Deadly Pleasures

by Martin Edwards

  Plaistow. A long time ago. And his real name wasn’t Hawkins either. That was his dad’s invention when things got a bit sticky after the war.

  The drinkers in GEEZA ranged from Barking to Bow with one northerner from Hornsey tolerated on the principle he was a nice bloke who couldn’t help it. Certainly no one from the west, a part of London that always made Alf Hawkins shiver, even before they banged him up in White City’s finest slammer. Or that endless sprawl below the Thames that everyone called, simply, ‘sarf’.

  These men weren’t bad people. Being the kind they were they never asked questions. Never once wondered what you’d done back home. Or who with.

  It was best that way as everyone understood. Until one Tuesday night round nine o’clock, close to the point when he was wondering how soon Eileen would turn up to ferry him home. The conversation had turned once more to a learned discussion about how the social decline of modern Britain could be directly traced to the moment Walthamstow Greyhound stadium shut up shop sending everyone who wanted to go to the dogs out to Romford which wasn’t really London at all. At least three in the present company declared this to be the point at which they knew Britannia was doomed to Third World penury and upped sticks for the Costa accordingly.

  Alf was minded to question this assumption when the door opened and Norm the Chisel walked in, all white-faced and pop-eyed.

  ‘Lordy,’ he said, coming over, throwing his big arms round the baffled, speechless figure at the bar. ‘Lordy me, Alf Hawkins. Ain’t I just been looking for you everywhere? And here you are.’

  The rest of them stared at him.

  ‘Where else would he be?’ Bob, the mouthy one from Canning Town, asked. ‘Here’s where you always are, innit? You ain’t Cockney, friend. Are ya? See, this gatherin’s a bit exclusive like—’

  ‘Peckham,’ Norm broke in. ‘Proud of it. Any argiments needed there?’

  Silence.

  No one ever wanted any argiments with Norm the Chisel.

  He grabbed Alf Hawkins by the arm and dragged him into the corner with the stuffed donkey’s head.

  ‘How’s the reading and writing going?’ Alf asked. ‘Fancy a drink? I never knew you were in these parts.’

  ‘Sod the reading. I seen ’im, Alf. He’s ’ere.’

  ‘Who’s here?’

  ‘Only that toff who fitted you up for murder. Mr Poncy Woncy Detective Chief Superintendent Owen ’Ardcastle. That’s who.’

  Alf walked to the door, called Eileen and told her to give him another hour. Said it in a way that meant she didn’t argue.

  Then got a pint of lager for Norm and a third San Mig for himself, came back and plonked them on the upturned barrel next to the donkey’s head.

  ‘No one knows where Hardcastle is, Norm. Scotland Yard’ve spent three years chasing him. Got nowhere. You must be dreaming.’

  He didn’t much like the Spanish beer. Or Fuengirola for that matter. Alf Hawkins didn’t want a lot out of life. Just to live and die in the busy terraced streets where he’d grown up, watching them change with the years. He’d been robbed of that and it hurt just to think about it.

  ‘I ain’t dreaming.’

  ‘Besides,’ Alf added, thinking of what Eileen would say. ‘That was in the past. I’m out now. A good boy. All I’ve got to do is …’ He looked round the Wonky Donkey. The crowd at the bar were staring at the two of them, as if an unwritten rule of etiquette had been broken. ‘All I got to do is …’

  He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t.

  ‘You’re sure?’ Alf asked.

  ‘On my mum’s life.’

  ‘Your mum’s dead.’

  ‘Figger of speech. I’m sure. So what we gonna do?’

  All the other inmates called him Scarface which was odd since Norm had the soft, pink cheeks of a baby even if his head was a touch small for his body, that of a prop forward on steroids.

  It took a while before Alf realised he was hearing this wrong. Men in jail talked easily about their families, where they came from, what they’d do when they walked free into the smoggy air of west London. Not so much about what got them in there. Only gradually did he discover that Norman Barker – the Chisel bit came from his day job as a carpenter – had nearly killed a debt collector who’d been collecting more than debts from his missus in Peckham. Against her will, Norm insisted, not that she was waiting for him when he finally came out.

  No previous. Not much sign of a temper. Just a long day at work then he came home, found them, lost it bad. Beat the debt collector black and blue, threw him onto the landing of the flats and half-strangled the man with his silk Burberry cravat.

