by Mark Timlin
‘Who was that? Your mum?’ asked Harold. ‘You been staying out late again?’
‘Shut your cake-hole or I’ll shut it for you,’ barked Robber. ‘Don’t you mention my mum.’
Robber was very sensitive about his mother. I remember the day she died. I’d almost died that day too, and I’d never let Robber forget it.
‘Cut it out, you two,’ I said. I felt a bit like a mother myself by then. A mother with a pair of fractious toddlers, trying to get round Tesco’s without strangling them. ‘Let’s get out of here and scout round Tootsie’s. She’s got to be there… shit I don’t know. But let’s go and have a squint anyway.’
On the way we stopped for something to eat. Harold parked the Beemer outside a McDonalds’ in Peckham and he and Robber went inside. They brought me back a Big Mac, fries and a Coke, and although I was starving, I couldn’t eat more than a mouthful. I was too worried about Judith and everything else that had gone off. I drank the Coke and threw the rest back in the bag and left it on the floor of the car.
Then Harold took us on a tour of Tootsie’s establishments. All was quiet, and we didn’t try and go inside any of them. It was too risky. We weren’t mob-handed enough, and even if Tootsie was holding Judith, we didn’t know exactly where. I was getting more and more pissed off with every passing moment.
The phone rang again at three as it was just getting dark and a cold wind came up, dispersing the mist and bringing in heavy grey clouds full of snow that closed in over London.
‘Sharman. You ready?’ said the voice I’d come to recognize.
‘Is Judith OK?’ I asked.
‘Fit as a flea.’
‘If you’ve touched her…’
‘Man. We don’t want her body. She’s too scrawny. All we want is what’s in that bag you got.’
‘Let me speak to her.’
There was a pause, then Judith came on. She sounded tearful and frightened and my heart went out to her. ‘Daddy? How much longer?’ she said.
‘Not long. Are you all right?’
‘Fine. Just come and get me.’
‘Soon,’ I assured her, and the bloke came back on.
‘Talk to me,’ I said.
‘Five o’clock tonight. Get yourself down to Clapham. We meet on the common at the back of The Windmill pub. You know it?’
‘Sure.’
‘Right. Park up on the road that runs past the lake. What you driving?’
‘A silver BMW Alpine.’
There was a pause. ‘Where’d you get that?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘I borrowed it off a friend.’
‘Would that friend be Mr B by any chance?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So you’re not alone?’
It was pointless to lie. ‘No.’
‘Be alone, or the deal’s off. Park as close to the pub as you can. Leave the headlights on and stand by the car. We’ll find you.’
‘And?’
‘And we do a swap. Simple, man. Just be there unarmed and solo. Otherwise you looking at a firefight, brother. A firefight I promise you won’t survive. Or your little girl. Five o’clock. Be there. And no fucking tricks.’
And he rang off again.
71
I told Robber and Harold what had occurred, and Harold said, ‘We can go and get the rest of the boys. Get them tooled up.’
‘We’re talking about my daughter’s life here,’ I said. ‘No way, Harold. I’m not risking her getting caught in the crossfire.’
‘So what do we do then?’
‘We do exactly what we’re told. You two make yourselves scarce and I swap the drugs for Judith.’
‘Mr B won’t be pleased.’
‘Fuck Mr B,’ I said. ‘And the horse he rode in on. We do what we’re told. You two can piss off into the boozer. I wait by the car with the stuff and do the business.’
‘What happens if they take the dope and keep her?’ asked Harold.
‘Why should they? Once they’ve got the stuff, her value is zero.’ At least I hoped it was. What Harold suggested was too dreadful to contemplate.
‘I don’t trust them, whoever they are,’ said Robber.
‘I don’t trust them either,’ I said. ‘But what can we do? We have to take their word they’ll do what they say.’
‘You spoke to her?’ Robber again.
‘Yeah.’
‘She sounded OK?’
‘Frightened, but I don’t think they’ve hurt her, if that’s what you mean.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean.’
‘No,’ I shook my head. ‘I’d know. She wouldn’t be able to hide that.’
‘Well that’s something, at least,’ said Robber.
‘I think I should tell Mr B,’ said Harold.
‘Harold,’ I said. ‘You don’t tell Mr B anything. You shtum up. You can tell him all about it after.’
‘But what about the dope?’
