Zip Gun Boogie

by Mark Timlin

  ‘My son,’ he said. ‘What about him? Is he all right?’

  ‘As far as I know, yes. But you say he doesn’t live here?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I just said he’s not here now.’

  ‘But he does still live here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long since you last saw him?’

  ‘A few days.’

  ‘Do you remember exactly? It’s very important.’

  ‘No. Monday, Tuesday. Who knows?’

  I pressed him. ‘Please try and remember.’

  ‘I tell you, I can’t.’

  He was agitated, so I changed tack.

  ‘Does he often vanish for days at a time?’

  He shrugged. ‘Months sometimes. Years even. He was in a pop group. One day he lived with us, the next he didn’t.’

  At least I knew we were talking about the same bloke. ‘Us?’ I queried.

  ‘Me and his mother. She died. A long time ago. He was never the same. He loved his mother.’ The man sat down in an old armchair that faced the TV set. ‘Why all these questions?’ he said, more to the screen than to me.

  ‘Two men have been killed this week. Someone says they saw your son at the scene of one of the murders,’ I replied.

  He looked away from the TV, and at me. ‘Murder? You think my son had something to do with killing another human being?’

  ‘I don’t know. Do you?’

  He didn’t answer. ‘Who were they?’ he asked instead.

  ‘One was a road manager with his old band Pandora’s Box. The other was a security man at the hotel where they’re staying in London. And on Monday it appears that someone tried to kill one of the guitarists with the band. They didn’t succeed.’

  ‘Those bastards,’ he spat. ‘They deserve everything they get.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘They treated Bobby like dirt.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They drove him crazy. Especially that damned Pandora. It was the drugs that did it. Then they dumped him.’

  ‘They still pay him, I understand.’

  ‘Money,’ he said contemptuously. ‘He thought they were his friends.’

  That’s life, I thought.

  ‘But I heard he was being paid very well,’ I said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘This house – it’s not what I expected.’

  ‘I know. You thought he’d live in a mansion.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘He doesn’t keep the money. He doesn’t want anything from them.’

  ‘What does he do with it?’

  ‘He gives it away.’

  ‘All of it?’

  ‘Every penny.’

  ‘Who to?’

  He shrugged. ‘Charities. The church. Sometimes he just walks around town handing out fifty-pound notes. That’s why they put him away. They don’t understand.’

  ‘How do you live?’

  ‘I have savings, and a small pension. We used to live in a bigger house. Bobby bought it for us years ago. I sold it and we moved here.’

  ‘You don’t try and stop him? Giving the money away, that is.’

  ‘It’s his money.’

  Fair enough, I thought.

  ‘You say someone saw him. Who?’ asked Boyle.

  ‘Ninotchka.’

  For the first time I saw a ghost of a smile. ‘She was the only decent one out of the lot of them. I thought they might get married, her and Bobby. He brought her to the old house a few times when they were in the country.’

  ‘She still cares for him,’ I said. ‘She wouldn’t tell the police she saw him. Or let me.’

  ‘A good girl,’ he said.

  ‘But that doesn’t change the fact that she recognised him. And a man had been killed just a couple of minutes before.’

  ‘He wouldn’t.’

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  ‘You don’t believe it?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Boyle. That’s why I’m here. You say the band treated him badly. Do you think he’s looking for revenge?’

  The old man put his head in his hands and I heard him sob. His thin back shook.

  ‘Mr Boyle?’ I said.

  He looked up at me and I saw tear stains like snail tracks on his cheeks. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You say he was put away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In hospital?’

  He nodded.

  ‘A mental hospital?’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked ashamed. He needn’t have been. I met some OK people when I was in one. But that was a long time ago. A different life. A different me.

  ‘They said he’d be fine,’ Boyle went on.

  They always say that when they let you out, I thought. Sometimes they’re right, and sometimes they’re not.

  ‘Can I see his room?’ I asked.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ He stood up and led me upstairs. At the top was a door. He opened it. Inside, the curtains were drawn tight and the room was in darkness. Bobby Boyle’s father reached in and switched on the overhead electric light. It was a big room. Two smaller ones knocked into one, I guessed. It smelt bad. A mixture of dirty bedding, dirty clothes and dirty human being. With one exception it was a tip. The bed was a tangle of grey sheets and stained blankets. There were clothes, papers, full ashtrays, empty beer bottles and cups rimed with dry tea or coffee, dustballs, and all sorts of other sleazy shit all over the place.

  The exception filled one half of the room. It was a drum kit. But just to call it that was to belittle it. It was like calling a Rolls-Royce merely a car. It was quite literally the king of drum kits. The biggest I’ve ever seen by a mile. The drums were sprayed red, a bright, vulgar red with tiny specks of silver glitter in the finish that sparkled in the electric light. I went for a closer look. There were twin bass drums with a pair of tiny tom toms and two cow bells mounted on top. Behind them was a chrome snare, and a drum stool, and no less than ten variously sized floor-mounted toms, five on each side of the kit. There was a hi-hat, and fifteen ride, crash and zizzle cymbals spread around it at various heights. Every part of the kit was immaculate, made even more so by the squalor of the rest of the room. The drums were polished, the skins pure white, and the cymbals and stands gleamed in shades of gold and silver.

