by Timlin, Mark
‘Where are they?’
‘I've told you I don't want you talking to them. I simply mentioned your name. Besides you don't seem to understand. I don't want you to do anything more about Patsy. I've told you that enough times already.’ He seemed to be getting more and more agitated with every moment that passed.
‘Stop fucking me about George,’ I said through clenched teeth. ‘I don't care what you want. It's what I want that matters now, and I want to see your staff, and if I don't get to see them -’ I didn't finish the sentence. I think I would have hit him if I had. ‘Where the hell are they?’ I asked finally.
I think George sensed my mood.
‘They're out delivering some machines. They won't be back until late this afternoon.’
‘Have you got a list of their calls?’ I asked. ‘I'll catch them up.’
‘They left early this morning. The drops were in Leicester. You'll never catch them now, come back later.’
‘Let me see their manifest,’ I demanded. I know bullshit when it's waved under my nose, and what George was giving me was 100% proof.
‘We don't work like that. I just give them receipts to be signed and the addresses to go to. They know most of the calls anyway. This is just a small firm.’
‘Have you got a list of your customers?’
‘Of course.’
‘Show me where they've gone and I'll call ahead.’
I didn't think he liked the idea, but he said, ‘Come on then, the book's in my office, downstairs.’
I followed George out of the same door as he'd used to enter the reception room, which led straight into a windowless storage area. We walked through and down a flight of stairs to the basement.
George led me down a bare corridor and through a door at the end. I found myself standing in a tiny office. It smelled of old chips and sweaty feet. George obviously put most of his profits into his own house and car, and onto his back. The walls were painted white and stained with nicotine. Close to the ceiling in one corner was a small, permanently sealed window glazed with dirty opaque glass. In the centre of the room stood an old, scarred desk with some papers and a telephone sitting on it. Behind the desk was an executive swivel chair, upholstered in some vague, grey, tweedy material. Next to the chair, hard up against the wall was an old fashioned metal safe. The only other furniture in the room was a battered filing cabinet made from dark green tin. On it stood an electric kettle, an assortment of chipped cups and mugs, and tea and coffee-making paraphernalia. The floor was covered with an off-cut of carpet, worn and ragged at the edges.
‘So this is the hub of your little universe,’ I said. ‘I'm impressed. It's just like home,’ I continued, letting an edge of contemptuousness enter my voice. George ignored it and went behind his desk and sat down. But then he's never seen my home. As there were no other seats to be had, I perched on the edge of the desk. He opened a deep drawer and produced a bottle of brandy and two misty glasses. ‘It's a bit early for you, isn't it George?’ I queried.
‘Have a quick one while I look up that ‘phone number for you,’ he said.
‘You mean you don't know it?’
He looked at me as if I was stupid. ‘Not off-hand. I've got lots of customers up there. It's here in the book.’
He drew a battered ledger from another drawer, opened it and flicked through the pages. He was either very clever or telling the truth. I poured a good measure of brandy into each glass as he searched. ‘Right,’ he said, pulled the ‘phone in front of him and started to dial.
‘Let me do that,’ I said.
He passed me the book and pointed to the name of a club in Leicester. I dialled the number and listened to the ringing tone. After three rings the inevitable answerphone cut in.
‘Very good George,’ I said. ‘It's another fucking machine.’
‘That's the way it goes,’ he replied, glancing at his watch. ‘No-one ever answers in clubs at this hour. They'll be shut, and some barmen or other will be sitting, sampling the booze and waiting for the delivery. I do my business during licensing hours. What did you expect?’
I couldn't work out if he was taking the rise out of me or not. I slammed the ‘phone down on the mechanical voice and got to my feet. ‘Write the number down for me,’ I ordered. He copied it out onto a scrap of paper as I finished my brandy. ‘I'll try again later. If I can't get through, I'll come back here. You'd better tell your people to hang on for me, or else things could get ugly.’ I didn't quite know what I meant by that, perhaps I'd wear a gorilla mask.
