by Timlin, Mark
I should have asked George why I was his last chance.
I should have listened to my instincts.
I should have just let him cry.
Chapter Four
After George left. I drank another beer. I kept an eye on the office through the pub door, but no one else stopped by with any little jobs that I didn't want. If the telephone rang, I didn't hear it. When I had finished my drink I walked back to the office carrying the photos of Patsy Bright and her lacquered box.
At last the weather seemed to have broken. The sun was still shining brightly. I was grateful. In the warmth I walked with hardly any trace of a limp.
I sat down at my desk and put the box in the bottom drawer and locked it. I kept the envelope on the desk top. I looked at my watch, it said almost twelve.
I thought about the implications of telephoning John Reid. When I was on the force, we'd been as thick as thieves. In my case, quite literally. I'd been going to pieces for a while, drinking up a storm and hanging around with the kind of people police officers shouldn't.
John had covered me for months. He was a few years older than I was, and we had struck up a close friendship as soon as we had met. He liked a drink and we'd had some very good times together. Then I'd gone too far even for him. I ripped off some cocaine from a drugs bust.
I still went hot and cold thinking about it.
I was far down the river of no return at the time. I didn't even care that John was responsible for the evidence that I had misappropriated. The morning after my little heist both John and I had been on a target mission for a suspected armed robber. I was as high as a kite on the coke, drunk and hadn't slept for three or four days.
Perhaps you know what it's like. Everything takes on a translucent look. Nothing is real. Nobody matters, and paranoia scuttles around your feet like a hunchbacked, slimy rat. Too many cigarettes are smoked, too many drinks are drunk and the inside of your mouth is chewed to a bloody mess. Food is forgotten and families are ignored in the quest for speed. Speed is of the essence.
Just as we went in on the raid, who should turn up, but the regional crime squad from somewhere out in the sticks after the same guy on another fire-arms related charge. None of us knew what was going on, what with everyone tearing around dressed like extras from Minder and screaming at the top of their voices. Someone had fired his gun and an inter-officer gun fight started. The only person who knew that everyone was after him was our target. As long as he didn't top his mum, who shared the house with him, he was alright.
He didn't know if we were the law or not, and cared even less. It was like the ending of ‘Butch Gassidy and the Sundance Kid’. The villian came out of his bedroom wearing just his Y-fronts, brandishing two single action .45 Colt revolvers. He was blasting at anything that moved. The only thing we knew to our advantage was that he had no spare ammunition. There was no room in his jockeys.
I was stoned, I hadn't even drawn my gun. I was well out of position when it all happened, halfway up a metal fire escape at the back of the house. The target jumped straight over me from the first floor landing window. John Reid stepped out from the back porch and fired upwards. The bullet went straight through the sole of my Bass Weejun, broke several tiny bones and exited through the leather upper of the shoe in a shower of blood, skin and Argyll sock. I'll never forget looking down at the red mess as it burst all over my trouser leg. I felt no pain at the time. I was too well anaesthetized. John didn't even stop to see how badly I was hurt. It was another two officers who prised my fingers from the metal of the ladder to which I was clinging and carried me to a Transit van and away to hospital. Luckily, the slug flew off at an angle. If it had carried straight on it would have blown my balls off too. It was also fortunate that John was using standard home-office issue ammunition. No Teflon coatings or dum-dum cuts, and the bullets hadn't been dipped in shit or strychnine to make the wound go bad.
The target got clean away. Two other policemen were slightly wounded. The only result that we got was that we did the mum for receiving stolen goods. Not much to show for three weeks work.
I hadn't spoken to John since that day. He came close to losing his seniority, if not his job over the missing drugs. And now, here I was sticking my nose into something that was strictly his business. I pulled the ‘phone in front of me and dialled the familiar number. When the officer on the switchboard identified himself, I asked for Detective Sergeant John Reid. I recognised his voice when he answered.
‘Reid,’ he said.
‘Hello, John. It's Nick, Nick Sharman.’
