by Mark Timlin
I sat in the guest’s chair and watched as Day and Stretch got ready for the show to start. Day obviously forgot all about me as he got into his presenter’s mode. I didn’t mind. It was an interesting experience watching him, and I wondered if we’d get a call from Sector 88 during the next three hours. As it happens, we didn’t. In fact, the whole show was pretty dull that night. Later on he told me that it happened that way sometimes.
Pretty dull, that is, until it was almost over. It was ten to three when the call came. By that time I’d moved my chair round behind Day, so that I could read what was coming up on the computer. I was also wearing a pair of lightweight Koss headphones plugged into one of the sockets on the desk in front of him. I saw the name come up in light green print on the darker green screen. ‘John from Stockwell’, it read. ‘Paranoid.’ Day looked through the glass partition at Stretch and smiled to himself. It was his choice. Play or pass. He played.
‘And now John from Stockwell,’ he said. ‘Talk to me, John.’
‘Hello, Peter,’ said a voice in my ears. It was a strange voice. Cold, with no trace of an accent, like a robot’s. But I put that down to the telephone line.
‘Hello, John,’ Day replied. ‘What words of wisdom have you found down Stockwell way on this Monday night?’
‘Tuesday morning,’ said the voice.
‘My apologies there, John. Let’s be accurate in all things.’ Day turned his head and winked at me. ‘So what’s up?’
‘I just wanted to talk.’
‘Are you lonely, John?’
‘Everyone’s lonely, Peter. We’re born lonely and we die lonely.’
‘A philosopher,’ said Day. ‘Just what we need at this late hour. Thank God I can get out of here soon and go home to bed.’
‘Don’t mock me, Peter,’ said the voice. ‘You mock everything and everyone, don’t you?’
‘That’s my life, John,’ said Day. ‘Not an easy one, but mine nevertheless.’
‘Why do you mock?’
I saw Day glance at the clock on the studio wall. It was just coming up to eight minutes to three. ‘Because it’s what I do best, John,’ he said. ‘It’s what I enjoy.’
‘I enjoy doing some things too, Peter,’ said the voice.
‘Like what? Share your pearls of wisdom with a waiting world. Or at least the part reached by our transmitters.’
‘I enjoy killing people, Peter,’ said the voice. I looked at Day who shrugged, then through at Stretch who also shrugged. Day motioned for the call to go on. Seven to three.
‘Of course you do, John,’ he said. ‘So do I when there’s an R in the month.’
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ said the voice.
‘Like I believe in Santa Claus,’ said Day.
‘Then I’ll have to show you,’ said the voice, and there was a note of triumph in his tone, as if that was exactly what he’d wanted Day to say.
‘Do it then, John,’ said Day, and cut him off in mid-gloat, going into a short station break. ‘Paranoid was right,’ he said to me. ‘Where do these insects come from? Oh, well, just one more.’ I looked at the next name on the screen. ‘Marge from Clapham’, it read. ‘She’s an old friend of mine who claims that an angel lives in her roof and flies out to do good at three every night,’ said Day as the break ended. ‘Marge, what’s the flight plan tonight? Do tell.’
Five minutes later he wrapped up the show and handed over to Jack Kelly who jocked the Early Bird show from three to six from Studio One. Day flipped the toggle of the intercom. ‘Whaddya say, Stretch?’
‘Another night, another nicker,’ he replied. Pragmatic man, our Stretch. And not a bad judge.
‘Drinking?’ said Day.
Stretch pulled a face. ‘I need food.’
‘Ben’s is open.’
Stretch pulled another face.
‘I’m buying,’ said Day.
‘Double chilli?’
‘It’s your stomach.’
‘You’re on.’
‘What about you, Nick?’ said Day. ‘You coming too?’
‘Might as well make a night of it,’ I replied.
‘Good man. Do you know Ben’s?’
‘Who doesn’t?’