‘Fine,’ said George, quite unfazed. ‘I'll do that.’
I followed him to the front door. We paused briefly to say goodbye. George was on the step above me. It made him taller than me. I didn't like that. George smirked slightly as he began to close the door. I thought I'd get a quick one in below the snakeskin belt he was wearing. ‘I spoke to one of Patsy's friends the other night,’ I said. George blanched until his face was the same colour as his suit. He said nothing.
‘I tracked him down to where he used to share digs with Jane Lewis. You remember her don't you? You saw her body in cold storage on Monday afternoon.’
‘I remember,’ said George.
‘He seems like a nice boy,’ I continued. ‘The way he tells it, it was just two kids trying to make their way in the world together, sharing a squat in picaresque old Brixton Town. Just them and every other doper around. And who was supplying the goodies? Why sweet little Patsy Bright. That's who.’
I made as if to leave.
‘What?’ spluttered George, his hands working themselves into fists. I turned back. ‘He told me Patsy was a dealer, a very big dealer in very hard drugs.’
I thought George was going to faint or hit me, or both. ‘Have you told this preposterous story to anyone else?’ he demanded.
‘I might have mentioned it.’
‘Now see here Sharman,’ he said, and hustled close to me. Too close. His breath was full of brandy and anger, or was it fear? ‘You make that allegation to anyone else and I'll see you in court. Patricia was a good girl.’ He paused. ‘Is a good girl,’ he went on, correcting his tense. ‘And I won't have you blackening her name.’
He raised his hands still clenched into fists. They were the size of small cauliflowers. I realised that George must have once been quite a heavy geezer. I wondered if he'd run with any of the famous South London gangs of the fifties.
He unclenched one fist and put his hand on my shoulder. It weighed heavily. His face had gone from grey to livid red. I thought he must have read my mind when he said. ‘Don't underestimate me Sharman. I might not be all that now, but once …’ He left the sentence unfinished as if I was going to be impressed. I felt sorrow more than anger. I couldn't be bothered by more threats. I'd been threatened by the cream.
‘Lay off George,’ I said, shrugging his hand off. ‘It's too late. You'll have to do more than serve papers to stop me.’
‘I'll - ‘ he said. I never found out what.
‘No you won't,’ I interrupted. I turned and walked back to the car. George remained on the steps of the warehouse and watched me go. I glanced back as I unlocked the car. He looked like an old man all of a sudden. I wondered when that would happen to me, when some jack the lad would ignore my threats and just walk off in disgust, too confident that I was bluffing to even worry about turning his back. I got into the car and drove off. George's figure shrunk in my rear view mirror until it disappeared completely as I turned the corner.
I drove straight back to Tulse Hill, dumped the car outside the pub and checked the office. No mail, no nothing. Another storm was grumbling in the sky somewhere to the east.
I was at a loose end again. I went to the pub and drowned a few sorrows. Not enough, there wasn't a bottle big enough. I left the office door open and hung around outside the pub in the sunshine with the rest of the unemployed. The hours stretched and I wondered where my ex-wife and daughter were. I wondered where Patsy Bright was. I wondered about the mean
ing of life and lots more. I felt about as useful as a tailor in a nudist camp.
I kicked my heels through the lunchtime, watching the other drinkers come and go. I was becoming a fixture. I didn't drink too much, spacing out the bottles of beer like milestones on a long, straight road to nowhere. Around three I heard the telephone on my desk ringing. I ran across the road and scooped up the receiver. It was John Reid. There were no preliminaries. He got right to the point. ‘What the fuck have you been doing?’ he demanded.
‘Drinking beer,’ I replied,
‘Not today, yesterday.’
‘Drinking beer,’ I said.
‘Get serious Nick, you prat. I told you to keep your head down didn't I?’
‘You mentioned something like that.’
‘Then who was it chasing through Waterloo yesterday, endangering the public and shooting, for God's sake? Where the fuck do you think you are. New York?’
‘I wasn't shooting, and I wasn't doing much chasing.’