‘Fuck me, what do you want?’
‘A little help.’
‘What's the matter. Lost your walking stick?’
‘Very amusing,’ I said.
‘I must say we never thought we'd hear your name again, but what happens, there you are in the local press this week. Can't you get a proper job?’
‘Leave the jokes out, John, I'm not in the mood. I need to know about Patricia Bright.’
I went straight to the offensive. Whether or not that was the right attitude to take, I didn't know.
He was silent for a moment, and I listened to the echos on the line. Then he asked, ‘Who?’
‘Patricia Bright, she's one of your cases. A missing person.’
I read him some of the details from the back of the photograph.
‘I remember,’ he said. ‘What's it to you?’
‘Her father has hired me to look for her.’
He was silent again for so long that I thought he'd cut me off. Finally he said ‘Jesus, he must he hard up.’
‘If he is mate, it's because he's lost faith in your lot to find her.’
‘Don't give me that shit, Nick. The little slut's hopped it to join her junkie mates.’
‘How do you know she's a junkie?’ I asked. ‘Have you seen her?’
‘No, but I've collated a report. I'm not stupid, Nick. It's obvious.’.
‘What put you onto drugs?’ I asked. ‘I didn't think her father had mentioned anything about them.’
‘He didn't, but he did tell me she mixed with a bunch of undesirables. I made some enquiries and found out she was into all sorts.’
‘What enquiries?’ I asked. ‘Who did you speak to?’
‘I don't think I should be talking to you,’ replied John
‘What you mean is, you haven't pushed yourself to find Patsy. Is that what you're saying?’
‘Don't piss me off, Nick. You know what it's like. She wrote him a note sometime later if I remember rightly, saying she'd be back. Bright brought it in and showed it to me. He admitted it was in her writing. We haven't got time to solve every family row. That's all it was, if you ask me. She's probably with some geezer fucking her brains out right now. If we did find her, she'd probably tell all of us, including her old man to get stuffed.’
‘Perhaps he shouldn't be denied the chance.’
‘You always were a wanker, Nick. What are you trying to do? Set yourself up on the old boy's savings. You always did have an eye for the main chance.’
‘No John, I've taken half a day's fee and that's all. I just thought I'd check on how our police force are spending the rates these days.’
‘You're a cheeky bastard Nick,’ said John. ‘I'm not your personal link into the police computer. You resigned remember? Just before you would have got fired.’
‘It was partly down to you, though, John, wasn't it?’ I was on sticky ground and I knew it.
Silence again. The line stretched like elastic.
‘Perhaps,’ he said grudgingly.
‘So you owe me.’
‘No chance. It was more your fault than mine. If you'd carried on like you were, always out of it, you'd have ended up shooting yourself.’
‘I doubt it John, but have it your way if you want.’ More silence
‘John?’
‘What?’
‘Could we meet and discuss the Bright girl. Perhaps you can bring your case notes.’
I was taking a risk asking.
He laughed without humour. ‘You've got two chances.’
He meant a dog's chance and no chance.
‘Let's meet for a drink then.’ I had to keep pushing.
‘I don't want to be seen with you.’
‘Alright, come to my place tonight.’
‘Not tonight, I'm busy.’ He seemed to be weakening. ‘Maybe over the weekend. Where are you living now? I heard your wife kicked you out.’
‘More than that John, we're divorced and she's remarried. I've got a little flat off the Norwood Road now.’
I gave him my home number and told him I had no plans for the next couple of days. In reality I had no plans for the rest of my life.
‘Ok, I'll get round if I can,’ he said reluctantly. ‘But no notes, and I don't have the keys to the evidence lock-up either. Remember? Where we keep the drugs.’
I was beginning to lose my patience.
‘I'm clean John,’ I said. ‘I don't even smoke cigarettes any more.’
‘Alright, I believe you,’ he said, quite obviously lying.
‘I'd appreciate it if you can come,’ I said finally.
