by Lee Martin
‘How?’ she asked.
‘I want to tell you a story. I need to get this off my chest with one of the family.’
‘And you’ve chosen me,’ she interrupted.
‘Right.’
‘I don’t think I want to hear.’
‘It’s up to you. I know you think badly of me, and this will only make it worse. But I loved you Kate, and still do. Whatever happened between us. And I think you’re the only one I want to know about something I did. I don’t know why, but I do. Listen, there’s a bottle of scotch in the cupboard over there. Wrapped up in a towel. Get it for us will you.’
‘You’ve got cirrhosis.’
‘Too late to worry about that now. You got any fags? Those buggers won’t let me smoke, none of them.’
‘They’ll kill you. That and the booze.’
‘The way you feel, you’ll probably be glad.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Who gives a monkey’s? Not me. I’m too far gone for that. Go on gel, do your old man a last favour.’
She looked at the old geezer in the bed. A faint shadow of what he had been, and felt a momentary pang of pity, although she didn’t want to. She suddenly thought of being woken in the middle of the night when Johnny had been working and came home with presents for her and Dolly. Expensive stuff. Toys and games and books for Kate, perfume and fancy clothes for Dolly. She remembered being allowed to get up all sleepy-headed and seeing her mum and dad dancing in the front room to some old Elvis record, and tears filled her eyes. ‘All right Dad,’ she said. ‘Just this once. Got a glass and something to use for an ashtray?’
39
‘Now listen Kate,’ he said when they were both lit up, plastic beakers of scotch in their hands. ‘I know I ain’t got long. My liver’s fucked, and I’m living on borrowed time. But there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’
‘I don’t know that I want to hear.’
‘Maybe not. But I need you to. Before I tell you, come here, let me have a look at you. It’s been too long.’
She did as he asked, smelling death on his breath.
He peered closely at her face. ‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘A bruise. How’d you get that?’
‘Have a guess,’ she replied. ‘Robbo’s like you were.’
‘He hits you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Christ, I’d like to get my hands on him.’
‘Now you’re the one getting righteous,’ she said, pulling back. ‘You gave enough bruises to me and Mum in your time.’
‘And I’m ashamed.’
‘Sure.’
‘I mean it. I’m sorry.’
‘Too late for that Dad,’ she said. ‘Far too late.’
‘It’s never too late to ask for forgiveness Kate. I’ve learnt that. And I want you to forgive me.’
‘Can’t be done Dad.’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way. But there’s something else. Something I haven’t even told the priest.’
‘What?’
‘I killed some people.’
‘Quite a few if what I’ve heard is right.’
‘No, you don’t get it. I’ve had people killed. People who took liberties with me and mine. They knew what they were doing and took a chance. I’m talking about me personally killing people. Innocent people really. In cold blood.’
‘What are you talking about Dad?’ she asked, suddenly chilled in the overheated room. She didn’t want to hear. Just wanted to go home.
He sensed her discomfort and gripped the sleeve of her jacket with some of his old strength. ‘Kids,’ he said. ‘Years ago. You remember the college boys shot to death in a motor down Southend way?’
‘What? When?’
‘February 2000. It was in all the papers. They never got anyone.’
Kate vaguely remembered seeing the TV news one lunchtime when she was waiting for Neighbours to come on, seeing coppers standing round uselessly, their breath steaming in the freezing air whilst a tarpaulined car was put on a low loader. ‘I remember, I think,’ she said.
‘Shotgunned,’ he said, staring off into space. ‘All three blown to bits. No motive. No one knew what they were doing there. But I do.’
‘What?’
‘They were university boys studying chemistry. Then they decided to do a bit of chemistry of their own. Making E tablets. And good ones too. Pure MDMA. Or at least as pure as you could get them days. They had a right little factory going inside the uni. Perfect it was. They came to one of the clubs I was at, and we did a deal, and they sold the stuff to us wholesale. It was a dream. Then a couple of the bouncers got greedy and decided to get in on the act. Upped the price a bit, and thought they could cut me out. They made a meet down some country lane, but some soppy bird one of them was shagging got wind of it, got pissed, and opened her stupid mouth too wide.’
