by Mark Timlin
'I'm already in the mood,' said Jimmy, tossing the envelope on to the | coffee table.
'Don't worry, I'll be with you soon. Then I'll be a real coke whore,' | she replied.
'I thought you already were.'
'Cheeky.'
Jane found a credit card in her purse, wiped the table top with a tissue and poured out a good quarter gramme. 'It's good and rocky,' she said. 'I like that.' She cut it up fine, then pulled out four fat lines. She took a silver straw out of her bag and handed it to Jimmy. 'You first,' she said. 'But I hope it doesn't make you go soft.' 'With you around, impossible,' he replied, before snorting one line, then another.
'So many compliments,' said Jane. 'I know this is going to be a fun night.'
'And a long one, I hope,' said Jimmy.
'Trust me.'
The coke was primo gear and went straight to Jimmy's heads - both his big one and his little one - and he felt his cock swell even more in his pants. Jane started to undress him and he loved the feeling of her soft, smooth hands on his body. Finally she released him from his underpants. 'Nothing wrong with that,' she said, taking him in one hand and caressing his balls with the other. 'You're going grey down there, Jimmy,' she said. 'Very distinguished.'
'It looks like Stewart Granger,' he said.
'Who's that?' she asked, and he laughed at their age difference.
'I bet you don't know who Manfred Mann is either,' he said.
'Never heard of him.'
'He's a he and a band,' said Jimmy.
'News to me.' And she knelt in front of him and took his penis in her mouth. The warmth and wetness made him even harder and he leant his head back, opened his mouth and groaned with pleasure.
'Good?' she asked as she let him slip out, a thin line of saliva still joining them.
'Perfect.'
'I aim to please.'
'And you do.'
She went back to blowing him and he forced her head on to his prick until she gagged- She moaned too, as he began to pump into her mouth, but she wrenched her head back and said, in a voice thick with sex: 'No. Don't come. Not yet. It's too early. I want more coke.'
He let her go, and she strung out more lines and they both indulged and he could see that the crotch of her knickers was wet with lubrication. 'Are you enjoying yourself?' he asked.
'More than I should. This is business.' 'Forget it. I want to fuck you.'
She found her bag again and fished out a condom.
'No,' he complained.
'Oh yes,' said Jane. 'I know what you boys get up to in prison. It's rule. No going bareback.'
'I'm clean.'
'So am I. And I intend to stay that way. I told you that last time. Don't worry. These are extra thin. You'll feel everything, just like the last time.'
She ripped off the foil packaging and expertly rolled the rubber up over his cock, then pushed him back on the bed and mounted him. 'I love being on top,' she said. 'Hope you don't mind.'
By this time Jimmy didn't care what position they were in as long as he could come and she rode him like a pony until he spurted into the condom.
'God, but that was good,' he said as she gently lifted herself off. 'But it's too early.'
'I'm not going anywhere,' she replied. 'Let's have another drink and I'll show you how I can make you hard again.'
Which she did by whispering dirty stories into his ear. Stories he loved to hear and he kissed her passionately and she responded in like style. 'You're a dirty bitch,' he said.
'And you're a very dirty man.'
'A dirty old man.'
'If you like.'
'I do. And you're very naughty.'
'So what do you want to do about it?'
'I think I should smack your arse.'
'Do you? Well, go on then,' and she lay across his lap, her pert bottom sticking up in the air.
'God,' he said. 'I don't think I've ever done this before.'
'There's always a first time,' she replied. 'Go on, daddy. Punish me.'
So he did. He raised his right hand and brought it down hard on her left cheek. 'Oww,' she cried. 'Ooh, that hurts.'
'But you love it.' 'No, I don't.'
'Yes you do,' he insisted and spanked her hard until both buttocks glowed pink.
She rolled off him and when she sat up she said: 'That really stings.'
'Come on,' he said. 'Let's do it again.'
'You're the boss,' she said. 'How do you want me? On my back or all fours?'
'I don't care.'
'So let's do both.'