Ben’s is an all-night licensed café, takeaway and pool hall on the borders of Brixton and Loughborough Junction. I think everyone in the area knows it. It’s a hang-out for cabbies, nurses and doctors from King’s College Hospital, off duty coppers, crooks, clubbers returning home, and obviously the night staff at Sunset Radio. The speciality of the house is enchiladas. Hot and cheesy. At three in the morning they are a guarantee of no sleep. I usually stick to the Mexican beer that Ben serves straight from the deep freeze with a rime of ice on the bottom of the bottle. With double chilli, you not only get a sleepless night, but also breath so fiery you can empty a bus. I marvelled at the strength of Stretch’s stomach lining.
‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
We went in his car, a top of the range Audi with four-wheel drive and an in-car stereo system that could wake up a cemetery. He put on some Bunny Wailer and jacked up the volume. It was only a short drive and I thought my ears could stand it. We left three months’ supply of rubber on the road as we peeled away. Stretch’s driving made double chilli look attractive. We walked into Ben’s at three-twenty precisely.
Ben was behind the counter chewing glumly on a piece of Mozzarella. Next to him was his son, who did most of the cooking whilst Ben did most of the moaning. Ben pushed himself to the front when we came in. The radio was tuned to Sunset, and George Jones was giving it plenty of lachrymose country ballad with a steel guitar backing.
Ben gave the three of us a morose look then said to me, ‘Hey, Nick Sharman. You ain’t been in here for yonks. Where you been? I thought you was dead, or inside.’
‘Hello, Ben,’ I said in reply. ‘It’s good to see you, too.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, examining the cheese. ‘Now why you hangin’ out with these bums?’ He gave Day and Stretch a beady look. ‘You get yourself into trouble.’
‘I can do that well enough for myself.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ he said. Then to Day: ‘Who that geezer?’
‘Who?’ said Day.
‘That last geezer – John. Say he like to kill people. You shouldn’t allow that, Peter. He taking the piss. You got that thingummybob that cut the nutters off. Use it.’
‘Ben knows almost as much about running a radio station as we do,’ said Day.
‘More,’ said Ben.
‘I thought I was the one taking the piss,’ said Day. I could tell he wasn’t pleased.
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Ben, pulling from the fridge three beers so cold that your hand stuck to the bottle. ‘I know better.’
‘Yeah, Ben.’
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘You wanna eat?’
Stretch chimed in. ‘Give me a full cheese with double chilli.’
‘You?’ said Ben to me as his son ambled over to the stove.
‘Egg and bacon sandwich.’
‘You want chilli sauce on the egg?’ said Ben.
‘No, Ben, I don’t.’
‘You, Peter?’ asked Ben.
‘How’s the chip fat?’ asked Day innocently.
‘Hot,’ said Ben. ‘How you think it is?’
‘Is it clean?’ Day winked at me.
‘What the fuck you saying? This is a clean place.’
‘Immaculate,’ said Day. ‘The cockroaches always wash their hands after they’ve been to the toilet.’
Ben went so red I thought he was going to have a seizure. ‘What you mean?’ he demanded, and glared at the other customers who were beginning to look a little uncomfortable. ‘You saying my place got bugs? You shit.’
‘Only joking, Ben,’ said Day. ‘Give me a chip butty.’
‘Come on, Ben,’ said Day. ‘Give me a chip butty and I’ll give you a free plug on the air tomorrow night.’
‘Two.’
‘OK, two.’
‘One chip butty coming up. Chilli?’
‘No, thanks.’
Whilst Ben threw a handful of already half-cooked potatoes into the sizzling fat, I said, ‘What did you think of that call?’
‘Crazy man,’ said Stretch. ‘We get ’em all the time.’
Day nodded. ‘He’s right. If we worried about freaks like that, we’d never get a show on air. Forget about him. He was probably wanking himself whilst he was talking. A fucking pervert.’