‘What happened to them?’ asked Kate.
‘We tuned them up a bit in the cellar, and they spilled the beans. They ain’t so tough them bouncers. All mouth and no trousers, most of them. So me and a few of the boys turned up instead. We had shooters, and it all got a bit silly.’
‘You killed them.’
‘One of them had a shooter himself, and started waving it about.’
‘And?’
‘One of the chaps I was with. Freddie the Fish. Remember him?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘He had a pump action. Starts blasting away, and we all got involved. I didn’t want to, but we’d had a few toots. You know how it is.’
‘Not really.’ Kate thought of the gun she’d been handling herself not so long ago, and felt even colder at the thought of what could be done with it.
‘Take my word for it. Normally I wouldn’t have gone, but we were a bit short-handed. It was a fucking replica anyway, as it goes. The gun the kid had. Stupid little prick.’
‘So why are you telling me?’
‘I need absolution.’
‘From me?’
He nodded.
‘No it’s not about me. It’s all about you as usual. Spreading more grief. As if you haven’t done enough.’
‘Don’t be like that babe.’
‘Don’t fucking babe me. My life’s shit enough as it is, without you giving me more.’
‘I’m truly sorry,’ said Johnny.
‘Take your sorry and stick it up your arse.’ And with that Kate left the room, went downstairs and out to her car without speaking to Ben. She drove a quarter of a mile or so and pulled into a space, where she sat and cried until there were no more tears to come.
Johnny died a week later. When Ben called to tell her, she put down the phone on him without a word.
The funeral was a week later. Kate hadn’t wanted to go but Robbo insisted. ‘You’ve got to,’ he said. ‘Show respect.’
‘I don’t respect that old bastard. Never did.’
‘Have a heart. Anyway, how would it look if you didn’t go?’
‘Couldn’t care less. You want to go so bad, go on your own,’ she said.
Robbo back-handed her almost casually. ‘Enough of your fuckin’ lip, girl.’
My girl, thought Kate as she backed away from him. That’s just what my dad called mum, you bastard. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘if it means so much to you.’ Anything to avoid yet another smack.
‘Got to show our faces,’ said Robbo. ‘Do the right thing.’
The day of the funeral dawned bright. Ben had made all the arrangements with the other brothers, as Kate had positively refused to have anything to do with it. The entourage kicked off from the house in Plaistow. Black horses pulled the hearse, followed by at least a dozen black limos carrying the cream of East London villainy. Kate and Robbo were in the third motor with brother Keith and his wife, a right nasty little slag from Kennington who reckoned she was worth a lot more than she was. Kate hated her. In fact she detested all her brothers’ wives. They thought much the same way about her and she couldn’t have cared less. In front of the h
earse were a couple of fake gangsters on motorbikes who somehow always managed to turn up at villains’ funerals, between writing books about their imaginary exploits and appearing in reality TV shows.
Kate stared out of the car’s tinted glass at the crowds lining the route to the cemetery where Johnny was going to be buried next to Dolly’s grave. ‘What stone do these ghouls crawl out from under?’ she asked no one in particular.
Everyone was silent aside from Keith’s wife, who said with fake sincerity, ‘Johnny would be proud that so many people loved him.’
‘Loved him?’ said Kate. ‘Terrified of him more like.’
‘No Kate,’ said Keith. ‘He changed.’
‘Sure he did,’ said Kate. Fucking old hypocrite, she thought. I hope he rots in hell.
After the ceremony it was all back to the house again where caterers had laid on a lavish buffet spread and the champagne corks began to pop.
‘It’s what the old man would’ve wanted,’ said Ben in his speech at the wake as tears rolled down his face.