And they did. Their sex going on half the night until Jimmy, at least, was exhausted. 'I can't keep up,' he said as a distant clock struck four. 'I need some sleep.'
'Do you, old man?' she said. 'Can't we just do it once more?'
'I don't think so.'
'Fair enough. But don't say I didn't offer.'
'I'll never say that.'
They climbed into the wreck of the bed and Jimmy was soon asleep. Jane lay next to him until she saw the beginning of the dawn, and then she too closed her eyes. Tomorrow is another day, she thought, looking at the man lying next to her.
Earlier that day, someone else had been looking at Jimmy. But this time on a tiny screen in the back of Gerry Goldstein's shop. Mark Farrow had telephoned first thing and caught the jeweller as he'd opened up. 'I need to see that tape,' he'd said.
'OK,' said Goldstein. 'I'm free this morning 'til twelve.'
'I'll be right over,' said Mark. He left his hotel and drove up to the city. Goldstein let him in and took him through to the back room, where he played the tapes showing Hunter's two visits to the shop. Of course, Gerry Goldstein being Gerry Goldstein, the CCTV he'd had installed years before was tired and old and the tapes had been used so many times, they were almost transparent. The small monochrome monitor wasn't exactly state of the art, either. Jimmy hadn't helped matters by keeping his face out of the frame most of the time. Whether this was deliberate, by accidental or through instinct, Mark didn't know. But occasionally was a clear shot of him. The first time, Mark frowned and said: 'I] that geezer. Where the hell…?'
Then it struck him. It was the man walking by Linda's house previous afternoon. 'Well, I'll be fucked,' he said.
'What?' said Goldstein.
'He was there,' said Mark.
'Where?'
'Never mind,' said Mark. 'But I could've mullahed him, no problem.' He laughed. 'Bugger me,' he said. 'Talk about missing your chances. But I'll know the fucker next time.'
Chapter 33
The next morning, Jane was awake, up and dressed by nine and shook Jimmy until he opened his eyes. 'Time to go time,' she said.
"What time is it?' he asked with a mouth gummy from booze and drugs.
'Nine.'
'Do you have to?'
'Sure do. The clock's running.'
'Can we do it again?'
'Any time, Jimmy. I enjoyed myself.'
'Me too.'
She leant down and kissed him on the cheek. 'You're all stubbly,' she said.
'That's life.'
'Call me,' she said as she went to the bedroom door. 'I'll find my own way out.'
'Hope your car's OK,' he said.
'You promised to pay the ticket if it isn't.'
'And I will.'
'So I'll see you?'
"You will,' he said, and she blew him a kiss and left. He heard the front door slam and he lay back on his pillow.
Outside, Jane rescued her car - which was ticketless - turned the stereo up as loud as it would go, and roared out of the street.
Further up the road from Jimmy's flat, a man sitting alone in a nondescript motor saw her leave and jotted down the number of her car in a little notebook he'd taken from his jacket pocket.
When Jimmy was totally awake, he washed, shaved and put on water for coffee. He checked his wallet and realised how much last night had cost him, and when he'd had his breakfast, he phoned Gerry Goldstein.
'How long
before we go?' he asked once the jeweller had identified himself.
'You'll find out soon enough.'
'I need some cash.'
'And you'll get it. Relax.'
'Just as long as you haven't forgotten me.'
'How could I, Jimmy?'
'As soon as you know something, call me.'
'Of course I will. Trust me.'
'OK, Gerry. But I hate waiting.'
'It's out of my hands, you know that,' said Goldstein.
'I know. All right. I'm just getting impatient. It's been a long time.'
'Soon, I'm sure.'
'Right. Speak to you later.'
'Later, Jimmy,' replied Goldstein, and they both hung up. Goldstein sat and wondered just how he'd got himself into such a mess. What with Jimmy on one side, and Mark Farrow on the other, he felt he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. And that wasn't even taking Butler and his mob into consideration. If it was ever discovered that he was playing both sides against the middle… well, he knew it wouldn't be a good time to start getting interested in TV serials.
