by Mark Timlin
‘I’ll set the dog on you unless you go.’
‘Don’t threaten me, son,’ I said. ‘Or I’ll tear your fucking dog’s throat out and feed it to you, fur and all.’
He jumped to his feet. ‘Go!’ he screamed and the dog started barking and strained at the leash the man was holding.
‘I’m going,’ I said.
‘And good riddance.’
‘Remember what I said. Just tell Mr Khan.’ I turned on my heel and went back out into the street.
17
I went back to the car and headed back towards Streatham. But as it was still early, and I needed to think, I didn’t take my turning home off the South Circular. Instead I let the car take me on through Dulwich and New Cross, out to Greenwich and the cemetery where my second wife, Dawn, our baby Daisy, and our friend Tracey were buried. I left the Mustang in the car park, bought a bunch of flowers from the stall by the gates and walked up the hill where their graves sat overlooking the River Thames and the Isle of Dogs beyond. It was cold and the river was running fast and the place was deserted.
I turned up my collar to the chill breeze, put the flowers between the graves and hunkered down beside them. ‘Hello girls,’ I said. ‘How are you today?’
I pulled some weeds that had pushed through the earth and tossed them on to the grass next to the graves. ‘Good,’ I said as if they’d answered. ‘Me? I’m all right too.’
I hadn’t been to the cemetery for a long time. Too long. Since before I’d met Melanie. ‘I’m not being unfaithful to you,’ I said to Dawn. ‘It’s just that I get so lonely without you. I need someone to talk to. It takes away the pain. I’ll always love you, darling, I’ll always love all three of you.’
And I knew that I would. Until the day that I died and was buried next to them up here where the wind blew hard from Russia and we could look at the river together for eternity.
‘I’ve got a case, Dawn,’ I said. ‘And I think it’s more complicated than it seemed. I get a feeling someone’s telling me porkies. If you were here you could help me work it out. Remember how you liked playing detective?’
But of course there was no reply and there never would be. Not really. Only in my head, which was the only place that mattered and I could talk to my three girls whenever I wanted to.
The clouds were moving fast in the big sky above me and the sun came and went and the temperature was falling. I stood up and lit a cigarette and shivered as the breeze took the smoke from my mouth. ‘I’ll come again soon,’ I said to them. ‘I promise. I’ll never forget you and I’ll never stop missing you.’
A boat passed by and whoever was standing on the deck waved in my direction. I waved back. ‘Wave to them, Daisy,’ I said to the daughter I’d never met who’d died inside her mother’s womb. ‘Wave to them, sweetheart.’ And I felt tears prick at my eyes as I walked back to the car with my hands in my pockets and drove home.
18
When I got back to the flat there was a message from Melanie on the ansaphone. I tapped out her work number, got put through to her extension and she answered, ‘Melanie Wiltse.’
‘Hello sweetheart,’ I said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing much here. Usual crap. You know. Whose turn to buy the coffee. You’re lucky you don’t work with other people. How was your day? Been busy?’
‘I went to see Paul Jeffries’ mum. She’s a nice woman. Been getting hassle from Khan’s sons. They busted down her door and threatened everyone including the cat, from what I can gather. And her house is being watched. By the local grocer if you can believe that. Looks like there’s more to all this than meets the eye.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll tell you when I see you. How about dinner tomorrow?’
‘OK. But I have to get some sleep. I can’t concentrate with a hangover.’
Christ! I can’t concentrate without one these days, I thought. ‘I’ll get you home by midnight Cinderella, I promise,’ I said.
‘What are you going to do next?’
‘Pour a drink.’
‘No. I mean on the case, stupid.’
‘Speak to Khan. Find out why he’s telling me lies. And I reckon I’ll have to go to Manchester soon, though I don’t fancy it much. All this started there. And there’s bound to be people up there who know what’s going on. I’ll just have to try and find them.’
‘When are you going?’
‘I thought about the weekend, maybe sooner.’
‘Can I come?’
I was surprised. ‘Do you want to?’ I asked.
‘It’ll be a break.’
‘A bore, more like. Wandering the streets of a strange town looking for people who might not exist. And in a strange community which won’t exactly welcome my questions with open arms.’
‘So you could use some company.’
‘Suppose so.’
‘Don’t sound so keen.’
‘Those sons of his sound a bit heavy. I don’t want to put you into harm’s way.’ I thought about Dawn and Tracey and Daisy again. That’s what I’d done to them. Put them into harm’s way and they’d ended up dead. I didn’t want any more deaths on my conscience.
‘I’ll play the little woman. Stay in the hotel and catch up on my knitting,’ said Melanie.
‘That doesn’t sound like you, Mel.’
‘I’ll try. Or maybe I’ll just go out shopping.’
‘That sounds more like it.’
‘So can I come?’
‘OK sweetheart. If you’re up for it. I’ll speak to Khan later. He did say he’d show me round. But I don’t know.’
‘What?’
‘Whether his idea of showing me round is just showing me what he wants me to see.’
‘You’ll manage. You always do.’