In fact there was hardly a dry eye in the place apart from Kate’s, as people became maudlin with too much drink.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she said to her husband. ‘I can’t stand any more of this.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Robbo. ‘It’s just starting to get lively.’
‘Then you stay,’ she said. ‘I’ll get a cab home.’
‘Please yourself,’ he said, and moved deeper into the house where he thought a few old mates were cutting out lines of coke.
Fuck you then, thought Kate, and phoned a cab company on a card stuck to the notice board in the kitchen. Fuck the lot of you.
40
And still there was no definite date for the robbery. The reason for the delay was that Deep Throat had been waiting for a big pay day, and it was just round the corner. Some months the pickings were lean, others bountiful. It made sense. At Christmas and during the summer holidays there was a lot of dirty cash about, never mind credit cards and chip and pin. Other times people kept their hands in their pockets and their money clean. So that particular month, when the kids were out of school, he knew that there would be a bumper bundle heading for destruction. Exactly how much he wouldn’t know until closer to the time. The exact amount was crucial. He was on a nice little earner if all went well. Now his two daughters were growing up it was harder and harder to make ends meet on his salary. And the girls were of prime importance. Three, if you counted his wife, which in fact he hardly did. They’d been married a long time, and the shine was long gone. But she cared for the family, which was what counted most, and left him pretty well to get on with his own devices. All in all, a pretty tidy arrangement. If only he could kick his one bad habit.
The first geezer who’d approached him, a bald-headed bloke who could frighten little children with one look, had made that clear. Deep Throat had a little problem with the gee-gees. That was the trouble really, and he’d had a bad run a few months earlier. His bookie who was not strictly kosher, had sold the debt on to baldie who’d introduced himself as Mister Stone, although Deep Throat was willing to bet that was not his real name. Willing to bet, that was grimly ironic, as it was betting that had got him into this bad position.
Mister Stone had buttonholed him in his local one Saturday afternoon as he was watching his money go down the pan during a steward’s enquiry. ‘No good?’ the bald man said.
‘No good at all,’ said Deep Throat. ‘That fucking jockey should be shot. Balked. I’d balk the bastard.’
‘Bad luck.’
‘Yeah…’
‘Still, better luck next time,’ said the bald man.
‘Cheers. I had a good tip, on the one o’clock, but that turned out to be another donkey.’
‘Aren’t they all where you’re concerned?’
‘Do what?’
‘The nags. Seems like you’ve had a bad run, and you owe me.’
‘I don’t know what you’re on about,’ and Deep Throat made to get up. But Stone was too fast for him and gripped his wrist hard.
‘Don’t walk away from me mate,’ he said, ‘or your wife and daughters will suffer.’
Deep Throat felt the sweat break out of every pore, and he almost wet his pants. ‘What do you mean?’ Stone still had his fingers tightly wrapped round Deep Throat’s wrist.
‘According to the figures I’ve been given, you owe close to two grand to a mate of mine.’ He mentioned the bookie’s name and Deep Throat knew that his worst nightmares were coming true. ‘He’s tired of chasing you round,’ Stone went on in a conversational tone, as if they were just two friends discussing the favourite for the next race. ‘Now, he could inform your employers, who I believe take a dim view of such goings on. Or. He could let me buy the debt off him and collect from you myself. And that’s what he’s done. He’s knocking on a bit, and doesn’t need the aggro. So I gave him half the money, and now you owe me.’
‘I was going to pay.’
‘Course you were. But there’s ways and means.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Got the money on you?’
‘Course not.’
‘Hole in the wall?’
‘I’m overdrawn.’
‘It’s not good mate is it? I could break your fucking legs. Or I could see to it that those daughters of yours learn how hard the world is when daddy doesn’t pay his debts.’
‘No.’ Deep Throat went to get up again, but one look from Stone kept him pinned to his seat.
‘Or I could make you a rich man.’
‘How?’