  ‘He never plays it now,’ said Boyle. ‘Just polishes it. All day long when he’s here. He just polishes it.’ It was one of the saddest things I’d ever heard.

  I walked round and stood behind the kit. It was like being in Fort Drums.

  Attached to the two big tom toms at the back of the kit, hooked over the silver rims that held the skins tight, were leather holders for drumsticks. They were like long narrow knife sheaths, graded in size from small to large. There must have been twenty sets at least. The largest holders were empty.

  ‘What happened to the sticks that go in these?’ I asked.

  ‘How do I know?’

  ‘Do you know what size they were?’

  He looked confused. ‘Size? No, I don’t. I don’t know anything about drums.’

  ‘Were they 2Bs?’ I pressed.

  ‘I tell you I don’t know.’

  Or care, I thought, and who could blame him? He’d lost a son. What were drumstick sizes compared to that? ‘All right, Mr Boyle,’ I said. ‘It’s OK, it doesn’t matter.’ But it did.

  ‘Is that all?’ he asked.

  ‘For now. But I have to tell you, Mr Boyle, that I think the police will want to talk to your son.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘So if you hear from him,’ I went on, ‘I suggest you tell him to contact them. It’ll be better for him in the long run.’

  He nodded, and stepped bac
k out of the room.

  All of a sudden I wondered if in fact Bobby Boyle was in the house. Then I mentally shrugged. There was nothing I could do about it if he was.

  I followed Boyle downstairs, and he opened the front door for me. As I went out he said, ‘Mr Sharman?’

  I turned and stood on the doorstep. ‘Yes?’

  ‘If they find him and you’re there, will you try and make sure they don’t hurt him?’

  That was when I knew he’d been telling the truth. He didn’t know where his son was.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Of course I will.’ And I went back to the car.

  26

  I drove straight back to Jones’. By the time I got there it was almost midday. I passed through the police and security lines into the garage with no trouble. All was serene. At least there’d been no fresh bodies found, which was a relief to all. I parked up and went to my suite. I called the Cromwell, and got through to the doctor with whom I’d left the sample of smack the previous day. He confirmed that as far as the lab could ascertain, it came from the same batch as the heroin that Shapiro had OD’d on. Then I went looking for Ninotchka.

  She was in her suite. Once again I got in with no trouble. I felt like I was golden. At least I did until we got into her office, and she turned on me. ‘What the hell did you do to Elmo yesterday?’ she demanded.

  I had to think for a moment. ‘What?’ I said stupidly. I’d survived for so long without sleep I was having difficulty remembering who I was, let alone anything else.

  ‘You broke his nose. And Gloria’s wrist,’ she said. ‘They were at the hospital all day.’

  It all came back to me. ‘I hope it hurt,’ I said. ‘That fat freak tried to stick me with a carving knife.’

  ‘You probably deserved it.’

  ‘Charming! I was doing you a favour, remember? And by the way, you should get a new connection. He’s selling you street shit. You should be careful of dealing with faggots. They’re often unstable.’

  ‘You are a bastard,’ she spat.

  ‘At times. Who isn’t? And talking of unstable, I’ve just been down to try and find your old boyfriend.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sorry, I forgot. There’ve been so many, haven’t there? You must get confused.’ As soon as I said it, I regretted it.

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘A bastard is right.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Forget I said that. I was out of order,’ I said.

  ‘I suppose you mean Bobby,’ she said tiredly, as if it was almost too much effort to speak.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he’s missing.’ I didn’t mention that a pair of drumsticks were missing too. I thought I’d said enough already.

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘God knows. A few days. I spoke to his father. But he’s not exactly the most reliable witness I’ve ever come across.’

  ‘I liked him.’

  ‘I think he’s probably changed a good deal since you last saw him. They both have.’

  ‘You just want Bobby to be guilty.’

  ‘Sorry, Ninotchka,’ I said. ‘I know how you feel about him.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Tell the police. Like I should have done last night.’

  ‘To hell with you then!’

  I was getting really pissed off with her. No matter what I did I couldn’t win. ‘What’ll make you believe he did it?’ I asked. ‘A signed confession?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said for the third time. ‘But what can I do?’

  ‘Like I said, go to hell.’

  So I went.

  First I went to Shapiro’s suite. He was there with Lindy, having a spot of light lunch. I asked to speak with him privately, and he took me into one of the bedrooms. When we were alone I asked him one question. At first he refused to answer. So I answered it for him. He was surprised that I knew. But eventually he confirmed that what I’d suspected was true. I thanked him and left them to their pasta with garlic sauce. Then I found Lomax. He was in the bar as usual. I turned down the offer of a drink. He confirmed that Turdo had been drum roadie for Bobby Boyle before Boyle left the band. After that I went down to the incident room and found Carpenter and Ripley, and laid the whole thing out for them. Piece by piece.

