Hearts of Stone

by Mark Timlin

  He’d rigged a rope from the light fitting in the centre of the room, climbed on to a chair, and kicked it away. That was the thump I’d heard. Where he’d got the rope from, Christ knows. Maybe he’d brought it with him, intending to kill himself all along, or maybe it was something that he and Brady used as a sex aid. Maybe the thought of going to the police with me had pushed him over the edge.

  His face was suffused with blood and his tongue, which stuck out between swollen lips at an obscene angle, was the colour of liver that had gone off. I quickly felt for a pulse in his wrist. Nothing. I ran down to the kitchen, got a knife, went back up, put the chair back on its feet, climbed on it and cut him down. I loosened the rope from round his neck, and tried for vital signs again, but it was no use.

  ‘You bastard,’ I said. I could have kicked him, but he was past feeling any more pain.

  So that was the only witness I could muster for my defence, gone down the fucking Swanee, and I was well and truly up it without a paddle. But at least I knew who was behind it all, and where he was based, so it looked like I’d have to sort it myself. And for that I needed a gun. And I knew exactly where one was. Or where one had been recently. One with my prints all over it that had tied me to the killing of a copper. At the least I could screw up that damaging piece of evidence, and at the most prove that I’d been working for Endesleigh.

  Or die in the attempt.

  42

  I left Alfie on the floor, and went back to the car. I turned the house lights off as I went.

  As I opened the door of the Ford and got in, a police Metro sped past me on the opposite side of the road, in the direction of the river. I saw the driver clocking me, so I belted up and switched on the engine and pulled away quickly. I looked over my shoulder and saw smoke coming from his tyres as he braked into a U-turn. Oh Jesus, I thought, not again.

  As I put my foot down, the skies finally fulfilled their promise and opened. I put on the headlights and the wipers, and red-lined the rev-counter as I overtook a bus and headed in the direction of Kennington Park. In the mirror I saw the Metro’s blue light come on, and I heard the whoop of the siren. That’s all I need, I thought.

  The lights were green by the park, and I turned left into Kennington Park Road and dodged through the thickening traffic heading for the Elephant. When I looked in the mirror, the Metro was gaining on me. I did a risky right by Kennington tube, and I was almost hit by a black cab as I did so. Then I started to cut through the back doubles, always trying to keep in the general direction of London Bridge. The rain was really hammering down by then, but the Ford stuck to the roads like a leech, and I blessed its permanent four-wheel drive again.

  I crossed the Walworth Road and headed in the direction of the New Kent Road. The Metro was flagging, but still in sight. The problem with the streets I was using was that I had no chance to really build up any speed. As I turned into a street close to the Bricklayer’s Arms, I saw that I was in a lot of trouble. There was some building work going on, and a cement lorry was manoeuvring to reverse into the site and drop its load, and was effectively blocking the street. I slowed down and the Metro turned into the street behind me. I let the car slow a little more, and banged on the steering wheel in frustration.

  Then I saw one way of escape. There was a skip opposite the entrance to the site. A workman in a bright yellow rain-slicker was pushing a wheelbarrow up the plank to dump some rubbish into it. There was another plank leaning against the skip, parallel with the first. As far as I could reckon, they were about as far apart as the wheelbase of the Cosworth. It was a chance in a million but I had to take it.

  I slammed the Ford into second gear and literally stood on the accelerator. I hit the horn and the workman turned at the sound, and his mouth opened in a disbelieving O before he jumped off the plank and the wheelbarrow toppled to the pavement. I aimed the car at the planks, and whispered a prayer. The Ford was doing over a hundred MPH as it shot up the ramp the planks formed, and it took off over the skip. I ducked down low, as I knew that when the car hit terra firma, I could brain myself on the roof. The car seemed to hover in mid-air for a split second, and the engine screamed and the wheels spun as they lost contact with the planks. Then the back of the car dropped, and it hit the ground with a force that about broke my spine. There was a terrible grinding of metal and pieces of the car broke loose and clattered around it. It bounced once, then all four wheels smashed down, and I hit the brakes, and it skidded along the wet road surface. Even the ABS couldn’t cope with that landing. As the car rocked to a halt, the Metro hit the planks, but having a narrower wheelbase, only the nearside set climbed the ramp, and it tipped over on its side and the front hit the skip hard. Pretty soon the Met would be sending me bills.

