by Mark Timlin
'So, how's it all going?'
'Well.'
'Got a date yet?'
Gerry hesitated. 'Come on,' said Mark. 'Spit it out.'
'Bank holiday Monday.'
'That's only a week away. Why didn't you tell me?'
'I just did.'
'But why didn't you tell me before?'
'I just found out. Honestly, Mark.'
Gerry Goldstein to honesty was like George Bush to world peace, but Mark didn't push it. Instead he said: 'I need an in.'
'To what?'
'To the job,' said Mark slowly, not believing the way the jeweller was jerking him around. 'Come on, Gerry. Don't fuck with me, or things could get nasty.'
'But how can I get you in?'
'That's the whole point of me being here, Gerry,' said Mark.
'You're in on this and I need to be too.'
'I've told you all I know.'
'In a pig's ear. Christ, there must be some way of getting me on the inside.'
'Only if someone drops out.'
'So someone will have to drop out, won't they?'
'I hate it when you talk like that, Mark.'
'You're too squeamish, Gerry. John always said you were.'
'It's just my way. I abhor violence.'
'Especially when it's directed against you, eh?' said Mark, leaving the rest unsaid. 'We need a meet,' he added after a moment.
'What, again?'
'Have I got BO? Is that the problem?'
'I just don't want to be seen with you.'
'Tough. Shall I come to the shop?'
'No. You never know who's about. Once was enough. I'll come to you.'
'All right. There's a nice little boozer on Anerley Hill. The Spread Eagle. You can't miss it. It's next to the station. I'll be there tonight at seven.'
'I don't know about tonight… Rachel will have dinner ready.'
'Tell her something's come up. What are you, under the cosh? Just be; there.' And he hung up.
Gerry phoned his wife and made up some story about a special customer wanting to see him out of business hours, but in fact she didn't seem that worried. Lately, she didn't seem to care whether he was around or not. As long as the credit card bills were paid promptly every month, his presence seemed more and more irrelevant. He wondered if she was having an affair. He wondered if he really cared. He decided he didn't, much.
He closed the shop early and drove his BMW down through the jams of rush hour south London, found Anerley with some difficulty, and parked up by the Spread Eagle just after seven. Mark was waiting in the lounge bar with the evening paper and a pint of lager. 'You look stressed, Gerry,' he said. 'Have a drink.'
'Brandy,' replied Goldstein as he looked around the bar. It was half full of unhappy commuters just off their trains, who couldn't face the rest of their journeys home without a drink. He knew how they felt.
He sat at Mark's table and idly glanced through the Standard. It was full of the usual stories about how London was falling apart, and he pushed it aside. Mark came back with two more drinks and got straight to the point. 'I want to know the plan.'
'Jesus,' said Gerry.
'I thought you lot crucified him.'
'They'll bloody crucify me if they ever found out I'd talked about it. And what about my profit? It was going to be my pension.'
'Put some money into Abbey Life,' said Mark. 'Look, Gerry. This job is fucked whatever way you look at it. I'm going to make sure of that. Jimmy Hunter isn't going to retire rich. He's going to retire permanently.'
'Then why don't you just kill him? You've done it before, haven't you, killed people?'
'Yes, I've done it before. But that's too easy. This is my swan song, Gerry. I intend to take him and Butler down with me.'
'But why?'
'Because I can. Now tell me.'
So Gerry Goldstein did. The whole plan. He knew what Mark was capable of, and he had never been a particularly brave man. And as he told the story, he saw his future dissolve in front of him. He was too old, too tired for the life he'd been living. It was a young man's way, and his youth- had gone.
'I get it,' said Mark, when Gerry finished. 'Simple really. Tell me about the drivers.' And Gerry did that too.
'I don't fancy driving that truck,' said Mark, when he'd finished. 'I want to be with Hunter. What about the bloke driving the car?'
'Toby Lee. He's one hundred per cent.'
'So what would happen if he disappeared?'
'They'd have to replace him.'
'So, I'll make him disappear. Simple. Like you said, I've done it before.'
For all the villains he'd known in his life, Gerry still found it hard that Mark could talk so casually about killing someone, especially in the lounge bar of a quiet public house in Anerley.