  Alf wondered why anyone would be rash enough to go to Peckham wearing a silk Burberry cravat. It seemed to be asking for trouble, just as much as fooling around with the wife of a gigantic bloke like Norm. But he didn’t pursue that point.

  The Scrubs being a place where people had lots of time to play with words, the customers of Her Majesty’s Prison Service had dragged this story out of Norm and come up with the nickname.

  It wasn’t scar-face as Alf had thought. It was scarf-ace on the grounds that Norm’s skill with the aforesaid neck warmer had proved so devastating the debt collector had been left in a wheelchair for a while, a fact the judge, a well-known hanger, had made much of when sending him down for attempted murder.

  ‘I know I’m fick. Just a big stupid ug,’ Norm whispered when they retreated further into the Donkey’s darkest corner. ‘But I seen ’im with my own two eyes. Seen the proof too. I’m telling you, Alf. Owen ’Ardcastle is living high on the hog no more than ten minutes up the hill from ’ere. Calling hisself Matthew Warman. Retired City financier. Pad like you wouldn’t believe. Ten bedrooms, mebbe more. Jag in the drive and some young tart sunning herself on the patio who ain’t the cleaner either. Veranda an’ a pool you could drown Millwall in, which wouldn’t be a bad idea if you ask me. It’s not right. So what we gonna …?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Alf insisted. ‘Even if it is him. Nothing at all.’

  Norm took a swig of beer and stared at him sulkily. He’d been released from the Scrubs six weeks before Alf. Had said something at the time about skedaddling out of the country and putting all the bad stuff behind him.

  ‘You taught me to read and spell proper,’ Norm said.

  Poring over books and newspapers, showing his cellmate a few tips on joined-up writing, passed the time. And Norm was a good, decent man, one whose temper had briefly and tragically broken. Another judge – a lawyer who liked the appeal system – he might have got a couple of years at the most. But being the quiet, resigned bloke he was Norm had never pushed it, and wouldn’t even though Alf had nagged him.

  ‘It was a pleasure. You’re no idiot. You got to stop thinking that.’

  ‘Didn’t need to teach me difference between right and wrong though, did ya? What that ’Ardcastle did …’

  Twelve years. They should have been good ones. Then, a strange Thursday in October, the door comes down, men in masks, yelling, shoving him into a corner, arms behind his back. Eileen crying. Wanting to know what was happening. And he couldn’t tell her. Because, as the nightmare fell around them, Alf Hawkins, while no stranger to such situations, hadn’t a clue himself.

  Innocent people were always the easiest ones to fit up. DCS Owen Hardcastle proved himself to be a master of that. The night before a consignment of gold worth the best part of three million quid had been busted out of a bullion van on the way to Heathrow. Two of the security guards got shot. One died on the spot, the other in hospital. Eileen was down in Whitstable. Alf Hawkins had been at home at the time watching telly on his own, too lazy to go down the pub. Owen Hardcastle must have known that somehow because when the evidence got laid out in court it seemed so strong, so incontrovertible, the briefs never even put the case into the review system when the evil bastard fled the Met and Britain leaving a nasty string of allegations in his wake.

  He’d been one of the new breed of media-f
riendly officers, university-educated and prone to quoting literature at press conferences. Popular in the newspapers and on TV. Seemingly sent down more than a few real villains too, one of them being Alf Hawkins, a criminal mastermind masquerading as a decent, honest citizen. Dead boring and invisible when in truth he was an animal who shot dead a couple of security guards without a second thought, which Alf still found remarkable given that at the time he was actually watching EastEnders, bored to bits.

  ‘That man’s the crim,’ Norm said, jabbing a big finger into Alf Hawkins’ chest. ‘Not you. We’re as bad as ’im if we let ’im get away with it. You read what the newspapers said when he legged it from London? Reckoned he was wanted for all manner of stuff. Murder. Robbery. Corruption. Rottenest copper the Yard ever ’ad. An’ …’

  ‘Didn’t help me, did it?’ Alf said, putting his hand on the big man’s arm. ‘I know all this. It’s done with. I’m here. I’m free. I can’t get those years back. I got Eileen to think about.’