  I put the Ford into first and pulled away. But the car was sick. Very sick. In fact it was about on its last legs. Or wheels. The steering was fucked, and the engine sounded like hell, and was throwing a ton of smoke out of what was left of the exhaust system. I needed a new car badly, and some way into the warehouse where the gun was.

  And then, as the Ford limped into Great Dover Street, there, three cars in front of me, I saw exactly what I wanted. It was a dark-coloured Range Rover – I couldn’t tell exactly what colour because of the torrential rain – this year’s reg, sitting high above the other traffic. The rear-light clusters were caged in black metal crash bars, and I assumed the front was similarly protected. If I was going to need a battering ram, then this was it.

  At the next junction the Range Rover went straight over into Marshalsea Road, while the cars between us turned right. Perfect.

  I followed the Vogue. The rain was drumming down on the roof above me with a sound like a marching band, and I could see it turning to steam on the Cosworth’s bonnet. The Range Rover slowed, and I suddenly pulled around and cut in front of it, and forced it to stop. I opened my door and got out into the driving rain.

  Through the water-streaked windscreen of the Vogue, with the wipers beating out their cadence, I saw the pale faces of the occupants. A man was driving, a woman sitting next to him. He opened the driver’s door. Bad mistake, I thought, in this town. Never open the door if some lunatic cuts you up. Just close all windows, lock all doors and hope for the best.

  ‘What the…?’ he said – and I grabbed the door handle and tugged the door open wide. Both the occupants were in evening dress. On their way to the opera, or dinner, or a party or something. I took hold of the silk lapels of his jacket and tried to pull him out into the rain, but his seat belt held him in. I reached into the car and hit the release catch, then dragged him out. It was all done so quickly he had no time to resist, but the woman, a pretty brunette about thirty-five or so, let out a half scream and covered her mouth with her hand.

  I stood him against the side of the car. The rain was coming down even harder then, and we were both soon drenched. ‘I’m taking this,’ I said.

  ‘What…?’ was all that he could say before I hit him in the stomach. Low down where it really hurts. He doubled up and slid down the slick side of the Vogue, and sat in a puddle of rainwater that had collected on the blacktop. By then the rain was so fierce that it was bouncing back off the road.

  I left him there and went back to the vehicle. The woman was tapping in a number on the car phone. Her fingers were trembling, and her face was the colour of newsprint. I put my hand over hers on the dial pad. Her skin was cold, and she jumped when I touched her.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said as gently as possible. ‘Get your coats and get out.’ It wasn’t the nicest thing I’d done lately. But then who was being nice to me?

  The woman did as she was told, and reached into the back for a pair of stone-coloured mackintoshes that were resting on the back seat. Then she got out of the door on her side, put on her coat, and went round to the man. Behind us a couple of cars had drawn up, and I could see more pale faces peering out. Someone tooted his horn, but I ignored
it. I pulled the driver out of the way of the back wheels and got into the Range Rover and shut the door. I put the stick into drive and pulled away. I was soaking wet and dripping all over the velour, so I put the heater on to full and switched on the blower. At the next corner I turned in the direction of London Bridge.

  43

  It took me less than fifteen minutes to get there, and I was still soaked to the skin as I turned into the service road. I drove up to the metal-roller door, got out and took a look around. The building was dark and deserted. The only sound was the rain, and the gush from a stream of water pouring down one of the walls from a blocked gutter beneath the eaves of the roof.

  I knocked, but to no avail.

