by Timlin, Mark
‘I want it,’ said John, as if I hadn't spoken. ‘I've been told to handle it myself. And that's over the head of the DI at Streatham. He's not well pleased. There's been a lot of talk about special treatment for an ex-copper who left the force under … how can I put it? Rather dodgy circumstances.’
‘I don't care how you put it John, just as long as Judith is safe.’
‘I hope the press don't get hold of this,’ he remarked.
‘Fuck them too.’
‘Alright, big man,’ he interrupted. ‘We all know how tough you are. Just do me a favour and shut up. Now I want to see you with the letter.’
‘Where?’ I asked. I'd rarely been able to impress John.
‘Right, do you remember when we used to go drinking in Waterloo?’
‘Yes.’
‘Remember the pub we used in the market?’
‘Yeah, the Spanish whatsname?’
‘That's right, The Spanish Patriot.’
‘Of course I remember it.’
‘Good, meet me there in an hour, and don't forget the letter.’
‘That's a bit of a rough old pub, isn't it?’
‘Who are you then? Little Boy Blue? It's not rough now. The brewery have done it up.’
‘It's not a continental style brasserie pub, is it?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘You're never happy are you? Of course it's not. That's hardly my style is it? It's fine, believe me. Be there in an hour.’
‘ Alright,’ I said, then he hung up on me too. I wondered why no-one said goodbye any more.
I pottered around for a while, washing up my breakfast things and making the bed. After half an hour of domestic chores, I got ready to leave the house. I put the letter in the inside pocket of a white, double breasted jacket, and as an afterthought, slipped the Colt Cobra into one of the side pockets. I hoped it wouldn't pull the material or leave any nasty, oily stains.
I felt in an even better mood knowing Laura and Judith were safe. I drove slowly and carefully to Waterloo, over Denmark Hill and down the Walworth Road. East Street Market was as busy as usual and I amused myself by looking at the South London girls in their summer dresses.
There were some real beauties about that morning. The sun had brought them out like exotic flowers. They were taking advantage of the glorious day by showing off their new schmutter. I felt a twinge of guilt about feeling so good. I'd seen an old friend mutilated not forty eight hours previously, but I could forget about him and enjoy the weather. That's just human nature. I'm not going to apologise for it. Nothing I could do would bring him back so I continued eyeing up the women on the street. My libido was back with a vengeance.
I got to Waterloo within the hour and drove down to Lower Marsh Market to meet John. The pub we used to drink in had always been a bit under the arm, but now it had been tarted up and turned into a ‘Victorian Parlour’, whatever the hell that was.
I parked neatly between two vans unloading goods onto the stalls.
Because the market sold mainly clothes and electrical items, it didn't really get started until lunch-time when the office workers came out to play, so there was still some space at the kerbside. I grabbed my jacket from the back seat and got out of the car. As I was locking up, a little guy in glasses sidled up to me.
‘You can't park that there,’ he said, with a disparaging look at the state of the the Pontiac. ‘There's somebody coming in to unload in a minute.’
‘There's room,’ I pointed out politely.
‘No mate, he always parks there.’
‘Tough,’ I made as if to walk away.
‘Yes mate, tough on you. He won't like it.’
‘Who is he then? King Kong?’ I asked. The little man didn't crack his face.
‘Worse,’ he said.
I knew what he was after. ‘Listen, son,’ I said, and reached into my jacket pocket for a quid to tip him to take care of the car. I knew the markets and it was worth parting with a coin for no hassle. As I fumbled in one pocket, the Colt dropped neatly out of the other and landed with a clatter on the pavement between us. We both stared at the gun on the ground for a heartbeat of time. Luckily there was no-one passing, and luckier still, because the Pontiac was left hand drive I'd exited on the pavement side and the bodywork of the car shielded the sight of the gun from the shoppers on the other side of the road. The little guy looked at the gun, then me, then the gun again. I thought he was going to salute.
‘Don't worry sir,’ he said. ‘You park here, I'll take personal care of your car. It'll be my pleasure.’
I nearly laughed out loud. I didn't know who looked the bigger twat, him or me.
‘Just make sure you do,’ I said, and bent down and scooped the pistol up, then tucked it into the waistband of my trousers. I put on my jacket and buttoned it to hide the gun from view. ‘Or I'll come looking for you.’