‘I’m glad you’re so confident in my abilities.’
‘Course I am.’
‘OK then, babe. We’ll talk about it over dinner. I’ll pick you up after work tomorrow. Round about six.’
‘I’ll look forward to it.’
‘Me too. Now take care and I’ll see you then.’
‘See you.’
I hung up and poured the promised drink, lit a cigarette, slumped down on the sofa and waited for the evening when I’d give my principal a call.
19
I waited until seven to phone Khan. I punched his home number into the phone and after three rings a woman answered. ‘May I speak with Mr Rajesh Khan, please?’ I asked politely.
‘Mr Khan is just sitting down to dinner,’ she replied.
‘This won’t take long, it’s just a small piece of business.’
‘He prefers to conduct his business during office hours.’
‘This is personal business. About his daughter Meena.’
I heard her catch her breath. ‘May I enquire who is calling?’ she asked.
‘My name is Sharman. Nick Sharman.’
‘I will see if he will speak to you.’
How kind, I thought.
She put the phone down with a clunk and I heard voices, then Khan came on. ‘Mr Sharman,’ he said.
‘Sorry to interrupt your meal,’ I said.
‘That is of no consequence. Jyoti is very protective.’
‘Jyoti?’ I said.
‘Our housekeeper. She has looked after us since my wife died.’
‘Right. I spoke to Paul Jeffries’ mother today.’
‘And?’
‘And your sons have been giving her a hard time.’
‘That was a mistake. You know what young men are like. Impulsive.’
‘Impulsive enough to threaten to kill Paul and Meena. Boys will be boys, is that it?’
‘Is that what she said?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘I�
�m not so sure, Mr Khan. She seemed like a decent woman, if scared half to death.’
‘I think you exaggerate.’
‘About her decency, or your sons’ threats?’
‘The threats, of course.’
‘I don’t think so, Mr Khan. And there’s a bloke called Patel runs a little shop on the corner of her street. Is it true that you’re having him watch her?’
‘Hardly. It happens that I know Patel’s brother-in-law. I may have mentioned something…’
‘Part of your network that stretches far and wide?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Paul and Meena won’t come calling while he’s watching.’
‘She’s heard from them then?’
‘Yes. It’s amazing what a few gentle questions will get out of people that breaking down their doors doesn’t.’
‘I told you, my boys are impulsive.’
‘Stupid I’d call it.’
He didn’t reply.
‘Mr Khan,’ I said. ‘I don’t like being lied to. And I don’t like people who threaten defenceless women. That has to stop, or else I send you back the money you gave me less one day’s fee, and I quit this job. Do you get me?’
He was silent for a moment then he said, ‘Yes.’
‘And call Patel off. I’ve already told him what will happen if you don’t.’
‘What?’
‘Something to do with feeding him certain parts of his dog’s anatomy.’
‘And you call my sons impulsive.’ I thought I almost heard amusement in his voice, but I might’ve been wrong. Probably was.
‘So will you tell him? I don’t know if he’ll listen to me, and I don’t want to have to go back.’
‘Very well.’
‘Good. We’re beginning to understand one another.’
‘Does Mrs Jeffries know where Paul and Meena are?’
‘I don’t think so. She obviously believes it’s safer if she doesn’t. And even if she does, she obviously isn’t going to tell me.’
‘So what will you do next?’
‘Go and find Paul’s brother. I hope you haven’t set the hounds on him too.’
‘No. I’ve already told you that.’
But you don’t always tell me the truth do you? I thought, but once again didn’t say it: ‘Just old ladies, eh?’ I did say. ‘Obviously your sons aren’t that impulsive. I’d like to meet them. I think I need to come up to Manchester. I’d like to talk to Meena’s friends. Somebody up there knows where she is.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so.’
‘When were you thinking of coming?’
‘Towards the end of the week. Thursday, maybe. During the day. By train.’
‘I’ll book you into a hotel. I can get a deal.’
I never doubted it for a moment. ‘Something in the city centre,’ I said. ‘Decent,’ I added.
‘I wouldn’t put you in anything less.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. And I’ll need a double room.’
‘A double.’
‘I’m bringing my trusty assistant.’
‘I thought you worked alone.’
‘Not always.’
‘I see.’
‘Don’t worry, Mr Khan, I’ll pay her fare. You’ll ring me with details of the hotel?’
‘Of course. We can have dinner on Thursday evening. You can bring me up to date with your progress.’
‘Sounds good. So I’ll see you on Thursday.’
‘You will.’
‘And Mr Khan.’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me handle this from now on. That’s what you’re paying me for.’
‘I will, Mr Sharman.’
‘And Mr Khan. One last thing.’
‘Yes.’
‘Enjoy your dinner.’ And with that I put down the phone.
20
Bright and early Tuesday morning I set off to find Paul Jeffries’ brother Peter. I went to the address Khan had given to me. It was in a tower block on a reasonable looking estate just outside Croydon. I was lucky all these punters lived in south London. The flat was on the fifteenth floor, but the lift was working so that was OK, and I rang the bell at exactly nine-fifteen by my trusty Rolex.