Stretch laughed and said, ‘Pool, gentlemen? Who fancies paying my car tax for the year?’
‘Watch him,’ said Day. ‘A perfect example of a misspent youth.’
Day and I waited for the food whilst Stretch went into the back to rack up the pool balls. Ben and his son joined us later, and Ben brought a litre bottle of Tequila with him. Why a Bubble loved Mexican food and drink so much I’ll never know. I ended up losing fifty nicker to Stretch, and getting so pissed I had to get a cab home.
6
After all that I didn’t wake up until noon, feeling like something the cat would turn up its nose at, much less drag in, out, or anywhere else. When will I ever learn?
I drank several cups of tea and managed to force down a slice of toast and strawberry conserve, then phoned an old friend of mine who worked at Lambeth Town Hall. I got several wrong connections and spent a spell in switchboard limbo before I got put through to the poll tax division. The land that time forgot. ‘Community Charge,’ said a voice I recognised at the other end of the line.
‘Andy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nick. Nick Sharman.’
‘Hello, Nick, long time. How are you?’
‘Not bad. You?’
‘Terrible. It’s this bloody job. It’s doing me in.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘You remember what I used to be like,’ he went on as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘I used to swim, play squash, cricket, football. I was in good shape. Didn’t smoke or drink.’ I knew I’d have to let him get it out of his system before he’d listen to me. ‘Christ! Now I smoke sixty a day and drink like a fish. I swear I’ve got an ulcer, chronic dandruff, and piles.’
‘It’s a tough life,’ I said.
‘I’m sure I’d beat my wife and kids if I had any. But who’d have me? I’ve put on two stone and my hair’s falling out. I’ll be glad when we get shot of this lot. Have you paid yours?’
‘What?’
‘Your Community Charge, of course.’
‘Most of it.’
‘Most of it! See what I mean? Have you had a summons?’
‘One or two,’ I said. ‘Every time I get one I send a few quid and they go away.’
‘Charming. You’re just the sort of person I need.’ He paused for a beat. ‘Christ, but you’re a bloody liar, Nick.’
‘Do what?’
‘I’ve just brought your file up on the screen. You’ve paid fifty quid.’
‘Well, that’s most of it, isn’t it?’
‘That’s bollocks and you know it.’
‘Sorry, mate, it sort of slipped my mind.’
‘It’s people like you who’re driving me to drink.’
‘Sorry,’ I said again.
‘So what are you after, a rebate?’ he asked. I was glad to hear he hadn’t totally lost his sense of humour.
‘A body.’
‘Dead or alive?’
‘Alive. At least he was a couple of months ago.’
‘Makes a change.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘He was seen at the Elephant and Castle.’
‘It’s a long shot.’
‘But worth a try.’
‘Why should I do you any favours?’
‘Old times.’
‘Bollocks. I tell you what, send me a cheque for the balance of your charge and I’ll see what I can do.’
‘It’s urgent,’ I said.
‘When is it anything else with you? Send me a cheque.’
‘I’m doing it now,’ I lied.
He sighed. ‘You know this is highly illegal, don’t you, Nick? These files and the information included in them are supposed to be confidential.’
‘I’m not any old Tom, Dick or Harry,’ I said. ‘This is a matter of life and death.’
‘Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’
The silence stretched along the line. ‘Andy?’ I said eventually.
He sighed. ‘What name?’
‘Eddie Cochran.’
‘Are you fucking serious? Is this a wind-up?’
‘No.’
‘Eddie Cochran! I don’t know. Whatever will they come up with next? How about Mick Jagger? We’ve got hundreds of them. Or Mickey Mouse? Frank N Stein? Bloody Arnold Schwarzenegger if you want.’
‘Eddie Cochran,’ I repeated.
‘Are you sure this isn’t a wind-up?’
‘Perfectly sure. Try Edward Vincent Cochran.’
He didn’t answer for a moment then said, ‘Blimey, he’s here.’