‘No problem, Guv,’ he said. ‘Trust me, leave it here for as long as you like.’ Then he turned and almost ran across the street. I would have to be more careful in future. The bloody gun could have gone off. I might even have shot myself in the other foot.
I strolled into the boozer. Things certainly had changed there. What had once been spit and sawdust, had been converted to oak and velour. I saw John straight away, sitting at the bar on a stool and reading the morning paper.
‘Hello John,’ I said. He looked up from his copy of The Sun. ‘Still reading the quality press, I see.’
John looked me up and down. ‘Christ Nick, what are you wearing? You look like a bloody waiter in that jacket.’ He stared at my feet. ‘Can't you wear your socks, who do you think you are? Boy George?’
‘Very satirical John,’ I replied.
‘What do you want to drink?’ he asked.
I opted for a lager top, and waited for the landlady to pull the pint. I could see what attraction the place held for John. The woman serving the beer was big and brunette. She must have stood nearly six foot tall in her heels. She possessed a voluptuous figure, well strapped in, but I could imagine what she looked like when she loosened her corsets.
‘Brenda,’ said John. ‘This is Nick Sharman, he used to be on the force.’
‘Charmed,’ said Brenda, with a big, red lipped smile. When she opened her mouth to speak, I noticed that her teeth were stained pink with lipstick.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘This place has changed since I was last here. What happened to Dot and Tom?’ I was referring to the couple who had run the pub when I used to visit it regularly.
‘They took a place by the sea,’ replied big Brenda. ‘A nice little retirement cottage in Bournemouth.’
She put my pint in front of me and John paid her. I took a sip of the sweet, cold mixture. Brenda would have continued chatting I'm sure, but John growled ‘Business,’ and led me over to a quiet table close to the door of the pub.
‘I can see what the attraction is here, John,’ I said. ‘I bet old Brenda puts it about a bit.’
‘I wouldn't know,’ replied John severely.
‘Oh yeah, I believe you. I bet you've had afters here a few times, and some main course too. What does she look like naked?’ I asked with a grin. ‘I reckon she's white all over. Is that her natural hair colour? She looks like she might be ginger to me.’
‘Shut up Nick, will you? I haven't got all day. Where's this letter?’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out the typewritten note. John took it from me, carefully by the edge of the envelope. A real pro.
‘I suppose you've put your dirty paw prints all over it?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, I suppose I have. At the time I didn't know it was evidence. I'm not psychic and I can't read through envelopes.’
John ignored my attempts at insolence, read the note carefully several times, then folded it neatly and put it into a plastic bag which he took from his pocket.
‘Have you heard from Laura?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘She called this morning, just before you did.’
‘Di
d she tell you where she was?’
‘No, she wouldn't say.’
‘Good.’
‘I suppose that was your idea?’
He said nothing.
‘Do you know?’ I enquired.
‘Yes.’
‘Great, they always say the husband is the last to know.’
‘You're not her husband, Louis is.’
‘Really John, thanks for the newsflash,’ I said petulantly.
‘Don't get uptight with me Nick, just because you're still in love with your ex-wife.’
I began to protest, but he cut me off with a sharp gesture of his hand. ‘There's no point arguing. I don't care one way or the other,’ he continued. ‘Anyway, you're wasting your time. I told her to tell no-one where she was, and that includes you. Especially on the ‘phone. He suddenly changed the subject. ‘Who do you think wrote the letter?’ he asked.
‘It's obvious,’ I replied. ‘The bastards I met in Brixton. The ones that gave me this.’ I put my hand to the back of my head.’ Any news on them by the way?’
‘Not a lot,’ John replied. ‘The whole place was covered in prints. Nothing we could use. It was just a crash pad and shooting gallery for every junkie in the area. You should have seen the state of the mattress in that girl's room.’ He made a face full of disgust at the human condition.
‘I went back,’ I said.
‘Did you now?’ He looked at me through slitted eyes. ‘You're a fucking glutton for punishment, aren't you?’
I went on, ignoring the look. ‘I met a bloke called Steve, who lived downstairs, on the ground floor at the back. He told me that Patsy Bright was into heavy dealing.’
‘Of what?’ John looked interested suddenly.