It was answered by a plump blonde with black roots, a short skirt, leggings, and a Crystal Palace FC sweatshirt. She was carrying a baby in her arms and a toddler peered at me from between her legs like he was worried I’d come for the rent. ‘Mrs Jeffries?’ I said, with a query.
‘I’m not married,’ she replied, with a sort of half scowl.
Sure, I thought, have a couple of kids but don’t make any commitment. That’s the millennium way. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Does Peter Jeffries live here?’
‘Who’s asking?’ Everyone was so suspicious these days.
‘My name’s Sharman. It’s about his brother.’
She snorted through her nose. ‘What’s he done now?’
‘Nothing really.’
‘Sure.’
‘Does Mr Jeffries live here?’ I asked again.
‘Yep.’
‘Is he at home?’
‘Nope.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘At work.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘On the new flyover.’ She jerked one hand at the view across Croydon Town and the South Downs beyond. ‘New Addington.’
‘I know it,’ I said.
‘Good. Then you won’t need to bother us any more,’ and she turned and slammed the door in my face. The last thing I saw was the solemn expression on the toddler’s face. Good luck, son, I thought. You’re going to need it.
I went back to the car and followed the signs for New Addington, until I came to a line of cars stopped at temporary lights beside a deep scar in the ground behind a wire fence that was covered with notices apologising for any delay to motorists, from the construction company that couldn’t care less if you were stuck in a traffic jam until Doomsday.
I followed the arrows for Site Traffic across an ocean of muddy clay and parked behind a skip lorry. I got out and picked my way through the slurry past yet another sign designating the site as a hard hat area. Deciding to take my chances against being brained by low-flying earthmoving equipment I headed for a pale green Portakabin wearing a handwritten notice that read: site office.
There were two young geezers lolling about outside drinking something from thick china mugs, both I noted wearing hard hats. One in acid yellow, the other a fetching pale blue. ‘Morning,’ I said as I slid to a halt in the mud.
Neither replied.
Good start, I thought. ‘I’m looking for Peter Jeffries,’ I said.
‘Who wants him?’ said Yellow Hat.
‘My name’s Sharman.’ I was getting tired of introducing myself. ‘I’m a private investigator.’
‘Blimey,’ said Blue Hat. ‘Just like on the telly.’
‘Not quite,’ I replied. ‘Is Mr Jeffries about? I won’t keep him long. I just want a word.’
‘About what?’ asked Blue Hat.
‘Is he here?’ I was getting tired of these two wankers.
‘Might be,’ said Yellow Hat. ‘What’s it about? Has he come into money?’
‘It’s private,’ I said. ‘That’s why they call me a private investigator.’
‘Blimey,’ said Blue Hat. ‘Sounds serious.’
‘Not really.’
Blue Hat rapped on the door of the Portakabin with his knuckles and shouted. ‘Pete. You’ve got a visitor.’
After a moment the door opened and an older version of the face in the photo on Mrs Jeffries’ mantelpiece stuck his red, hard-hatted head round the corner. ‘What?’ he demanded. ‘I’m on me break.’
‘Mr Jeffrie
s,’ I said. ‘My name’s Sharman. I’m looking for your brother.’
Jeffries smiled an ugly smile and slid between door and jamb. In his hand he was carrying a ball-peen hammer. ‘Is that right?’ he said. ‘You’re the cunt who was bothering my mum yesterday, aren’t you? I was half expecting you. You’ve got a fucking cheek. I’m going to teach you a lesson, mate. You’ll wish you’d never been born.’
Oh fuck, I thought. Why me?
21
The fight was similar to the way I’ve heard some people’s sex lives described – nasty, brutal and short. It should’ve been easy for them. The odds were stacked against me. There were three of them to my one, they were wearing protective headgear and heavy boots and one was armed. I was wearing soft shoes that slid on the muddy surface of the site, and I’ve still got one bad foot, even though I often forget about it.
But there were two problems for my assailants. One: they were too confident that they could take me, and two: I was determined not to be drinking my lunch through a straw in the Mayday Hospital for the next month, or worse, dead and buried inside a ton of concrete at the base of the New Addington flyover.
And they should’ve come in mob handed, but instead like the little gentlemen they were, they let Peter Jeffries make the first move. I half expected that. After all it was his fight and he had the hammer.
And he was going to hammer in the morning, hammer in the evening, all over this land.
He was a silly boy if he believed that.
He raised the tool and swung it at my head hard enough to put a round dent in my skull and finish the whole thing before it had even started.
No such luck Pete, I thought, as the heavy hammer whistled through the air and came close enough to ruffle my hair as I pulled my head back, let the weight of the tool pull him slightly off balance as I folded the fingers of my right hand back into my palm and straight-armed him under his chin with my knuckles.
I saw his eyes bulge and he choked on his Adam’s apple, dropped the hammer and put both hands up to his throat.
I scooped up the ball-peen and threw it hard at Blue Hat. I didn’t like his style. It hit him head first with a thud on his right shoulder and I imagined gave him food for thought and a dead arm.