‘So it was you,’ he said.
‘Listen John,’ I cut in. ‘No sooner had I left you than those bastards who've beaten me up, tried to frame me for all sorts and threatened my own daughter, start using me for target practice. I wasn't about to stick around and reason with them.’
‘Can't you stay out of trouble for five minutes?’
‘It doesn't look like it. Did you get them by the way?’
‘No, but we got the remains of their motor. Talking of motors there's an anti-terrorist squad looking for that stupid thing you're driving, right now.’
‘It's parked here,’ I said.
‘I should tell them that.’
‘Why don't you?’ I asked.
‘The same reason I haven't told them anything. They don't know it was you or you'd be banged up by now.’
‘What reason?’
‘Old time's sake, I guess,’ he replied.
I didn't say a word.
‘And Nick.’
‘Yes.’
‘I heard it on the grape-vine that there's a contract out on you.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ I asked.
‘No, you've upset some heavy people, being busy.’
‘I haven't done anything.’
‘Look, I can't talk now. I'm snowed under. I get the feeling that people are finding me little jobs to keep me away from you. There's nothing I can do now. So take my advice and drop out of sight tonight. Get right away from the manor. I'll call you tomorrow morning and we'll get together and sort this out once and for all. Can I trust you to do that?’
‘I've got to see George Bright this afternoon,’ I said.
‘Stay away from him,’ said John exasperatedly. ‘He's bad news. You'll get yourself killed if you're not careful.’
‘Like Terry?’ I asked.
‘Who?’
‘Terry Southall,’ I said.
There was a long pause.
‘Of course, you knew him didn't you?’
‘Come on John, you know I did.’
‘I'm sorry Nick, it never occurred to me.’
‘Who did it?’
‘We don't know. At least I don't think we do. It's not my case, but I'll have a word and give you the full SP tomorrow morning.’
‘What time?’ I asked.
He thought for a moment. ‘Tennish,’ he said.
‘I'll be here. Have you heard from Laura?’
‘Yes, she's been in touch.’
‘Not with me she hasn't.’
‘I told her not to. Anyway you're not exactly flavour of the month.’
‘So what's new?’ I asked. ‘Is everything all right with them.’
‘Of course it is. Don't worry, they're well out of harm's way. Just keep a low profile tonight. There's a few cowboys who'll be cruising around looking for you after dark.’
‘Who's put out the contract, do you know?’
‘Tomorrow, Nick. I'll find out everything by tomorrow.’
‘Do they know where I live?’
‘It's no secret, is it?’
‘I guess not.’
‘Then get out of town Nick,’ he said. ‘Come back tomorrow and I'll call you.’
‘I'll be here.’
He said goodbye and hung up. I pushed the button down on the ‘phone and when I got a tone, dialled Bright Leisure. No answer, no answerphone. That slippery bastard was giving me the runaround.
I thought that a quick trip to Herne Hill wouldn't be too dangerous so I locked up and drove down to George's warehouse.
The whole place was as tight as a drum. I tried to call him at home from a callbox that worked, or nearly. There was a notice stuck to the mirror in the box that said that the telephone was only in service for emergency calls. I got the operator and after pleading with her for what seemed like hours she connected me with George's number. No answer there either. George Bright had gone to ground. Now it was my turn.