‘Serious stuff,’ I continued. ‘Skag and Charley, mainly.’
‘Was he stoned when he told you?’
‘Yes.’
‘There you go then. You're so gullible, you'll believe anything you want to believe. I went back too, yesterday, and the place was empty. Whoever you spoke to has done a runner. I suppose you frightened him off. Get a bit physical did you? That's about your speed. Beating up on wigged out junkies.’
‘Fuck me John,’ I said. ‘I can't do anything right, can I?’
‘Not a lot,’ he replied. ‘Just get innocent people into trouble.’
‘There are no innocent people left,’ I said darkly. I could feel a shadow over my previous good mood.
‘Where did you read that?’ he asked sarcastically.
I didn't bother to reply. We sat and drank and John lit a cigarette. After a minute had dragged its feet by, he spoke again. ‘I want you to lie low for a while. Leave all this to me and the force. You're becoming very unpopular again. I'm not joking. There's a lot of talk about giving you a taste of porridge. Memories are long down at the nick, and tempers are short. If it wasn't for the fact that I feel responsible for you, I'd let you sink. Now for the last time, stay cut of sight, and mind your own business. Your family is safe and you're off the Bright case. Can't you just vanish for a week or so? Go and visit your Mum or someone.’
‘Perhaps you're right, John,’ I said wearily. But I knew I was in until the bitter end.
‘Just do it,’ he said, and finished his drink with one swallow. ‘I'm off now, but I'll be in touch. It would be best all round if I can't find you.’
‘OK John,’ I said. ‘Take it easy.’
He stood and left the bar with a wave to big Brenda, who simpered back across the pumps.
As he went I realised I was beginning to wonder about him. He hadn't said one word about T S's murder. Not one word.
Chapter Twenty Three
I finished my drink slowly, thinking about what John had said to me. Eventually, I too left the pub. I received a brief nod from Brenda as I went. Obviously I wasn't her type. I went out into the hot street. The temperature was still rising, but I felt none of my previous good humour. The market was in full swing and more trucks had arrived to unload. The little man was standing by the Pontiac, directing traffic around it.
‘Perfect,’ I whispered into his ear.
‘Oh, hello Guv,’ he said with a start. ‘There you go, no one's blocking you in, see.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘No, no. It's my pleasure.’
‘What happened to the geezer who usually parks here, then?’ I asked.
‘He's alright, he's over there, well happy with himself. I put him straight,’ the little man said, gesturing vaguely in no particular direction.
‘See how easy it was,’ I remarked. ‘I'll look out for you again.’
His face went slightly green and he swallowed. ‘Anytime, Guv, you just find me and I'll take care of your motor. Robbo's the name.’
‘Alright, Robbo,’ I said, and bared my teeth in an approximation of a smile. I unlocked the Pontiac and climbed behind the wheel. I buckled myself into the seat harness, then started the car and it roared into life with the usual gush of black smoke from the exhausts. I put her into gear and drove slowly through the crowds.
Now before we go any further, let me explain a little of the geography of the Lower Marsh to those of you who've never done a bit of shopping down there. It's a fairly long, narrow thoroughfare that runs east to west between the back entrance of Waterloo Station and Westminister Bridge Road. It is split almost evenly into two one-way sections going in opposite directions. You can enter the street by car from either the Waterloo or the Westminister end, but it's impossible to leave the Marsh from either end legally. The only way out is down little Frazier Street, an extremely narrow little road, which acts as a filter from the market into Bayliss Road that runs roughly parallel with the Lower Marsh. Confused? Don't worry about it, so are most of the drivers who get caught up in the system. It's a bit like squeezing a cream doughnut from both ends at the same time. Everything shoots out of the middle.
I was driving from the Waterloo end of the street. I had to stop at a white line, then hang a left away from the market. Any cars coming from the Westminister end would be facing me. I noticed one in particular. A bright red Ford Capri with a power bulge on its bonnet was parked on the corner of the Marsh and Frazier Street. Two men were sitting in the front seats. With a shock I recognised them as the two white men from the Brixton squat. The blonde and flared trousers. The latter was in the driver's seat. They must have followed me from home. Whilst I was doodling through the traffic, trying to look up bimbos’ skirts, they'd been tailing me to see what I was up to. That was really going too far.
