by Mark Timlin
‘So what’s the point of our meeting, Henry?’ I said. ‘Got no one to talk to? No one to buy you a drink?’ I didn’t want to antagonise him, but I was close. In fact the more I thought about it, the less I cared if I did antagonise him. He was no good to me. And not much use to himself as far as I could see.
‘You’ve got black mates ain’tcha?’ he said.
‘I have had.’
‘They’re not real though, are they? Even their own kind call ’em coconuts. Black on the outside, white inside.’
I shrugged. ‘So what?’ I said.
‘So nothing. I’ve seen ’em. Black mates and white mates having a right good time. But it ain’t real.’
I decided to change the subject before Henry annoyed me more and I shoved his whisky glass up his nose. My body still ached and I wasn’t in the mood.
‘So would you help Paul if he came to you?’
‘Course I bloody would. He’s a mate.’
‘Even though you disagree with what he’s done.’
‘I told you. He’s a mate.’
Maybe he did know something and he was just a bit slow at getting round to it. ‘That’s good, Henry,’ I said. ‘I like that. A man who’s loyal to his friends. And his mother?’
‘What about her?’
‘You’d help her too.’
‘Sure. She’s one of the best. A diamond.’
‘But she’s not asked.’
‘No.’
‘How about his brother Peter?’
‘I told you, I don’t like the geezer.’ He looked at my black eye and smirked. ‘Met him, have you?’
‘A passing acquaintance.’
‘He done that?’
I nodded.
‘Looks like you didn’t get on.’
‘You could put it like that.’
‘A ruck?’
‘We had words.’
‘You come out best?’
‘More by luck than judgement. How do you know?’
‘If you hadn’t you wouldn’t be walking today. Watch out. He bears a grudge.’
‘I’ll remember that. Now getting back to Paul. You know why I’m interested?’
‘Her old man’s hired you to find them.’
‘Correct.’
‘Yeah. Mum told me.’
‘Mum?’
‘That’s what I call Mrs J. Always have done. My mum died.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. I was just a nipper.’
‘I’m not out to harm Paul.’
‘That’s what Mum said.’
‘So if you do hear…’ I left the rest unsaid, then added, ‘It might be worth your while.’
‘Well I could certainly use the cash. The dole don’t go far these days.’
‘What do you do?’ Not that I was interested.
‘Anything. But there’s too much cheap labour about…’
I cut him off before he started to tell me why. I knew where he was coming from. ‘So bear it in mind,’ I said. ‘A bit of dough can’t hurt. You’ve got my number.’
He nodded and looked morosely into his glass. ‘Another drink?’ he asked.
‘No thanks,’ I replied. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
‘Wish I had,’ he said. ‘And I meant another drink for me, not you.’
I called for a pint and another whisky for him. ‘You’ll find something,’ I said as I waited to pay.
‘Fat chance.’
‘Well I’ve got to go,’ I said. ‘Ring me if anything turns up.’
‘I’ll do that,’ he said, and I emptied my glass, slid off my stool and went back to the car.
26
When I got back home I called Khan at his business number. He answered himself. Democratic guy. No office version of Jyoti to run interference. Or maybe she was in the loo. ‘Sharman,’ I said.
‘Ah Mr Sharman. How are things progressing?’
‘I’ve got a mouse under my eye if that’s any use to you,’ I replied.
‘A mouse?’ he queried.
‘I had a run in with Paul Jeffries’ brother. He brought a couple of friends to the party.’
‘What was the upshot?’
‘Like I said, I got a black eye, but they came off second best.’
‘I’m delighted. It shows that my faith in you was justified.’
‘I was lucky. Apart from that, nothing. I need to come to Manchester. See a few people like we discussed. I’ve run out of people to talk to down here.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow would be good.’
‘Very well. I’ll organise a hotel. A double room, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s right. I expect to arrive in the afternoon. Then we can meet for that dinner you promised. Meanwhile if you could smooth the way for me to speak to Meena’s friends.’