And it could have been so different, he thought, if only he hadn't got himself in a mess over money.
Gerry had been a Stamford Hill moddy boy in the early 60s and had met John Jenner and his little firm at clubs and concerts all over London. Gerry had been a loner, famous for always wearing tweed suits whatever the weather, and Jenner had approached him one night in Klooks Kleek, a little club over a pub in West Hampstead. 'Tasty suit,' he'd said. 'Where'd you get it made?'
'Sam Arkus,' said Gerry, proud that Jenner had noticed that the suit was bespoke.
'Good tailor. Got any gear?'
Gerry shook his head.
'Want some?'
'What you got?'
'French blues. Interested?'
'Yeah.'
Jenner had sold him a few pills and Gerry joined him and his boys on the dance floor, where they'd made their best moves to the sound of some loser band trying to be the next big thing and failing miserably.
Afterwards they'd cabbed it down to Soho and spent the rest of the night at some club or other where they served soft drinks over the counter and scotch under it. Gerry was working for his father in Hatton Garden, learning the jewellery trade, including the more lucrative area of fencing stolen goods, which was where good old Dad made his real money. Gerry and John had often met over the intervening years and Gerry had made lots of cash from the Jenner gang. But he was greedy. As his bank balances expanded in line with his stomach, he married a nice Jewish girl called Rebecca and had three daughters who spent as prolifically as their mother. But business wasn't always that good and he began taking more and more chances in order to support their extravagant lifestyle.
It was a risky business, but so was denying his family their cars and furs, designer dresses and anything else their greedy little hearts desired. Gerry had to skate closer and closer to the edge to make up the shortfall in his finances until, one day, a certain lawless individual whose name doesn't matter - but the very mention of it in certain areas of London could still empty pubs and clubs and have mothers cover their children's ears for fear they would be corrupted - arrived in Gerry's life, bearing certain items that were so warm, he almost had to wear asbestos gloves to touch them. Gerry thought then that he could see a way out of his troubles.
This individual was well aware that what he had obtained could not easily be turned into cash money, so he came up with the idea that Gerry would supply him with ten percent of the insurance value up front, then he'd approach the insurance company that held the policy on the items and obtain the going reward - something like fifty per cent of said value. Then they could split the money to the tune of sixty/forty, the lion's share going to the individual in question, with hopefully, no questions actually being asked.
It took a lot of nerve, as the police weren't happy that robberies were taking place under their noses in the first place, never mind that the villains and the insurance companies were then colluding to hand out what were essentially tax-free lump sums to villains. And, as the deals required that the police not be informed until after the event, there was no real fear of capture for the perpetrators. In response, the busies were getting busy, recruiting a network of informants only too pleased to put names in the frame and sit back and collect their own little bit of tax-free bunce.
So, when Gerry made a meet with a claims adjuster concerning the bag of tomfoolery the certain individual had happened upon on his nefarious way around London, someone put the boot in good and proper and Gerry got carted away to the nearest nick, cautioned and bailed with the assistance of his notorious and expensive brief.
Things didn't look too bright for Mr Goldstein, because when the individual discovered that his bag of swag was resting at Her Majesty's pleasure, he told Gerry in no uncertain terms that, unless the story had a happy ending, his particular story would not. In particular, he said, the Thames was very cold and deep and that no matter how artfully they were coiffed and dressed, Jewish women didn't float. Especially if their pretty little feet were encased in concrete.
So Gerry went to his old friend John Jenner in the hope that he might remonstrate with the individual, both having a certain history in crime together, but John knew from day one that it was a no go situation. Then Mark Farrow came up with a plan. He was a daring young man and the nick in question had long had the nickname of 'the sieve' for the very good reason that it was famous for losing evidence. One dark night, Mark and Eddie Dawes - dressed as police constables - dragged Tubbs into the station, demanding that they take care of their prisoner until transport could be arranged. The custody sergeant made the trio welcome until Tubbs pulled out a pistol and stuck it into his ear, forcing him to show them where the evidence locker was. By the time they'd had it on their toes, not only was the evidence on Regina v Goldstein missing, but also a good kilo of pure cocaine.