'So where do 1 find him?' asked Mark.
'He lives down Hammersmith way,' said Goldstein.
'Big place, Hammersmith.'
'On that council estate by the river. He drinks in a pub called The Drover's Arms, on the towpath.'
'Regular?'
'As clockwork. Drives this souped-up Ford Capri. Bright red. Loves it. Never goes anywhere without it.'
'Easy to find then. What's he look like?'
'Little. Flyweight, he was for a bit, but he didn't like getting hit, so he took to crime.'
'And he's a good wheelman.'
'The best.'
'Married?'
'No.'
'So he won't be missed.'
'No. Only by Butler and the rest.'
'So they'll need another driver sharpish, if this one goes missing. The job just being a week or so away.'
'Of course.'
'I'll have to meet Mr Lee, the driver, then.'
'If you say so.'
'I do.'
'And then?'
'And then I'm afraid, the driver comes to the end of the road. Sad, but true.'
'This is getting out of hand.'
'No, Gerry. I've got it all sorted.'
Mark drove to Hammersmith the next afternoon. The Drover's Arms was on the riverbank, close to Hammersmith Bridge. It was one of those boozers that couldn't make up its mind if it was an old fashioned local or an up market eaterie. There was a pool table and Sky Sports in the public bar and seared tuna in the restaurant tacked on to the side. Mark parked his car on a meter a few yards up the road and checked out the pub's tiny car park. There was an old but beautifully maintained red Ford Capri in one corner.
He pushed through the door to the saloon bar and ordered a pint of lager. Across the counter, he saw a little man with a broken nose in the public side. He was wearing a leather jacket and had a pint glass and a sandwich in front of him, one eye on the racing pages of the Standard, the other on the TV.
Mark grinned, lit a cigarette, sipped his drink and made for the other bar. He found a stool one away from the little man, who'd looked up at his entrance, then returned to the racing form.
'Got anything good?' asked Mark.
Toby Lee looked up again, then around to see who Mark was talking to.
'The geegees,' said Mark, gesturing at the paper.
'No,' said Lee. 'Hopeless.'
'Just like me then.'
'Donkeys. That's all I fucking back lately.'
'I know the feeling,' said Mark. 'It's a mug's game.'
'Yeah. But the sport of kings.' Lee tossed the paper on to the bar, adding: 'And you need to be a king to afford it.'
'Bit skint?' said Mark.
'Up and down, you know.'
'Only too well. What's your game then?'
'This and that,' said Lee.
Mark drained his glass and called to the barmaid for a refill. 'Want one?' he said to Lee.
'Why not? I ain't going nowhere.'
Mark ordered another lager and a pint of bitter for Lee. When the drinks arrived, they saluted each other. 'Cheers,' said Lee.
'Cheers mate. That your motor outside?'
Lee suddenly looked suspicious
. 'What motor?'
'The classic Capri.'
'What makes you think that?' said Lee, taking a cigarette from the packet in front of him, but not offering one to Mark.
'Because I'm looking for a man who drives one.'
'Is that so?'
'Yeah,' said Mark, lighting a cigarette of his own and squinting though the smoke. 'I heard that this particular man could handle himself behind the wheel.'
'Where did you hear that?'
'Around and about.'
'Are you Old Bill?'
Mark laughed out loud. 'Fuck me, hardly,' he said. 'Now that is funny.'
'Why's that?'
'Because me and the filth aren't exactly mates. Old Bill, me? I'll have to remember that.'
'So what are you looking for a driver for?'
'A little job.'
'No, mate,' said Lee. 'I'm booked.'
'Just a few hours' work. Nothing too strenuous. It's worth a grand.'
'I don't know you.'
'My name's Steve, Steve Sawyer. And you must be Toby Lee.'
'Might be,' said Lee.
'Come on, mate,' said Mark, moving closer and dropping his voice. 'Don't be shy. Your reputation precedes you.'
'Is that right?' Despite himself, he was flattered. Toby Lee didn't have much to boast about in his life, except for his driving, of which he was, quite rightly, inordinately proud.
'That's right.'
Toby nodded and smiled.
'So Toby, you interested?' asked Mark.