‘I’ve told you, I’ve already spoken to them, and they know nothing.’
‘It doesn’t hurt to speak to them again. Maybe they’ll find it easier to talk to a stranger. You know how it is.’
‘Indeed I do.’ He sounded resigned. ‘Very well, Mr Sharman, if you insist. I’ll do my best, but as I told you I don’t think it will be easy.’
‘I’m sure you’ll manage, Mr Khan. With all your clout, what could be easier?’
‘I’m glad you have faith in me, Mr Sharman.’ He was icily polite.
‘Just as you have in me, Mr Khan. I’ll leave the details in your capable hands then.’
‘I’ll get back to you within the hour with the reservation details.’
‘I’ll be at home.’
‘Good. We’ll meet tomorrow then.’
We made our farewells and hung up. Next I called Melanie at work. ‘I’m off to Manchester tomorrow until the weekend. Still want to come?’
‘Sure.’
‘Can you get the time off?’
‘Just watch me.’
‘Fine.’
She hesitated for a moment.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I was just wondering if I had enough clothes at your place for the trip.’
‘You’ve got enough clothes at my place for a fortnight in the West Indies,’ I said.
‘Is that a problem?’
‘No.’
‘Good. I’ll take your word for it. Have you got a bag I can borrow?’
‘You use mine. I’ll just stick a few things on top.’
‘Nick, you’re great.’
‘And don’t you forget it. Khan’s organising a hotel. I’ll check the train times.’
‘And I don’t have to do a thing.’
‘Just be here.’
‘Count on it.’
She arrived at six as full of excitement as a five-year-old going to the seaside. ‘It’s only grungy old Manchester,’ I said.
‘We’ve never been on holiday together before,’ she said as she started tossing clothes into my old leather holdall.
‘Who said this was going to be a holiday? And leave a bit of room for my stuff,’ I protested.
‘Don’t be such a killjoy. There’s some plastic bags under the sink for when this is full.’
‘And guess whose clean shirts will go in them?’ I said.
‘Oh Nick, get a grip,’ she said. ‘It’s going to be fun. Have you booked our tickets?’
‘Of course.’
‘And where are we staying?’
Khan had rung back with the details and I read them off the piece of paper I’d jotted them down on. Of course she was none the wiser, as was I.
‘Sounds all right,’ she said.
‘Four star. Nothing but the best for the visiting detective and his trusty assistant.’
‘You’re great, Nick,’ she said again, giving me a big h
ug. ‘Now what are we going to eat?’
27
We caught the twelve-ten to Manchester on first class tickets with a lunch reservation. Not bad. At least Melanie was impressed even if I wasn’t.
‘The food’s probably crap,’ I said as we settled down. Me with the Telegraph crossword and Mojo, and her with OK! and Hello! magazines.
‘It’ll be great,’ she said as the train slowly pulled out of Euston into the inner city hell where passengers can look through other people’s windows and thank God they don’t live like that.
‘If you say so,’ I remarked, and settled down with eight pages on Jimi Hendrix and she checked out Phil Collins’ new gaff in Switzerland.
We went to eat at one, after I knew all I wanted to know about touring America in the 1960s, and she was au fait with the singing drummer and his new, young girlfriend’s choice of wallpaper.
As it goes the lunch wasn’t bad. Soup of the day was leek and potato, followed by lamb cutlets in a port sauce with dauphinoise potatoes and finishing with apple crumble and custard. Melanie passed on the crumble and had fruit sorbet.
‘My tummy’s getting too big,’ she said by way of explanation.
‘Looks all right to me,’ I said, which is always the right thing to say to women, I’ve found in my little life.
‘I’ve finally come on,’ she confided.
‘It’s arrived at last,’ I said.
‘Don’t sound so relieved. Don’t worry, I’m not pregnant.’
‘I never thought you were.’
‘There was a bit of a haunted look there for a minute though.’