Chapter Twenty Six
I wasn't going home. I had a strange feeling down my spine that I'd have visitors if I did. But my choices of where to spend the night were strictly limited. I just didn't know anyone any more, not anyone I could trust. I looked in my notebook where Teresa had written her address. She'd said I'd be welcome any time, and now was any time as far as I was concerned. I decided to pay her a visit, unannounced. She'd probably be out, but what the hell. The only thing was, I didn't want anyone else to tag along. I climbed back into the Trans-Am, switched on the ignition and waited for the engine's note to sink from a howl to a subdued rumble. I slipped the car into gear and drove away from the kerb. I swung the car into the flow of traffic and headed towards Streatham. I drove across the lowlands of the South Circular, going north, but turned off at Clapham and dropped down Lavender Hill towards the junction. I constantly checked in my mirror as I drove, but couldn't make out if I was being followed. I nicked a space on a single yellow line at the back of Arding & Hobbs and went through one of the rear doors into the store. I loitered about just inside, but didn't see anyone who looked suss, just a few shoppers coming and going. One or two gave me funny looks but I just shrugged and grinned inanely back as if I was waiting for the wife to turn up loaded with Marks & Sparks carriers. After a few minutes I began to wander through the shop, taking it slow and easy like any innocent punter looking for a new pair of strides or a top up in the after shave stakes. I passed by one of the front doors leading out to St John's Road and checked the cab rank on the corner. There were a couple of black cabs waiting for the commuter travellers from the station. I let my eyes rove around the shop. Everything looked clean. I pulled a tenner from my back pocket and palmed it. I pushed through the glass doors and dodging a 37 pulling up at the bus stop legged it across the street. I quickened my pace, gauging the green lights and dived through the traffic towards the central reservation where the cabs were parked. I pulled open the back door of the first in the rank and collapsed into the back seat. The driver dropped his paper and half turned.
‘Drive,’ I said.
‘Where to, mister?’ he asked.
‘Just drive,’ I said, leaning forward and pushing the tenner through the partition into his hand. ‘I'll tell you where.’ He crashed the gears as we pulled abruptly into the traffic. ‘Straight on,’ I said.
‘What's up then?’ he asked out of the corner of his mouth as we headed back up the hill.
‘Wife trouble,’ I replied.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah, someone elses.’
‘Gotcha,’ he said with right good humour and cut up a brewery truck. I turned and checked the cars behind us. All seemed OK.
‘Left here,’ I said. He swung the taxi through an amber and down towards the river. No-one followed. ‘Take a tour,’ I instructed. ‘Up to Vauxhall, then back to Stockwell, and if you jump a few red lights I won't mind.’
‘It'll cost.’ I could tell he was getting into it.
‘No problem,’ I told him. The cockle's just a sweetener.’
‘You got it,’ h
e said.
‘And if you don't mind,’ I went on.
‘What?’
‘No conversation, I need to think.’
‘No probs, mate, I'll be as quiet as the grave.’
The cab sped down Queenstown Road, round the roundabout and snaked up to Vauxhall Cross. The driver pushed it through some back doubles, down a couple of mews I didn't even know existed and, after a brief stop under a railway bridge by a building site hidden behind an overflowing skip, drove serenely down as far as Stockwell Tube. He was good, I'll give him that, and he knew it. I gave him another tenner when he dropped me off in Larkhall Lane. ‘If her husband was after you we've lost him now,’ he said with a grin as he pocketed the cash.
‘Cheers,’ I said.
‘Take care,’ he replied as he drove away. ‘And be good.’
I stood for a time in the empty street then turned and pushed into the deserted public bar of the pub behind me. I ordered a lager and wedged myself on the battered vinyl of a corner seat and watched the door. No one came in until I'd almost finished my second drink, and then it was just a pensioner with a stick and a seedy old dog on a piece of string instead of a lead. I relaxed a bit after that and had another drink and a listen to the jukebox. Yeah, ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ was on that one too, but I didn't select it. The address Tess had given me was two or three streets down from where I was sitting but I waited until a group of likely lads came piling into the pub before leaving. I walked down the lonely streets under a dark and treacherous sky. It looked and felt as if another storm was in the air. I didn't know if it was that or me that made the air feel so tense and static. The street lights clicked prematurely on as I passed, forging a lighted path for me through the murk.
Chapter Twenty Seven
I knocked on her door around nine thirty, quarter to ten. There was a soft light behind the deckled glass, but no sound. I knocked again and leant back against the brickwork of the porch. I heard the soft pad of feet before I saw a diffuse shape appear. She opened the door on a safety chain. ‘Hello Tess,’ I said.