As I slowed to make my left turn, the fat man started the engine of the Capri. I pulled into Frazier Street and the Capri followed me. I drove slowly down the street which was only one car wide because of all the market cars parked by the right hand kerb. I kept one eye on the interior rear-view mirror and saw the blonde poke one arm and his head out of the passenger window of the red car. He was holding something in his hand. Suddenly the mirror on the Pontiac's right wing exploded with a crash of broken glass and twisted metal. The bastard had shot at me. So much for John's advice to lie low. Yes son, I thought, tell me about it.
I floored the accelerator of the Trans Am and felt her fish tail, then the wide drive wheels gripped the road and she took off like a rocket. I smashed the gear stick into second and swung left into Bayliss Road, heading east with a screech of rubber. The Capri was right behind me. I headed down towards the Old Vic and when I saw that the lights were green at the junction with Waterloo Road, I pushed the fast pedal even further to the floor. Charlie had warned me about the sluggish behaviour of the big car below forty miles per hour, but the car accelerated like a greyhound. I shot across the lights into the Cut. I snicked the gear lever into third and felt a satisfying response from the big engine. The Capri was close behind but losing ground. It was just like driving a squad car in the old days. I started to recite the road conditions out loud, as I had done when I'd been taking a police driving course.
‘Lights com
ing up,’ I said. ‘Red.’
I decelerated and banged the gear stick into second again. The car slowed without the benefit of brakes. With the sort of BHP that baby had, I didn't need to use them. The Capri came up fast behind me. I spun the power assisted steering wheel hard to the left to make a turn into the Hatfields to avoid stopping at the lights. I hit a puddle of water and spray covered the windscreen. Without thinking I pushed the wiper button to clear my view.
There was a Telecom van approaching me and blocking the road, so I powered up onto the pavement and screeched around it. I took a chance that no-one was coming around the blind bend under the railway bridge towards me, so I just hit the horn and prayed. Charlie had fitted one that played the first five bars of ‘Dixie’. What a wanker. Some twerp in a Datsun Cherry tried to pull out of Joan Street in front of me. I touched the horn again and saw his terrified face as he juddered to a halt, halfway across the road. The Hatfields was clear for half a mile in front of me. I accelerated through the gears and realised that I was fast approaching Stamford Street, which meant a continuous stream of traffic, unless someone was using the zebra which crossed the road just to the east of the junction towards which I was heading.
I could only see moving traffic in front of me. The Capri was tight on my tail again, and the blonde leaned out of the window and fired once more. I saw a puff of smoke and flame from the barrel of the gun in the mirror. Nothing seemed to hit the Pontiac, but I huddled down in my padded seat nevertheless. I wished for a miracle and slammed down on the brake pedal. The tyres caught, slid, then caught again. I could smell burning rubber in the car. I skidded to halt, broadside, at the end of the Hatfields, took a quick look to my right and saw a petrol tanker grinding towards the junction. It was just yards away when I banged the car into first and pulled into the tanker's path. I shimmied into Stamford Street and heard the blare of the tanker's klaxon, but I was away and accelerating. A quick glance into the inside mirror showed me just the grille of the tanker and the angry face of the driver through his windscreen. Suddenly the Capri shot past him and dropped in behind me again. Oh shit, I thought, but that fat bastard is a good stoppo. I saw traffic stalled at the roundabout ahead, so I spun the wheel to the right and swerved into Coin Street, scattering a trio of young women crossing the street. The rear end of the Pontiac broke away, but I righted it with a tweak of the wheel. The damned Capri followed me as if it was on rails. I turned left into Upper Ground by the National Theatre then left again and up the incline to approach the roundabout at the southern end of Waterloo Bridge. The Colt was digging into my stomach, so I pulled it from my belt and threw it onto the passenger seat. For once I longed to see the familiar white shape of a Rover squad car, but there's never a policeman about when you want one. There was a bang from the rear end of the Trans Am and I checked my mirror again. Blondie's aim was improving. I knew I had to do something, and fast. I remembered Charlie telling me about the strengthened panels he'd put into the Pontiac to go stock-car racing. I skidded through the traffic on the roundabout, narrowly missing a single decker red bus, and roared onto Waterloo Bridge.