  I told them what Elmo had told me the day before. On the previous Monday evening, he had sold Turdo two grams of smack. It was the first time Turdo had purchased drugs from Elmo. I told them that Turdo had worked for Boyle. I told them what had happened to Shapiro later that night, and why I’d been called in to work for the band. The two policemen were very interested in that particular piece of information. Next, I told them what Shapiro had just admitted to me: that Turdo had given him the wrap that contained, not coke as he thought, but street-grade heroin. The policemen were very interested in that piece of information too. I told them that the smack was identical to the stuff Elmo had supplied to me. I didn’t tell them who I was buying it for. I told them about seeing Boyle at the scene of the murder of the security man. I told them about the missing drumsticks, and Bobby Boyle’s address in Slough and that he had been missing all week. Finally I gave them Elmo’s address. Unfortunately I let slip what I’d done to the happy couple. But I told you, I was very tired.

  When I finished I gave them my conclusions: that Bobby Boyle was as guilty as hell of two murders and one attempted murder. Whether or not he was fit to plead was entirely another matter. His motive: revenge.

  Carpenter listened to my summing up in silence, and then sent Ripley to put out a description of Boyle on the wire.

  Then he about burnt my ears off. He threatened me with arrest for obstruction and wasting police time, and touched on possession of Class A drugs, and GBH on Elmo and Gloria. Then he told me that, if anyone else had got killed whilst I withheld information, I would have been an accessory before and after the fact.

  I sat and took it all. I had no choice.

  When he finally let me go, I went up to my suite, and went to bed.

  To hell with the lot of them, I thought.

  27

  Of course I couldn’t sleep, tired as I was. I just lay in bed staring at the ceiling above me. All of a sudden I fancied a swim. An olympic-sized pool in the basement Lomax had said. But there was a problem. I had no trunks. I telephoned down to the Men’s Shoppe and asked for Jeremy. He came straight on the line. I explained what I wanted.

  ‘No problem, Mr Sharman,’ he said. ‘I’ll have one of my assistants meet you at the pool with a selection of swimming costumes in five minutes.’

  ‘Thank you, Jeremy,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ he replied and we both hung up.

  I put on jeans and a T-shirt and slipped my bare feet into a pair of loafers, and went down to the basement. The pool was signposted and standing outside was one of the guys who had brought the clothes up to my suite three days before.

  ‘Mr Sharman,’ he said. ‘Jeremy sent these for you. Size medium?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Any particular style or colour?’

  I took a navy blue pair off the top. ‘These’ll do.’

  ‘Are you sure? Do you wish to try them?’

  ‘They’ll be fine.’

  ‘Very well, sir. There are towels and robes in the cubicles. Enjoy your swim.’

  ‘I will,’ I said, and watched him walk away before I pushed open the door to the pool. It had a vaulted ceiling and green-doored cubicles stretching away on both sides. The pool itself was big. Olympic sized was right, and totally deserted. The place stank of chlorine and tendrils of vapour rose from the still water. Every sound I made was amplified and echoed around the tiled walls. I walked to the closest cubicle and changed into the trunks. They fitted just right. I went outside and dived straigh
t in. The water was warm and I doggy paddled for a few minutes, then struck out and did one, two, three lengths’ breast stroke, the same backstroke. After that I felt pleasantly exercised and floated in the water, almost falling asleep. Eventually I pulled myself out and dried off. I got dressed again and went back to my room, yawning all the way. That time I had no trouble at all getting to sleep.

  I woke with a start about five. The room was cool and dark and silent. I thought about my date with Chris Kennedy-Sloane for drinks and a little light conversation about Pandora’s Box. It seemed pretty irrelevant now, but I decided to go anyway. I had nothing better to do, and my ears were still burning from being bawled out by both Ninotchka and Carpenter. A trip to the City of London seemed to be a decent option.

  I took a shower, shaved, and dressed in a suit and tie. By that time it was almost five thirty. I went downstairs and asked the doorman to get me a cab. I’d had drinks with Kennedy-Sloane before and I knew better than to drive. Besides it was rush hour on a Friday evening. I gave the cabbie the address and settled back in my seat and looked out of the window at the other nine-tenths battling their way home after a stressful week at the office.

  The cab arrived at the block that housed Kennedy-Sloane & Partners at five to six. I took the lift upwards and presented myself at the reception desk at six on the dot. The receptionist buzzed through to Kennedy-Sloane’s secretary. People were leaving for the weekend, and I guessed I’d got there just in time. As if to confirm the thought, his secretary was tidying up her desk, but before she went, she showed me into her boss’s office.

  It was everything I’d expected and more. Top floor, big picture window with a view of Tower Bridge on one side and the NatWest Tower on the other. Minimalist furniture and a vast expanse of bare, black varnished floor. A bar stocked with more booze than the average pub’s saloon bar, and Chris Kennedy-Sloane behind half an acre of desk, empty, except for his feet on the top, talking on a portable telephone. Love it, I thought.