  I went back to the Range Rover, securely belted myself in, and did a tight three-point turn so that the car was pointing away from the door. I switched to four-wheel drive, revved up hard until the whole car was shaking, and dropped the gearstick into reverse. The rear of the Vogue hit the door with a shock that drove me back into the driver’s seat and rattled it on its mountings. The back window imploded on impact and showered me with broken glass. I drove forward, then did the same again. I felt the door give on the second attempt, so got out to check it. The metal strips were bent and twisted, and one side of the door had sprung loose of its runners. The back of the Range Rover was a mess. The bars that protected it were bent all out of shape, and both sets of rear lights were gone. The drop-down back door was a ruin, and the rear compartment was full of broken glass. They don’t make them like they used to.

  I got behind the wheel again, put the stick back into reverse, and let the Vogue creep up to the door. Once it was hard against it, I revved the engine. The car pushed against the door, and as I revved harder I heard the terrible squeal of metal on metal, and the door bent and finally gave. The body of the car pushed it out of the way, and finally I was inside the warehouse. I switched off the engine and sat still in the sudden silence. The bulb in one headlight had popped, and the beam from the other cut through the gloom like the eye of a Cyclops.

  I put the car into forward gear and turned round and drove upwards to the fourth floor. I stopped it facing the Portakabin, headlight on the door. I left the engine running, got out, and tried the handle. It was locked. I went back to the Vogue, wrestled the damaged tailgate open, and lifted the carpet. Next to the spare wheel was a toolbox. Inside was a decent-sized screwdriver. I used it to jimmy open the door of the cabin. I leant in and switched on the light.

  Inside it was much as I remembered. Table, chairs, filing cabinet, microwave, kettle, mugs, etc. Again I used the screwdriver to break into the filing cabinet. Inside the top drawer was the cardboard box. And inside the box, the special-edition Colt Commander Light Weight. I picked it out and weighed it in my hand.

  I was about to pump a round into the breech, when a woman’s voice from behind me said, ‘Hold it right there, Nick.’

  I nearly jumped out of my boots, and began to turn.

  ‘Stand still. Now step backwards very slowly and place the gun on the table. No tricks. I’m armed.’

  I thought I recognised the voice. ‘Is this a joke?’ I asked.

  ‘Try something, and see how funny it is,’ she said.

  I took a chance and turned my head. I’d been right: it was Kylie. She was dressed in black boots, navy-blue trousers, and a short navy-blue reefer jacket buttoned up tight. On her head, pulled low over her blonde hair, was a black baseball cap, and over one shoulder was slung a black leather bag on a strap. The cap and the shoulders of her coat were spattered with drops of water. In her right hand was an ugly black revolver with a short barrel.

  ‘Very fetching,’ I said. ‘Did you pick the gun to go with the outfit, or vice versa?’

  She cocked the pistol. It made a nasty metallic sound in the silent interior of the cabin. I didn’t know what the hell was going on.

  ‘Hey,’ I said. ‘Remember me?’

  ‘Shut up. Face the front and do as you’re told,’ she ordered.

  I did as she said. I didn’t want the gun going off. Could be nasty that. I walked slowly backwards until my thigh touched the edge of the table, reached behind me and placed my gun on top. Very slowly, very carefully, so that there could be no mistakes made.

  ‘Now walk forward to the wall. Don’t look round. Hands against it, feet apart. You know the drill.’

  Once again I did as I was told. I assumed the position, as the Americans say. I stood off-balance, tilted forward, legs astride, with the weight of my body supported on my hands, against the wall in front of me.

  Kylie came up behind me, kicked my legs further apart, and searched me. ‘Turn around,’ she said, when she was satisfied I was unarmed.

  I pushed myself away from the wall and did as I was told. Kylie had stepped back, and she kept the gun on my mid-section. Cosy.

  ‘So, what’s the story?’ I asked. ‘I think I must have missed something.’

