by Mark Timlin
'You're the man,' said Mark.
'Too right,' agreed John Jenner from his seat in front of the fire.
'Let's see what we've got here,' said Mark taking the plastic bag of dope from Tubbs. 'You got a good deal, son.'
'Fucking good,' grumbled John Jenner. 'It cost them nixes.'
'I think they need readies,' said Tubbs.
'That suits us,' said Mark. 'And we know where they live, who's about and the layout of the place.'
'We sure do. It's imprinted on my mind for ever.'
'You did so good, Tubbs,' said Jenner. 'Reminds me of another bloke I once knew, name of Sharman. He went into a flat for me too, but it didn't work out so well.'
'What happened?' asked Tubbs, glass in hand, reclining in the armchair.
• 'It's a long story.'.
'We've got time.' There was nothing Tubbs liked better than old war stories. John Jenner knew that and he sat back and filled the boys in on the story so far.
'So he came good with the grass,' said Tubbs. 'Earned his bread.'
'Ah, but it gets better.'
Sharman got another call from Lawson the next day. This time the meeting was at a bar in St Catherine's Dock, all chrome and leather, and foliage-filled coloured drinks. 'A bit poncified,' said Sharman, when he joined the lawyer.
'Suits me,' said Lawson.
Sharman made no comment.
'You heard what happened?' asked Lawson.
Sharman nodded.
'John's very pleased.'
'Good.'
'And no policemen involved.' 'I heard one's got a big bill at Sketchley's.' 'He'll get over it.' 'I expect so.'
'So what now?' asked the policeman. 'There's something else you can do for us.' 'What?' asked Sharman, lighting a cigarette. 'Simple. We need someone to mind one of our boys going into a very nasty place.' 'Like?'
'You know the Lion Estate?' 'Jesus, do I.'
'We're making a drop there on Thursday next. The person we're delivering to owes John a great deal of money. Now he wants more supplies and has promised to make good the whole debt when we deliver the next consignment.'
'And you think maybe there's going to be a rip off,' 'Precisely.'
'How much are we talking?' 'Altogether, fifty grand's worth.'
'That is a lot of money. Specially round there. People kill their grannies on the Lion for a quid.' 'Exactly.'
'And who's the face you're delivering to?' 'Lionel Godey.'
'Lionel? Bloody hell, I thought he was inside.' 'He's out on bail.'
'And what bent brief arranged that?' Lawson smiled.
'I thought as much,' said Sharman. 'You do mix with the cream.'. 'I have to earn a living.' 'Sounds to me as if you're running with the hare and hunting with the hounds.'
'Is that the sound of the pot calling the kettle black? My loyalties always have and always will lie with John. But I'm the best there is, and besides, he couldn't collect if Godey was on remand.' 'Fair enough,' said Sharman. 'So you'll do it?' 'How much?' 'What?'
'How much for me when I collect the dough?' 'You don't have to collect. They don't know you. Tony Wiltse is the courier. He works for John.' 'I know him.'
'Excellent. He's a good lad with a clean record.' 'So how much?' 'Five hundred pounds.'
'A monkey to go up against Lionel and Christ knows how many others on the Lion? Do behave.' 'Scared, Nick?'. 'Bloody terrified.'
'Good. That's how you keep sharp in this line of business.' 'A grand,' said Sharman.
'Funny. That's exactly what John said you'd ask.' 'Then he's smarter than you.' 'In some ways.'
'And you owe me for Skinner. The other half. And I'll need to be tooled up.'
Lawson put his briefcase on the table and said, 'It's all been taken care of. Open it.'
Sharman smiled, put the case on his lap, flipped the latches and opened the top so that only he could see inside. He smiled as he saw a Beretta nine millimetre semi-automatic pistol, a stack of banded ten pound notes and another brown envelope.
'There's five hundred in each bundle,' said Lawson. 'Plus the other five K. Old notes. Non-consecutive. There's also instructions on where to meet Tony and what time on Thursday. I take it you're free that afternoon.'
'You take it right, David,' said Sharman and he shut the case. 'Another drink?'
'Lovely. But be warned, Nick. You're getting in deep. Make sure your waterwings are on tight.'
'No problem,' said Sharman as he rose to go to the bar. 'I can walk on water, me.'