'Who told you about me?'
This was going to be the difficult part for Mark. He knew the little bloke would be suspicious about working for a stranger. 'Gerry Goldstein,' he said. He took out his mobile and put it on the bar in front of Lee. 'Give him a ring.'
Gerry hadn't been overjoyed when Mark told him that he intended to use him as a reference. 'Why me?' he'd asked.
'Don't be silly, Gerry,' Mark had replied.
'He knows you.'
'He might tell Butler.'
'Why would he? He'll be on an easy grand or whatever.'
'1 don't like it.'
'Then learn to like it,' said Mark. 'You're a fucking traitor, Gerry. And you know what Butler thinks of traitors. And what he does about them. Lee will phone you, and you'll tell him I'm golden, or else I'll find a way to grass you up.'
Goldstein had given Mark a look that told him he'd better watch his back. Goldstein was scared of him. What he might do. And so he should be. But Goldstein had friends, nasty friends, and Mark could tell he was getting close to the end of his tether. Fuck his luck, he thought. Just a little while more and it probably won't matter.
Lee tapped in the numbers and waited for the pickup. 'Gerry,' he said, 'got a bloke here named Sawyer.' Pause. 'Wants me to do a bit.' Another pause. Mark saw Lee's look. 'So he's all right? OK, fine,' he said. Lee broke the connection and handed the phone back. 'Fifteen hundred,' he said. 'Half in advance.'
'Don't you want to know what you've got to do?'
'You said a few hours. That's it. You piss me about and I'll make sure you don't do it twice.'
Hard man, thought Mark. Let's see how hard he is when I've finished with him. But he said nothing, just smiled and said: 'Let's take a walk by the river.'
It was a fine afternoon, couples were strolling hand in hand, even though it was midweek. The river was calm and swans sailed by, like galleons in full sail. Pretty, thought Mark, but underneath, those webbed feet are going nineteen to the dozen. Just like life. They found a bench and sat down, watching a small child tearing off hunks of bread and throwing them to the birds. More like, at them, thought Mark as one lump of crust caught a swan in the eye.
'So,' said Lee. 'Where's the dough and what's the job?'
Mark reached into his jacket, took out an envelope containing a thousand pounds in fifties, counted out fifteen, and handed them over. 'I want you to collect a car and deliver it,' he said. 'Simple.'
'What's in the car?'
'None of your business.'
'Fair enough,' said Lee. ''Where and when?'
'Tomorrow night,' said Mark, taking a set of keys out of his pocket and handing them to Lee. 'A black Beemer seven in the carpark of the Ibis hotel at Heathrow. Know it?'
'I'll find it.'
'Fair enough. Registration S411 YEV. Take it to the underground carpark at the East London Uni, at Beckton. Know that?'
'I'll find it.'
'Good. It's Saturday so it'll be open but empty. Leave the car there and take a walk. The rest of your money will be in the glove compartment.'
'That's all?'
'That's all.'
'Seems like a lot for a run across London.'
'Better than bus driver's wages, that's for sure.'
'Why don't you do it?'
'I'll be doing something else. Now this ain't a quiz show. Do you want the job or not? If not, gimme the cash and the keys back and I'll find someone who does.'
Lee though for a minute and nodded. 'I'll do it.'
'Get the motor to the carpark by ten. Don't be too early and don't be late. OK?'
'OK.' 'OK, Toby. And try Lancaster Gate in the three-thirty at Think tomorrow. You might double your money.' And with that, Mark got up and left.
Dev had supplied the stolen BMW, two sets of keys and a new set of plates, and Chas had driven it over to Heathrow. He'd left it in the hotel car park, with an envelope in the glove box containing another fifteen fifties, then caught the tube home. It was good for him to have something useful to do for a change - and this wasn't his only job that weekend. Just like old times.
At seven the next night, Mark picked Chas up in his Ford Explorer, and they drove over to east London. They were early, but they didn't want to miss Lee's arrival. Mark had scoped out several locations before he'd settled on the Uni, but he'd found that the campus carpark was the only one open that could be counted on to be dead on a Saturday night. He parked the truck close to the entrance, its tinted windows hiding the two occupants from view, and they waited.