‘That place you work at. The bank. I’d like to make a withdrawal.’
Deep Throat knew then that he was in deep trouble. ‘I need the toilet,’ he said.
‘Go on then,’ said Stone. ‘But don’t think about doing a runner. I know where you live. And more importantly, where your girls live.’
So that was the start of it. When he returned from the lavatory where he’d lost his lunch, Stone bought Deep Throat a drink and told him what he knew about the money run, which was quite a lot. He’d done his research.
Deep Throat’s first instinct was to go to the police after Stone left. Tell them everything and let them sort it out. There might be a reward from the bank, and that would help. But when he left the pub he found a white envelope with his name on it neatly tucked under one windscreen wiper on his car. Inside was a photo of his wife and daughters outside his front door. They were probably on the way to school. On the back of the photo was written neatly: ‘JUST IN CASE YOU GET ANY IDEAS’.
That put the kibosh on that idea.
Over the next weeks Deep Throat and Stone met often. He wasn’t a bad bloke really, and never mentioned the debt again. In fact he’d often drop Deep Throat a few quid to put on a horse.
So, slowly Deep Throat got used to the idea. A cut of the cash was his when the money was disposed of. Of course Stone could be lying, but somehow he trusted the man. Old school armed robber that he was, it would be easier to cough up than leave Deep Throat out in the cold, ready to blow the whistle.
Of course he knew that someone might get hurt. But that was the way life was. People were always getting hurt. Just look at the papers. Wars, hurricanes, landslips, tsunamis. Every day he read about some disaster, natural or man-made. And he couldn’t let anything happen to the girls. Even if it meant him going to jail, which was obviously another option.
Then one day Stone told him he might not be round for a bit. Deep Throat felt a swell of relief until Stone told him another man would be in touch. ‘You think I’m bad,’ said Stone. ‘I’m a pussycat compared to this bloke.’
And that’s when Connie entered Deep Throat’s life.
41
Of course the big question was how to get the money wagon somewhere where the gang could open up the back without causing too much of a fuss. No one wanted a shoot-out on the highway. Too messy. So when Deep Throat gave a day, time and route for the cash to Connie, he also gav
e up the names of the two crew who’d be on board.
Their names were Jim and Ken. Jim was the driver, the key man. He was in his twenties, married with a baby and lived just a short hop from the depot. He was nothing special, just a bloke doing a job for wages. He might just as well have been driving baked beans around. He’d been employed for two years and had a clean sheet. No obvious vices, which was perfect.
Ken was older. Ex-army, which could be a problem. But then problems were made to be solved.
As per Eddie’s plan, Connie sent in the enforcers on the day of the robbery.
There were two of them. John Knowles, known as Knocker, because that’s what he liked to do. Knock people out. His boyfriend was Charlie Simms. They were both as gay as tangerines, and lived together in a chi-chi apartment in Brixton. They were both actors and stuntmen. And thieves. Because acting and stunt work didn’t pay enough to support their rather extravagant lifestyle, and because Charlie fancied himself as something of a make-up artist, they were perfect. Made for the job. They’d done background for dozens of TV shows. They’d been in The Bill, Silent Witness, Trial and Retribution, and loads more. But not only TV work. They’d also been in several feature films, they’d proudly tell anyone who’d listen. Check out Essex Boys, blink and you’d miss Knocker. Put on a DVD of Gangster No1, and there’s Charlie for a few seconds. You see both their specialities were playing coppers, which was a joke, as they both had long records. But the advantage was they knew how to play the part, and in fact both had their own police uniforms, which they’d put together from theatrical agencies and what they could purloin on set.
When Connie cornered them one morning in a cafe in Kennington, where they were enjoying breakfast and checking out the price of a new HD-TV from Dixons in The Sun, they jumped at his offer. Twenty-five grand, up front, just to babysit a woman and kid for a few hours. You certainly didn’t make that sort of money for a day’s work on Waking the Dead for BBC1.