Lawson grinned. 'That's over eleven grand you've had since we started working together. Now maybe you can get rid of that piece of junk on your wrist. Another drink?'
Sharman reddened as he looked at the fake Swiss watch he was wearing. On his way home that night he dropped it down a drain.
The Lion Estate was in Deptford, between Evelyn Street and the river. There was a fine view of The Isle Of Dogs from the upper floors of the four tower blocks, which stood guard over the lowrise flats and the playground in the centre. 'Playground' was a euphemism for a muddy area in the middle of the place where the disaffected youth played football among dog shit and used syringes.
Sharman met Tony Wiltse at the Traveller's Rest boozer in Deptford High Street at ten-to-three as instructed. Not that any sensible traveller would wish to rest in its dilapidated bars at that time in its history.
Sharman went to the bar, ordered a pint and looked at Wiltse in the mirror behind the jump. Wiltse rose and walked over to him, carrying a Head sports bag. 'Nick,' he said.
'Tony,' said Sharman. 'How's it going? Drink?'
'I'll have a goldie.' Sharman ordered a large scotch from the slattern behind the bar and they took their drinks to a table as far away from the counter as possible. 'You carrying?' asked Wiltse.
'Yeah. You?'
Wiltse shook his head. 'Not me. Not my style. I work in the office mostly, doing the accounts. That's why you're here.'
Sharman nodded. 'And there's just you and me?'
'No. We've got a driver. Ricky. He's in the car outside. You parked up?'
'On a meter. Two hours.'
'That'll do. I hate this land of fucking job,' said Wiltse.
'I would've thought they'd have sent in a team,' said Sharman. 'There's a lot of cash involved.'
'John didn't want Lionel to think he didn't trust him.'
'But he doesn't.'
'That don't matter. It's all down to respect.'
Shit, thought Sharman. I'm being set up here. A number cruncher and a bent copper. If we never come out, who's going to miss us?
Sharman swallowed the rest of his drink and looked at his watch. The Timex. He still hadn't got over Lawson recognising the snide Rolex for what it was. 'Three o'clock,' he said. 'There's only fifteen minutes. We'd better go.'
Wiltse nodded, sunk his whisky, grabbed the bag and they left the pub together.
Ricky was sitting behind the wheel of a navy blue Jaguar XJ illegally parked opposite the pub. Wiltse got into the front passenger seat and Sharman climbed in the back, the Beretta digging painfully into his groin as he did so. 'Ricky, this is Mr…'
'Nick,' interrupted Sharman. 'Just Nick.'
'Oh, sure,' said Wiltse.
Ricky didn't seem to care either way, he just started the engine, engaged drive and pulled into the traffic without a word.
The Lion was only a few minutes away and it had started to rain by the time they drove on to the estate. Sharman peered through water streaked windows at the water-streaked buildings and shook his head, wondering how anyone could live in such a place. I don't like this, he thought as he eased the automatic from his belt and quietly pulled back the slide, putting a bullet into the chamber and pulling back the hammer. He slid it gingerly back into place, thinking that this was not the time to put a bullet into his balls.
Ricky steered the car through the potholes and pulled up outside one of the tower blocks. 'First floor,' said Wiltse. 'Just as sodding well. The lifts never work and they're full
of shit, anyway.'
Sharman just grunted a reply and they got out into the rain and went for the front door.
The foyer was dank and gloomy and Sharman mentally agreed it was just as well that they only had to go up two flights of stone steps to the first floor.
The door of the flat was halfway down a graffiti-covered corridor and Wiltse banged on it. Once there had been a square of glass in the door, but it had been replaced with plywood. Two bare wires protruded from where a doorbell might have been and the letterbox and knocker had been ripped off, leaving a toothless mouth of a hole that was now backed with metal.
After a minute, Wiltse grimaced and hammered again, harder this time.
Eventually the two men heard the sound of locks being disengaged and the door opened on a heavy steel chain.
'Come on, Lionel,' said Wiltse. 'Open up. It's me.'
'Who's that with you?' demanded a voice from the darkened inside.
'Nick.'
'Nick who?'
'Nick It-doesn't-matter,' said Sharman. 'Just open up for Christ's sake. It stinks out here.'
'Not much better inside,' said the voice, but the chain came off and the door opened to reveal a shell-suited figure.