The jewellery was returned to the individual who later employed another go between to sell it back to the insurance company, with no arrests being made at that time.
So Gerry Goldstein lived to fight another day and the women in his life had no idea how close they had come to a watery grave. Of course, Gerry was most grateful to Mark, who told him that one day he could return the favour. But Gerry didn't have an inkling of what that might entail until Mark let him know that the only way he could wipe the slate clean was to give him Jimmy Hunter on a plate.
And there was the rub.
Gerry wasn't the only one obsessed with Jimmy Hunter that day. DS Sean Pierce also had him on his mind. After he'd lost contact with his father at the Russell Hotel, Sean failed to find hide nor hair of him. He wasn't to know that Jimmy had a flat just a couple of miles from where he sat in the CID office at Streatham Police Station, biting the end of his pencil and looking through the window at the building site opposite. Sean had the feeling that his old man wouldn't be down the Job Centre looking for honest work that spring morning, and he wondered when he'd pop back up on the police radar. When rather than if. And then how would Sean be able to keep their relationship secret?
Meanwhile, on the other side of London, preparations were being made towards the very job that Jimmy had hassled Gerry over that same morning. Daniel Butler had discovered an old printing works on one of his reconnoitering missions through east London. The building was dilapidated and leaked water, but it was ideal for Butler's needs, being around the size of a football field and hidden away behind high, gated walls. The printers had gone out of business years before, when new technology had overtaken them. All around were new developments of flats, but somehow that particular brownfield site had been forgotten. Using one of his shell companies, with registered offices in the Isle of Man, Butler approached the owners with an offer of a short term rental with an option to buy. They, a City bank who had purchased great swathes of the East End with the intention of sitting oil them until the boom and bust property market sorted itself out, agreed. To them it was a small
part of a much larger portfolio. To Daniel Butler it was part of a master plan. To the local citizenry it was just more fucking yuppies on the make.
One Monday morning in late spring, a couple of heavy-looking lads in dungarees and big boots moved into the premises. They cleaned up the toilets and made the office inside liveable. They weren't going to be around for too long, but it helped to be able to make a cup of tea and have somewhere comfortable to drink it. There were rats in the building, so they brought in air pistols and spent many happy hours picking the little bleeders off.
A week later, a truck arrived, complete with another couple of men who set about getting it ready for its big day.
It was a ten-wheeled Volvo semi-tractor of the type seen every day pulling trailers up and down the motorways of Europe. Bringing in tools and materials, the four began converting this commonplace vehicle into an urban tank that would throw open the doors of a building that, within a few weeks, would contain a king's, queen's, indeed, a whole royal family's ransom.
First of all, they took all the glass out of the windows of the Volvo. The last thing anyone needed when they came smashing through metal gates and doors was a faceful of safety glass. They fitted racing harnesses to the triple seats in the cab, plus anti-roll bars and a huge rollover bar. If, by bad luck, the motor did take a tumble, it would be good to know that the roof wasn't going to crush the occupants.
They beefed up the already massive suspension and welded girders all around the body. At the back they strapped full cement bags between the. twin axles and wet them, then let them dry until they became solid. Not only would that hold down the rear wheels, it would also add weight to help the truck smash through solid steel. The job took a week. When it was ready, they raced the Volvo from one end of the huge building to the other and back again. Once they were satisfied that the driver had a feel for the vehicle, they tarpaulined it up and left it behind heavily secured doors.
Butler was forever popping in and out, checking on progress and generally getting in everyone's way, but the mechanics usually just ignored him and got on with their business. This included servicing and spraying a stolen seven-seater Chevrolet Suburban, the other vehicle to be used on the heist, plus making sure that another pair of cars, to be parked up on the escape route, were in equally tip top condition.