'I miss John, you know,' said Chas.
'Course you do.'
'It's a bit dull without him.'
'I bet. And Hazel too, yeah?'
'For sure.'
'It must've been great, the three of you in the old days.'
'Are you kidding?'
'Tell me about him and Hazel.'
'Like what?'
'Like what they were like back then.'
'Back then. The old days. You make me feel like Methuselah.'
'You know what I mean. Come on, we've got time.'
'That's what we always thought. Loads of time. But time flies. There was one day…'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah. They were bad you know, the pair of them. Very bad. We all were. But John… He was the worst. And she didn't help. Not at first. She calmed down when they got married and Martine came along. No, not calmed down. Just… Christ, I don't know. She just managed it better.'
'So what happened?'
'When?'
'That one day you were talking about.'
'Oh yeah. It was summer, 1967. Great summer that was. The real summer of love. 'Cept we didn't love much, not our little firm. Only each other. Real hippy days, but John always hated hippies. Anyway, we found out that there was this bunch of public school boys doing a roaring drug trade up in Notting Hill. That was when it was a real dump. Not that's it's any better now, just property values are higher. Being from down south, I don't know. We never felt right over in west London. Streatham, Brixton, Clapham, Battersea, that was our manor. Chelsea for clothes and the West End for nights out. But I always felt that Notting Hill, Shepherd's Bush, round there was like alien territory. But anyway, these kids had a great big house in one of the squares up there. I forget which: one now. Belonged to one of their dads. He was something big in the ' admiralty, of all things, and he let his kid live in this house. Massive it I was. One of those like in Performance. You've seen that movie?'
Mark nodded.
'Good film. Realistic, if you know what I mean. White the house was, with a bloody great set of steps at the front, and white pillars on either side of the door. Christ knows what it would be worth these days, but then they were mostly split into bedsits for students and lowpaid workers and spades and all. Anyway, we heard these fuckers were doing good business. They ran some kind of underground newspaper and the dope paid the bills that Daddy didn't. But what got under John's skin was that they were posh fuckers pretending to be the lads, if you know what I mean. Pissed John right off.
'Anyway, how you got the gear was to phone up, tell 'em that so-and- so had told you the SP and pop round with the readies. Not before two. in the afternoon though. These people liked to sleep late. And that, fucked John off too. Always was an early riser, John was. The get in was easy. No steel doors like nowadays. These kids thought they were golden. Hardly ever even locked the door. Mugs. So we got the phone number and Hazel says she'll go in first, sweeten 'em up, if you like. But she really only did it to wind John up, if you ask me. You should've seen her. Fuckin' 'ell. Did she look the business that day? Like I told you, it was summer. Hot, sticky. And she turns up in this little flowery dress that's so short it hardly covers her arse. And you can see right through it. No bra and just a little pair of white bikini pants. The rest of us didn't know where to look. Oh, I forgot. There was me and Martin, who used to be called the Goon, in the motor too. Some great big thing. A Zephyr I think, we'd got off Dev. Always had to have a big motor we did, even if it burnt a bit of oil. So the four of us shoot off to Notting Hill in the car, but it's still a bit early, so we go to a pub and start getting tanked up. Hazel loved a drink, remember?'
Mark nodded again.
'Christ, she couldn't have been more than eighteen that summer. They'd've called her a "wild child" in the 80s, but then she was just a mad bird. So, like I said, she volunteers to go in first and John ain't happy about that at all. But he stays calm. Or at least as calm as he ever was, back then. I mean, when you knew him, he'd quietened down too, so's you can imagine what he was like before. Fucking mental when he got on one. So she goes to a phone box and does the business,. comes back and everything's hunky dory. "Cool," she says. "They're holding. Give me half an hour," and off she flounces, wiggling her bottom and I can see John seething, but he doesn't say anything. So we're in the pub and John keeps looking at his watch, and after twenty minutes, he says "Fuck this," and goes to the phone too. Now the plan is,- he phones, goes in, susses out the situation and thirty minutes later I phone up too and go in with Martin and we take them down. Rip off what we can and split. Sweet as. But of course, as you know, plans can go wrong.'