Wiltse and Sharman slid inside and the door was locked and bolted behind them.
In fact, the interior of the flat was a good deal sweeter than it had looked from the hallway. The walls were painted pale blue and there was a carpet on the floor on which the pattern was still discernible. 'Down here,' said the man who'd opened the door.
Sharman recognised him from some mug shots he'd seen back at Kennington Police Station as Lionel Godey.
He led them into the living room where thick curtains covered the windows. Sharman went over, pulled one aside and looked straight down into Ricky's eyes behind the wet windscreen of the Jag.
'Oi,' said Lionel. 'Don't take fucking liberties.'
'Just checking we hadn't been towed away,' said Sharman.
'Fat chance of that round here.'
'Joke,' said Sharman.
'I don't like jokes,' said Lionel. 'Or the people who make them.'
'Forget it,' said Wiltse. 'We're here for business.'
'Yeah,' said Lionel, giving Sharman a dagger look. 'Show.'
'The money,' said Wiltse.
'It's here.'
'Show,' said Sharman, already tired of the whole deal.
'Who is this mug?' said Lionel.
'A friend,' said Wiltse.
'Well, he wants to watch himself.'
And you want to watch yourself, if I ever get you in the cells one fine night, thought Sharman, but said nothing. 'He will,' said Wiltse and shot Sharman a glance that said 'keep your mouth shut'. Sharman nodded.
'All right,' said Wiltse. 'He'll keep it buttoned. Now come on, Lionel, let's get on with it. We haven't got all day.'
'No problem,' said Lionel, now sure of his place in the pecking order. 'Jack!' he shouted.
After a moment, another man, heavily built, wearing a leather jacket and jeans, entered the room carrying an identical bag to Wiltse's. He put it on the table and unzipped it. 'There you go,' he said.
Wiltse put his bag next to it, and opened it too. Inside were a number of tightly bound, clear plastic bags containing white powder. 'It's good stuff,' said Wiltse.
'It had better be,' said Lionel.
Wiltse opened the first bag and looked inside. When he looked up there was a puzzled expression on his face. 'What's this?' he said.
'The money,' replied Lionel. 'Twenty thousand.'
'What about the rest?' asked Wiltse.
'A bit of a problem,' said Lionel. 'Cash flow.'
'Fuck cash flow,' said Wiltse. 'The deal was you paid up to date. Fifty K. You taking the piss or what?'
Sharman saw the look between Lionel and Jack and knew that it was all starting to go wrong. Or at least that's what his instinct told him. He unbuttoned his jacket.
'You see, last time the merchandise wasn't up to scratch. Whoever walked on it had big boots,' said Lionel.
'It was good gear;' protested Wiltse.
'Once upon a time,' said Lionel.
'Are you saying we're doing you up?' demanded Wiltse.
'It's all in the mix,' said Lionel, 'We want to make sure this lot is OK before we part with any more dough.'
'John isn't going to like this,' said Wiltse.
'How about this then?' said Jack and pulled a small revolver from the pocket of his leather.
Fuck, thought Sharman, reaching for his gun.
What happened next changed him from the man he was - a small-time chancer with an attitude - to what he was to become for the rest of his life: a man who went to sleep at night with ghosts around his bed.
The first shot from Jack's pistol went wide, digging plaster from the wall beside Sharman's head, as the copper fired back hitting Jack in the shoulder and spinning him round. Then Lionel tugged a big automatic from somewhere inside his shellsuit and Sharman fired straight into his face. The man tripped over his feet and the gun went off and a huge gout of blood exploded from Wiltse's neck and he fell to the floor. Jack shouted something Sharman couldn't understand and brought his gun up and Sharman finished him with a shot to the chest. He stood in the smoke- filled room, ears ringing from the gunshots, and looked at the three dead men on the floor. 'Fuck,' he said aloud as he lowered his warm gun. 'That's me fucked.'
'They were his very words when he told us the story,' said Jenner to the two young men.
'What happened?' asked Tubbs. 'Did he go down?'
'Sharman? You're having a laugh, aincha?' said John Jenner. 'Slipperiest fucker in all Christendom was our Nick. And still is, from what I hear.'
'So?' asked Mark who hadn't heard that particular story before.