The statement sounded oddly pathetic in my own ears.
‘We'll see,’ said John. ‘And if I do come, try to be straight, Nick. I don't want to waste my time.’
Before I could reply, he'd hung up. I held the dead receiver in my hand for a moment before replacing it on the cradle.
Chapter Five
First thing the next morning I decided to pay a visit to the photographer whose address was on the back of the copies of the shot of Patsy Bright that I'd been given. His studio was in Holborn.
I'd met some professional photographers before and I wasn't too keen, but I'll talk to anyone.
I pushed the car through the late rush hour traffic heading towards town. It was a 1972 E-Type jaguar hard top, with an automatic shift. I'd picked it up cheaply not long after I joined the police. It had been used in a smash and grab raid on a jewellers in Tooting. The thieves had underestimated the power that the V-1 2 engine poured into the drive wheels, and the driver had put it through a brick wall whilst trying to negotiate a sharp bend near Amen Corner. The beautiful bodywork had all but been destroyed in the crash. The owner had taken write-off value and I'd made an offer to the insurance company. At the time E-types were very unfashionable and they'd jumped at the money.
An old friend of mine in the motor trade had put her back into mint condition. She was sprayed in gleaming black cellulose with chrome wire wheels and white wall tyres. The interior was upholstered in red leather and I loved the vehicle to distraction. Although it had occurred to me that if I got into any serious surveillance work using a car, I'd have to invest in a nice little runabout as the Jaguar was, to say the least, rather conspicuous.
I ducked into the driver's seat and pushed a cassette of blue grass music into the jaws of the stereo. I drove off to the sound of Bill Monroe and his band booming through the speakers.
I soared over Blackfriars Bridge and into the narrow streets around Chancery Lane. I invested in an NCP ticket close to my destination and grabbed a cappucchino in a sandwich bar in the shade of the Prudential building. The studio was right next door to the cafe and I blimped several pretty girls carrying little cases and folders of photos as they picked at a light breakfast before work.
I paid for the coffee and strolled round to the old warehouse that contained the studios. There were a dozen or so photographers’ names listed on the board on the wall just inside the main entrance. The man I wanted was located on the third floor. There was no receptionist so I walked straight up. The stairs were narrow and hardly illuminated by the bare bulbs mounted in the brick ceilings. No trace of daylight filtered through from outside. The entrance to the third floor was through a pair of black wooden doors held shut by vicious springs. I forced the doors open and slid through the gap. An arrow painted on the wall directed me deeper into the building. It was cold and I shivered. As I walked down the corridor I bumped into a kid with a two-tone fringe and I asked him if Howard Mayles was around. He gestured with his thumb. ‘Through there,’ he said. I pushed through another set of double doors, this time painted pale blue and I could feel I was in the presence of genius.
The studio was vast, running down about a hundred feet. There were no windows. The room was high ceilinged and the light hardly penetrated, but I could make out water pipes and all sorts of odd pulleys and apparatus attached to the inside of the roof. The end of the studio where I entered was in semi-darkness, but the far end was brightly lit. Spotlights, some mounted on scaffolding, others in holders that looked like giant Anglepoise lamps shone down on to the floor which was covered with thick white paper. A backdrop depicting a Paris skyline was hanging at the back. Three tripods were facing the set. On each one was mounted a camera. Power cables ran across the floor and hooked into various pieces of equipment I didn't recognise. A bunch of people were huddled in conversation around a table which held a coffee machine, a midi hi-fi system and a big tub of ice with the necks of a dozen or so wine bottles poking out.
About halfway down the room on one side was a long table attached to the wall under a horizontal mirror surrounded by tiny light bulbs. The table was covered in cosmetics. In front of the table, sitting on high chairs were perched two models being made up by two girls who looked like they should have been models themselves.
I stood holding the door open for a moment before I let it close behind me with a crash. Every head in the room turned except mine. I just stood in the gloom looking in.