‘Not on your life,’ I said.
We lingered over coffee and brandy and had only just got back to our seats when we got into Manchester Piccadilly station.
It was raining by then. Big surprise.
We caught a cab at the station to the hotel that Khan had booked for us. It wasn’t a long journey but I saw from the taxi window that Manchester had changed since my last visit. The architecture was new and modern, not like I remembered. The city was trying for the new century, but then Manchester was always trying for something and failing. The hotel was located in an old insurance building where the foyer was massive and the rooms were small. But the bed was big enough, there was a whirlpool bath and a minibar which I raided for one of the half-bottles of champagne that nestled there. There were a lot of old photographs of the place as it had been, framed and screwed to the wall, presumably to deter insurance buffs. The foyer was where the bulk of the business had been done, hence the size, and I imagined the rooms were where the burghers of Manchester had plotted and planned.
‘You’ll have me drunk,’ said Melanie as we toasted each other with the bubbly whilst Sky News buzzed on the TV in the background.
‘That’s the idea,’ I replied.
‘Don’t forget I’ve got my period,’ she said as she evaded my wandering hands.
‘That doesn’t stop us having a cuddle, does it?’ I said.
‘Business before pleasure. Hadn’t you better call your client?’
‘S’pose so,’ I said and rang his office.
This time a woman answered and put me through when I identified myself. ‘We’re here,’ I said.
‘Did you have a good journey?’ Khan asked.
‘It was fine.’
‘Is your accommodation satisfactory?’
‘Can’t complain.’
‘Good. Now what I suggest is that we meet later for dinner at one of my restaurants. I’ll have one of my men collect you at seven if that is to your liking.’
‘Sounds all right to me,’ I said. ‘Seven it is.’
‘Very well. We’ll discuss your itinerary then. Meanwhile I hope that you’ll enjoy your first day in Manchester.’
‘I’ll do just that,’ I replied, put down the phone and reached for Melanie.
This time she didn’t try to evade me.
28
So it was that we found ourselves, washed, dressed and with hair neatly combed, in the massive foyer of the hotel listening to a pianist playing Barry Manilow’s greatest hits as the clock struck seven on a nearby tower and our driver arrived.
I had been expecting one of Khan’s large, silent friends who’d been with him in London, but this bloke made them look like midgets. Although the foyer was huge he fitted it perfectly, almost filling the double doors as he came in and standing at least six foot five in his shiny suit, which was stretched almost to splitting point by his massive shoulders and arms, and he was wearing a turban in the colours of Manchester United Football Club.
‘Could be our mentor and guide,’ I said to Melanie as he entered and scoped the room.
‘Or else he’s got the biggest minicab in town.’
‘Biggest something that’s for sure,’ I said.
‘Don’t be dirty.’
He spotted us and cocked his massive head and I knew it was us he’d been looking for.
‘Looks like it’s going to be a fun evening,’ I said as I rose to greet him.
‘Sharman?’ he said when I looked up into his face. It was a long look, like The Statue of Liberty from the Staten Island ferry.
‘Correct,’ I replied.
‘Rajah,’ he said.
‘Melanie,’ I said by way of introduction to my companion. ‘Meet Mr Rajah.’
‘Just Rajah,’ he said.
‘Pleased to meet you, Rajah,’ she said.
He grunted. ‘Car’s outside.’
‘Then let’s party on down.’ That was me.
A black Mercedes with tinted windows was parked on double yellows outside the hotel and Rajah pulled open the back door for us. ‘Cheers,’ I said.
Another grunt was all I got in reply.
‘Chatty,’ I remarked to Melanie as we slid across the mustard-coloured leather upholstery in the back of the car.
‘That’s all right. I hate cabbies with too much to say,’ she said.
‘Maybe you’d better not let him hear you call him a cabbie,’ I warned.
‘I’ll remember that, Nick.’