'He stuck his gun in Tony's hand, fired it again using his finger, cold blooded bastard, so that the body would have powder residue on it. Then took the dough and the gear and strolled down to the motor, cool as you like, and made Ricky drive him up to Lawson's office. Dumped the lot on David's desk and asked for another two grand. One each for both the geezers he'd shot. Never looked back after that.'
'Christ,' said Tubbs.
'Christ is right,' said Jenner.
'But of course you only had his word for it,' said Mark.
'Do what?' Jenner said.
'How do you know that he didn't collect the whole fifty, shoot everyone and keep the thirty grand for himself?'
'You're a cynical bastard, Mark,' said Jenner. 'And I do like that in a man. In fact, it did cross my mind at the time. But I don't think so. Sharman was cold, but not that cold. Maybe later it would've been something he'd do, but that was early days. Anyway, it's all water under the bridge now. Over twenty years ago. Who cares? Not me. He more than made up for it later with little jobs he did for us. I wish he was here now.'
'Don't you trust us, Uncle, is that it?' asked Mark.
But before Jenner could answer, Tubbs's phone rang.
Chapter 26
The trio looked at each other, then Mark nodded and Tubbs fished his phone out of his pocket. 'Yeah,' he said. 'Oh, it's you, Eddie. No. Everything went fine.' He looked at Mark who gestured for the phone which Tubbs passed over.
'Hey, Eddie,' said Mark. 'How you doing?' he listened. 'Good. Tubbs did great, but he could've been in big trouble. So next time, we do the biz, OK?' A pause. 'Fine. Look, let's meet up tomorrow at the usual place in Stockwell. We'll talk then. Right. Midday. See ya.' And he closed the phone.
'Listen,' said Tubbs, when Mark gave him the phone back. 'I'd better be off.'
'OK, Tubbsy?' said Mark. 'You heard that?'
Tubbs nodded.
'Twelve o'clock in the Four Feathers. We'll plan our strategy.'
'Sounds good,' said Tubbs and got to his feet. 'Later, Mr Jenner,' he said.
'Be careful driving home,' said Jenner. 'You did well tonight. I owe you.'
'I'm being well paid,' replied Tubbs.
'Money
isn't everything.'
'Only rich people say that,' said Tubbs. 'You take care too,' and Mark saw him to the front door.
'He's right,' said Mark as they stood in the hall. 'You were the business.'
'Like riding a bike,' said Tubbs. 'Just what you said. I miss the old days, and this is just the same.'
'If you say so, Tubbs,' said Mark and he hugged his old friend before opening the front door. 'Be safe.' 'I'll try.' Tubbs went to his car and headed home.
Mark went back to where John Jenner was rolling the latest in a long line of spliffs. 'So far, so good,' he said.
'Yeah. But the hard part's still to come,' warned Jenner. 'The killing bit.'
Mark went upstairs and called Linda on his mobile, but her machine picked up. He didn't leave a message.
The next day, Mark was early for the meet in the pub, but Eddie had beaten him to it. He was sipping Guinness and looking longingly at the tightly skirted backside of the barmaid who was bending over the lower shelves, too busy bottling up to notice his glances.
'You'll go blind,' said Mark, once he'd joined him at the bar.
'Jesus, but that's a work of art,' said Eddie. 'Just look at those buns.'
Mark grinned and when the barmaid noticed he ordered a lager. 'Why don't you ask her out?' he said when he'd been served.
'Fat chance.'
'You never know until you try.'
'I ain't been out with a woman for… Christ. More than two years.'
'So your old right hand gets plenty of exercise?'
'Not really. After a bit you don't miss it anymore.' '
'But if you get this money…'
'I'll clean up my act. Lose some weight. Go to the gym. Buy some decent clothes and a car.'
'Or go to JA with Tubbs and cook chicken.'
'It's an option. You say the boy done well?'
'Oscar-winning from what I can gather. I was outside hiding in the garbage. It was a solo effort on his part.'
'He's got some bottle.'
'Always had, remember. It's not something you forget.'
'I dunno, Mark,' said Eddie. 'I'm shitting myself - straight up.'
'You'll be OK, Ed,' said Mark. 'Trust me.'
'I do.'
Just then Tubbs himself came in through the front door and joined them at the bar, ordering a small lager for himself. 'They've been on.' 'Who?' asked Eddie.