  ‘He murdered people. Good as killed you. I saw what you were like in the Scrubs.’ He hesitated then said it anyway. ‘You still don’t look right to me. I gave ’em reason to make me do time. You didn’t. We all knew what you was. Not what ’Ardcastle made out.’

  The little GEEZA gathering at the bar had gone silent. You weren’t supposed to have serious conversations Tuesday nights in the Donkey. It was a time to sink beer and talk man crap.

  ‘I never asked you for nuffink before.’ The big finger was jabbing again. ‘Not till now. This sod’s evil. A monster …’

  ‘Tell the police …’

  ‘You think they’d believe a big, stupid ug like me? Peckham villain fresh out of chokey?’

  ‘Then—’

  ‘No arguing. You preached a lot about justice when we was inside. About how it mattered. You’re coming with me tomorrow. We’re going to take a look at this palace of his. See it for yourself. Tell me there’s justice there.’

  Alf finished his San Mig, said nothing.

  ‘I’ll meet you in the Lidl car park next to Burger King,’ Norm said. ‘You know that?’

  ‘Would I dine or seek provisions anywhere else?’ Alf asked.

  ‘Still a sarky old bugger, aren’t you? Something I s’pose. Ten o’clock sharp. Be there.’

  He didn’t like lying to Eileen but there didn’t seem much choice. So he told her GEEZA had fixed a fishing trip to the reservoirs, looking for carp. Took out the rod and gear, got her to drop him off where Norm said, ten minutes early.

  The stuttering cake shop was ‘developing a new business strategy’, she said. It seemed to involve doughnuts. There was a suspicious cast in her eye all the same. The fishing tackle was a gift when they turned up in Spain, a way of trying to give him things to do. He’d never got an inch of it wet.

  Norm turned up with a red van, lettering on the side: English Carpenter, Excellent Work, Great Value, No Siestas. He said he’d sunk every last penny of his meagre savings into coming to the Costa, renting a little flat on the edge of town and trying to build a new life, a new business out of nothing.

  Everyone in the Scrubs reckoned he’d been a great chippie on the outside, though how they knew … That life seemed oddly remote now. As if it happened to a different man. Jail wasn’t a place he ever wanted to see again. Something had been taken from him there and he knew it was never coming back. Maybe that was why the idea that fugitive Detective Chief Superintendent Owen Hardcastle was living high on the hog just round the corner got to him. Norm was a smart man, whatever he thought of himself. He understood that too.

  The story was simple. Just into his new career as a bespoke carpenter for the expats of southern Spain, Norm had been given a job up in the hills behind Mijas. A remote place, surrounded by pines and exotic vegetation. Cash in hand, no questions asked. Refurb requiring some fancy woodwork and maximum discretion.

  The man who answered the door was middle-aged, tall, a bit aristocratic. Posh London voice, smart clothes, dolly bird by the huge infinity pool overlooking the hills down to the sea. Lived there a year, he said. Needed some work done out back in the private quarters.

  Tap of nose with that. Private.

  Norm usually worked the tower blocks of south London. But he could handle mahogany and walnut veneers when required which was right up the street of Mr Matthew Warman, retired financier from the City of London (ha, ha). Gun cases, polished wood and glass, a proper little private armoury. And not just shotguns either. Revolvers. Assault weapons. Knives. Stuff Norm couldn’t guess at.

  Alf listened then said the obvious.

  ‘Doesn’t mean it’s him.’

  They were sitting in the front of the van. The chippie reached behind, searched inside his toolboxes, came back with a set of photos, placed them on Alf’s lap and said, ‘I ’appened upon these when I was clearing out his old cabinets. Purloined a few as it were.’

  Men in uniform. Upper-ranking police officers at receptions, getting medals, meeting politicians and a few celebs. One face in every picture. The lean, smiling, supercilious features of DCS Owen Hardcastle.

  ‘Our man’s ’ad the surgeons in,’ Norm said. ‘Don’t look quite like that today. Weeny little moustache not far off ’Itler’s and the kind of tan you don’t get from Tetleys. But you know ’im, Alf. You must have seen ’im often enough what with the court case an’ everything. We get close enough today. You’ll cop that smug-faced bastard. Then tell me I’m an idiot.’

  Norm’s hand went to the keys. Alf stopped him.