‘Where?’
‘Kennington. A recent change of address.’
‘That sounds like it might be him. Where was he before?’
He read out Mrs Cochran’s address in Herne Hill. ‘That’s my boy,’ I said. ‘Where’s he moved to?’
‘The Walpole Estate. Heavy duty, Nick. The locals call it “Rancho Notorious”. Bad hombres hang out there, pardner. Even the burglars go about in twos.’
‘Amusing, Andy,’ I said. ‘I know the place. It’s no better or worse than any other estate round there.’
‘Which isn’t saying much.’
‘So give me the exact address.’
‘Thirty-nine, Maxwell House.’
‘Like the coffee?’
‘No, like Robert Maxwell. They named half the estate after prominent socialists from the sixties. Wilson, Benn. You know Lambeth.’
‘Bad mistake with Maxwell after what happened.’
‘That’s life.’
‘Too right. Has Edward Vincent paid, by the way?’
‘He’s bang up to date. An honest citizen, and an unusual one in that neck of the woods.’
‘Wonders will never cease.’
‘There’s got to be one.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Listen, I owe you for this. How about a drink one night?’
‘With you? Christ, aren’t I in enough trouble?’
‘It’ll take your mind off work.’
‘OK, Nick. You can buy me a couple. I’ll give you a ring. Still at the same number?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ll be in touch. And, Nick?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Don’t forget the cheque, will you?’
‘It’s in the post.’
7
I went to the address Andy had given me for Cochran right away, hangover and all. I took a cab to where I’d left my car. Luckily it was in a side road, not on a yellow line, so it hadn’t been towed away. It was the best time to visit the estate. The kids who bothered to go were at school. Anybody with a job was busy earning a crust, and most of the rest were still tucked up safely in bed. There were a few signs of urban unrest littered about. Shards of glass from about a million broken bottles, a few burnt-out shells of cars, and boarded-up flats with smoke-blackened bricks above the windows. The usual.
I parked my car on a street on the edge of the estate, out of harm’s way, and walked through the flats until I found Maxwell House. It
was a grey, water-stained tower block with a pile of old furniture where the dustbins used to be. A big black rat poked his head out from between the cushions of a G-plan sofa, decided I wasn’t edible and scampered away to find something that was.
Cochran’s flat was on the tenth floor. Of course the lift was out. I caught up with an old lady struggling between the second and third floors, and carried her shopping as far as the fifth. By then I was knackered. I think she’d bought every tin in the supermarket. I refused her offer of a cup of tea and soldiered on. By the time I reached ten I was wishing I’d never got into the Tequila the night before, and had persevered with the nicotine-flavoured chewing gum and cut out the fags.
The door of Cochran’s flat was covered with a steel shutter. Not exactly my idea of a warm welcome. I rang the doorbell next to it. A minute went by and I rang again. After another minute I heard signs of life from the other side of the metal. Eventually it was opened, and the subject of one of the Polaroids I had in my pocket stood in the doorway. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Eddie Cochran?’ I asked, although I knew it was and saying the name made me feel foolish.
‘What if it is?’
‘My name’s Nick Sharman. I’m a private detective.’ I gave him one of my cards which he glanced at and handed back to me.
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Your wife’s dog’s gone missing. She’s asked me to look into its disappearance.’ Saying that made me feel even more foolish.
He grinned an evil grin. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you want me to do about it?’
‘I’d like to talk to you.’
‘You’d better come through,’ he said. ‘I’m in the kitchen.’
I followed him down the hall. The door to the kitchen in front of us was open, and was the only light source. The other four doors off the hall were closed.
We went into a room which had a view of the War Museum and over to the river beyond. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Thanks.’
‘So the little bastard’s gone,’ he said as he plugged in the kettle. ‘Too bad.’
‘Your wife thinks you might have taken him.’
‘Does she, the bitch? She would. As if I’ve got nothing better to do.’