A tall, curly headed young face with a Japanese suit and a Bermondsey accent shielded his eyes against the light and shouted ‘This is a closed set.’
I just stood and said nothing. He stepped out of the glare and walked towards me. ‘Are you fucking deaf? I said this set is closed to visitors.’
I remained silent. He came up close and said, ‘You can't come in, we're working.’
‘I'm looking for Howard Mayles,’ I said.
‘Well you can't see him now. We're getting ready for a shoot.’
‘Which one is he?’ I asked again.
‘That's got nothing to do with it. Mr Mayles is extremely busy and can't be disturbed.’
‘Which one is he?’ I asked.
‘That's got nothing to do with it. Mr Mayles is extremely busy and can't be disturbed.’
‘Which one is he?’ I repeated.
‘Who are you?’ the young face asked. ‘If you're from client you really shouldn't be here. If you're looking for Clive, he's off with a bug and I'm standing in for agency. I'm sorry about my language before, but it's always a bit hectic at this time.’ He was backpedalling furiously. I had something to thank Clive's bug for. Obviously the face thought I was someone I wasn't. And I let him go right on thinking.
‘Don't worry son,’ I said. ‘Everyone makes mistakes.’
I walked past him and left him talking to himself. I went up to where the cameras were waiting to fire. The bunch of people had fragmented into individuals. There were four under the glare of the arc lamps. Three stood in a row facing me. On my left, a large, open pored woman in a check suit carrying a clip board. Her hair was dark, bobbed and greasy and she had a four inch ladder running up her left stocking from the ankle. Sloppy, I thought.
In the middle stood a very tall cat who looked like a chopstick in a business suit.
On my right, a dream in Italian knitwear and faded denim. He had bitten nails and a skin tone that screamed heavy coke habit. The pupils of his eyes were the size of eight-balls, but the dead give-away was the slight dusting on his upper lip where he hadn't wiped his nose after his last toot. He looked like a little boy who'd been at the iced cakes.
The fourth member of the party was a Chinese girl who was doing very complicated looking things to one of the three mounted cameras. She turned and smiled at me and asked. ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’
‘Deli
ghted,’ I replied.
Curly had re-appeared at my shoulder. ‘This gentleman's from client.’ He said. Everyone stood to attention.
I was glad I'd slid into something worsted and cut slightly baggy that morning, complete with pastel shirt and paisley tie. I like to look my best when impersonating a rich client. ‘Can I introduce you?’ Curly was the soul of politeness when he wanted to be.
Open pores was named Kathy something-something and was PR for some shit. Chopsticks was a copywriter, I didn't catch his name. Mister Hundred-A-Day-Habit was my man, Howard Mayles. The Chinese girl was Jackie, she fetched me a glass of cold duck.
Curly was Dominick, junior executive from BBD&W or some such initials. I wasn't listening. I wanted to talk to Howard.
Then we came round to me. I was saved by Prince of all people. Two tone fringe came back carrying a bag of what smelled like bacon sandwiches, dumped them onto the table containing the hi-fi, and switched it on. ‘Kiss’ boomed out of the speakers and I just smiled at Dominick when he tried to elicit a name from me. Dom stomped off to turn the music down and I sipped at my wine.
I took one of my cards from my inside pocket and presented it to Howard. He blanched at the sight of it. The volume of the music lowered. ‘I thought you were from client,’ said Howard.
‘I never said that,’ I replied.
‘Dominick!’ he shouted.
‘I'd like a word,’ I said.
‘What about?’
‘Patsy Bright.’
‘Who?’
I pulled a folded copy of her photograph from another pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Howard. ‘Her,’ I said.
He held it up to the light. ‘What about her?’ he asked.
‘She's missing from home.’
‘That's got nothing to do with me.’
‘Your name's on the back.’
He turned it over and Dominick arrived in a clatter of leather soles on parquet floor.
‘Get this man out of here,’ ordered Howard. ‘He's a detective.’
Old Dom turned a trifle grey. ‘A what?’ he asked incredulously.