  ‘If it is Hardcastle he’s filthy rich, settled here and armed to the teeth. The man’s not going to take warmly to us marching in there, is he?’

  ‘Thought of that,’ Norm said and they set off for the hills.

  It took twenty-five minutes. A different part of the Costa. Vast mansions hidden in trees behind high gates. Midway between two such palaces Norm stopped the van next to a smart new Fiat parked wheels up on the slope to a stone wall. A man got out, Spanish-looking, white shirt and blue jeans, about forty, short, didn’t smile, face mostly hidden behind a pair of large sunglasses. Norm introduced him as his friend Bruno. He said he was from Madrid and spoke good English but with an accent. After a handshake Bruno passed over a serious pair of binoculars. Then said they ought to talk after Alf had eyeballed the man in the big house and made up his mind.

  There didn’t seem a lot of point in asking questions.

  Half a mile up the road Norm told him to stay by the gates, got himself in through the intercom and walked up the drive.

  Alf Hawkins stayed behind the pillar out of sight. If he knew Owen Hardcastle then Owen Hardcastle surely knew him.

  After a few minutes Norm came out with a tall man in tight swimming trunks, a tanned beer gut flopping over them. A slim blonde in a bikini emerged briefly, gave Mr Speedo a drink then disappeared inside.

  From a comfortable position close to the gate Alf turned the binoculars on Norm’s new acquaintance and kept them there.

  The moustache was new, more British military officer than Hitler.

  They talked for all of two minutes. When he came back through the big security gates Norm said, ‘That bugger’s so high up on his horse it’s a miracle he can see us little people down here. I offered to build him a gazebo. Seemed a gazebo sort of bloke to me. Could use the work. But nah—’

  ‘Norm …’

  The man from Peckham shushed him.

  ‘Let’s not talk now.’

  Bruno took them to a roadside bar for beer. There he gave a little talk about how different Andalucian food was from that in Madrid, then ordered a few plates of tapas: mushrooms, prawns, patatas bravas, some live clams called conchas finas.

  ‘Is it him?’ he asked squeezing lemon on a blob of orange and white shellfish, watching it wriggle with shock, then popping a cocktail stick into the shiny flesh and wolfing it down.

  Alf stuck with the mushrooms and the potatoes.

  ‘Had some work done on his mush. That tash looks
dead stupid. It’s him.’

  Bruno squeezed lemon juice on another shell and sighed.

  ‘This Warman’s a big man around here. A supporter of many charities. An attendee at all the great functions.’ A smile, the first Alf had seen. ‘A friend of the mayor and the chief of police. Very close, I believe.’

  ‘He’s a hood,’ Norm said. ‘Got enough guns in there to start a small war. I seen them. I made his damned cabinets, didn’t I?’

  ‘I told you, Norm. He’s a person of importance around here. What’s that English expression?’ the Spaniard asked with a brief smile. ‘Ah, I remember. Thick as thieves.’

  When he shrugged his shoulders the corners of his mouth went right down, further than seemed possible. Like that football manager who used to be with Chelsea, except he was Portuguese.

  ‘You’re the man he sent to prison,’ Bruno added looking straight at him. ‘Whose life he ruined. This is your job if it’s anyone’s. There would be …’ He took a sip of beer. ‘Compensation, I believe. Considerable, I imagine. Life-changing.’

  He looked round. They were outside, overlooking a small garden. No one to see them but a half-slumbering dog and a few chickens.

  ‘You’ll want this,’ the man said and passed over a handgun and a pack of shells.

  Alf Hawkins was no stranger to this particular weapon. Common or garden Glock 17.

  Then Bruno looked at his watch and said, ‘I must go now. Tomorrow, Señor Hawkins. It cannot wait.’

  Nine o’clock the next morning, thirty minutes before Norm was meant to pick him up, Eileen walked into the front room, deposited the gun on the table and said in a voice stiff with fury, ‘What the hell’s this? Care to tell me?’

  ‘It’s a gun, dear,’ he replied. ‘What’s it look like?’

  Arms folded, standing over him as he sat in the living room, she muttered, ‘I can see that.’

  They never rowed much, not in forty years of marriage.

  ‘You shouldn’t go looking through my things,’ he said as mildly as he could manage.

  ‘I wanted to know if you’d used that fishing rod I bought you. That was a lie too, wasn’t it?’