Rajah got into the driver’s seat, started the car and pulled swiftly into the traffic. As he went he pushed a CD into the jaws of the player and if I was expecting more Ravi Shankar I was going to be bitterly disappointed. Instead, after a second I recognised a tune from the seventies. Some Girls, by Racey. A glam rock anthem. I pulled a face at Melanie. She pulled one back. When it finished it was followed by Ballroom Blitz by the Sweet.
I leant forward and said, ‘You get off on this music, Rajah?’
He glanced round. ‘Yes I do. I used to bodyguard The Glitter Band,’ he said. ‘Any objections?’
‘Not me,’ I replied. ‘This is just fine.’ Then to Melanie, ‘Funny old world.’
29
It was getting dark by then and the lights of Manchester were bright in the twilight. ‘Not much like Coronation Street, is it?’ said Melanie as we drove.
‘I don’t think anything is,’ I remarked as the Sweet finished and Mr Soft by Steve Harley came on the speakers.
‘A glitter fest,’ I said under my breath. I didn’t want to upset Rajah. I had a feeling he could cave in my chest with one fist. In fact I knew he could, and I’d had all the knocks I wanted for the time being.
It was only a short drive to where we were going, maybe fifteen minutes but by the time we got to our destination we’d had a quick lesson in what was hot on the charts between 1972 and the end of the decade.
Rajah pulled the car to the kerb outside a restaurant called the Eastern Promise, killed the engine, pushed open his door, eased himself out of his seat and opened the back door for us. Very polite. Mr Khan obviously instilled the right attitude in his employees.
I got out and helped Melanie on to the pavement and Rajah said, ‘Mr Khan is insi
de.’
‘Thank you,’ Melanie and I chorused and we pushed through the door of the restaurant into the warm smell of herbs and spices and the embrace of a young Asian in a deep purple tuxedo, lilac shirt and pink bow tie. ‘Lady and gentleman,’ he trilled. ‘What is your pleasure?’
I didn’t elaborate. Instead said, ‘I believe Mr Khan is expecting us. My name is Nick Sharman.’
‘Mr Sharman and lady,’ he carolled. ‘Of course, Mr Khan is waiting.’ He clapped his hands with joy and bowed us through to a large table at the back next to an aquarium full of fish with faces as long as Tory politicians on the last election night. Khan was sitting alone, and rose when he saw us arrive.
The manager pulled out chairs, got us all seated and popped napkins on our laps before he said, ‘Something to drink, sir, madam. Mr Khan, sir?’
‘A beer,’ I said, Melanie nodded agreement, Khan shook his head, and the manager walked fluidly towards the bar.
‘Good evening,’ said Khan. ‘Forgive Ronit. He gets carried away when the boss is in.’
‘He knows which side his nan bread is buttered then,’ I said.
‘What a shame you don’t, Mr Sharman,’ said Khan. ‘But then I’m getting used to that.’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I’m beginning to enjoy this job more and more as every day passes. Even getting beaten up is a pleasure when I’m in your employ, Mr Khan.’
Khan sucked air through his teeth. ‘I never know when you’re joking, Mr Sharman. And I don’t believe I’ve ever been introduced to your… assistant is it?’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Melanie Wiltse this is Mr Rajesh Khan. My principal and employer and the kind benefactor of our trip to Manchester. And Mr Khan, I think I may have exaggerated the assistant part.’
‘I saw you at Ravi’s restaurant in Streatham, Miss Wiltse,’ said Khan as our beers arrived. ‘And I cannot blame Mr Sharman for mixing business with pleasure.’
‘Melanie please,’ said Melanie, colouring slightly.
‘And she will be taking notes,’ I explained. ‘She knows why we’re here, in fact she convinced me to take the job. And of course anything you say to either of us is confidential.’
‘Of course,’ said Khan. ‘So I’m indebted to you, Melanie. And I’m truly sorry about what happened to your face, Mr Sharman. I had no idea that violence would be involved when I offered you this job.’