  She changed the gun to her left hand and reached into her right-hand coat pocket and took out a leather folder and flipped it open. I’d seen one before. Loads of times. Had one myself once. ‘Police,’ she said, as if she needed to.

  I couldn’t believe it. ‘Dear, dear, dear,’ I said. ‘They get younger all the time.’ Just to mask the surprise I felt.

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Kylie,’ I said. ‘What the hell is all this about?’

  ‘My name’s not Kylie. Detective Sergeant Patricia Shaw, drug squad.’

  ‘And whoring’s your Saturday job?’

  ‘Undercover,’ she said.

  ‘Christ, you take your job seriously,’ I said.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘What’s not to believe?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Do I?’ she said in a scornful tone.

  ‘Were you working for Endesleigh, too?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And he let you do that?’

  ‘It was my decision.’

  ‘Christ,’ I said.

  ‘Does it offend you? You certainly took advantage of the service. You’re just a fucking hypocrite, like all men.’

  ‘It doesn’t offend me,’ I said. ‘But I thought it might offend you.’

  ‘I’ve done worse.’

  ‘Have you really?’

  She nodded. ‘So just shut up about it.’

  ‘If you say so,’ I said. ‘You’ve got the gun.’

  ‘Just remember that.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. ‘But let the hammer down, will you? It’s making me nervous.’

  She didn’t ‘You look like a drowned rat,’ she said. ‘Did you have trouble getting here?’

  ‘Transport problems.’

  ‘You certainly made a mess of someone’s nice car,’ she said conversationally. ‘And the front door. If you’d let me know you were coming by, I’d’ve made sure it was on the latch.’

  ‘I didn’t know I’d be coming by at all,’ I replied. ‘How did you know?

  ‘The lighter I gave you,’ she said.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Take a look at it.’

  I took it out of my jacket pocket. It looked like a lighter.

  ‘Take it apart,’ she said.

  I separated the works from the case, as if I was going to fill it. When I looked closely, I saw that the case had a false bottom. It was good work. I would never have noticed unless I’d been told.

  ‘Built-in transmitter,’ said Kylie. I couldn’t think of her as Patricia. ‘You’re on satellite.’

  ‘Like Bart Simpson,’ I said. ‘And I thought you really cared.’

  She didn’t say anything at all to that.

  ‘Why didn’t you pick me up before?’ I asked. It might have been better all round if she had.

&n
bsp; ‘I lost the transmission. What did you do – spend all day underground?’

  ‘The lighter did. In a car park. I’m glad all this technology’s not infallible.’

  ‘Nothing is. I picked you up earlier, and I’ve been following you ever since.’

  ‘And here we are.’

  ‘That’s right. So who were you going to shoot?’ she asked, gesturing towards the Colt.

  ‘What makes you think I was going to shoot anyone? It’s evidence, isn’t it? Makes me a murderer. You must know about that scam.’

  ‘That’s the least of your worries,’ she said. ‘You’re also tied into another seven murders. Brady and the rest. There’s a lot of people want to talk to you.’

  ‘So I gathered, but I didn’t kill them. Why should I? I had nothing to gain.’

  ‘For the money and the drugs.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I agreed to help, but it got screwed up. I wasn’t there last night. Not until later. Brady called me.’

  ‘He called you?’ she said incredulously. ‘Why you?’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t think you could handle it, sergeant. And he wanted a favour.’

  She ignored the snide comment. ‘What sort of favour?’

  I told her.

  ‘Brady was a stupid bastard sometimes. I told him that queening around with some little rent boy was dumb.’

  ‘You were right,’ I said.

  ‘Well, if you know so much, who did kill them?’ she asked.

  So I told her that, too. Everything that Alfie had told me, and everything else I knew, right back to the pair who’d come to JJ’s and mentioned Lasky’s name.

  When I’d finished, she looked at me. ‘It was me at the house,’ she said. ‘I went in to see if I could find anything useful.’

  ‘You scared him off.’