and Farrow. Boyhood friends. I think the Met tried to intervene but the kid wanted to stay at Jenner's. All sorts of lawyers got involved.'
'Where is he now?'
'Who?'
'The boy.'
'Dunno. He took it on his toes too. Years back. All very strange.'
'So what about this Jenner then?' asked Sean, still feigning ignorance. 'What's his story?'
'What isn't? He's been a face locally since the 60s. Into everything. Drugs, protection, armed robbery. The whole nine yards.'