‘Fuck the dope,’ I said, feeling as if my head was about to explode. ‘Listen, Harold. When we’ve done the exchange we’ll have a good idea who’s got the stuff and then you can go in team-handed and get it back if you want. You’ve done it once, what’s to stop you doing it again? But for now you will drive to Clapham and find a place to park up.’
72
We got to Clapham Common before four. Harold took a left into Windmill Drive that runs between the South Circ and Clapham Common South Side and parked facing the main road, as close as possible to what the geezer on the phone had described as the lake, but in fact was just a pond. Eagle Pond, in fact, trivia fans. It was fully dark by then and there were only a few lights on the drive. The clouds had lowered, the wind had dropped, a few snowflakes fell from the midnight-coloured sky and ice had formed at the edge of the water. It was freezing cold and miserable, and I felt about as depressed as it’s possible to be without finishing it all.
Harold left the engine running to keep the heater going and said, ‘What now?’
‘Now you two go and warm your feet by the fire in the pub and have a drink. I stay here with the dope and Jack’s phone – and my guns, just in case – and with any luck by five past five we can all go about our various business.’
‘You’re coming with me to tell Mr B what went down,’ said Harold. ‘I ain’t gonna be the one to explain. I ain’t gonna be the one to feel the heat of his wrath.’ Harold could be almost biblical at times.
‘Whatever you want, Harold,’ I said. ‘Just as long as Judith is safe.’
He shook his head and sighed, and Robber said, ‘Come on, Harold. I’m dying for a pint. And with a bit of luck they might have some hot mince pies in there.’ He always was a great man for his stomach, was Robber.
They both got out of the car and I called Robber back and said, ‘Don’t let him use the phone and if he goes to the khazi, go with him.’ I saw his face in the reflection from the dashboard. ‘Don’t worry about all that, Jack. Just do it. He’s probably got a mobile on him somewhere and I don’t want a posse of heavily armed spades turning up here and ruining everything.’
‘OK, Sharman,’ he said. ‘And you be careful, you hear?’
‘I hear you,’ I said, and I watched enviously as they walked towards the beckoning lights of The Windmill, and I settled down to wait.
73
Christmas Eve evening
I turned off the lights but left the engine running to keep the heater going, tuned the radio into a funk station and watched the world go by. Not that much of it did. Just the occasional civilian walking the dog, a few punters going into the boozer, and the cars on the main road in front of me, their tyres hissing on the pavement.
At five to five the phone rang. It was the kidnapper. ‘You alone?’ he asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Put the headlights on full beam, get out
of the car with the stuff, and wait.’
I did as I was told, holding the case in front of me in full sight.
At five o’clock precisely a dark-coloured Ford Scorpio rumbled out of the darkness. It had tinted windows, so I couldn’t see inside, but I knew this was the one.
It drew up next to me, facing towards the South Circular, and simultaneously the driver’s and the rear passenger’s windows ran down. The driver was the big black guy I’d met at Darkman’s flat and behind him sat another spade, one I’d never seen before, and who I assumed was my anonymous caller. Next to him I saw Judith’s blonde hair and pale, drawn face. Of the Darkman there was no sign.
‘You alone?’ said the mysterious passenger again, and I recognized his voice as the geezer on the phone.
‘Yeah.’
‘No one in the car?’
‘No.’
‘That the stuff?’ He nodded at the case.
‘Yeah.’
‘Show.’
I opened it wide enough for him to see the dope in the reflection from the Beemer’s headlights.
‘Give.’
‘Let my daughter go first.’
‘Girl,’ he said, and she opened the door on the other side of the Ford.
This was the bad moment. The actual exchange. Where if anything was going to go wrong it would.
And it did. Big time.
As I was about to hand in the case and Judith was halfway out of the car, the driver said, ‘You sure there’s no one in the car?’
‘’Course I am,’ I replied, as the guy in the back took the case from my hands.
‘Hope so,’ said the driver and hauled out a stubby, short-barrelled TEC-22 and sprayed the Beemer with 9mm bullets.
‘Motherfucker,’ I said, jumping sideways to avoid the slugs that cannoned off the car as the bullets shot sparks from the metalwork and the petrol tank blew, nearly knocking me over, and the case hit the road and bounced into the gutter.
Then, out of nowhere, Harold arrived, the Mini-Uzi in his hands, and he started to fire at the Ford, bullets ripping into the back end.
‘No!’ I screamed, as Judith ducked down. ‘No, you stupid prat! Stop!’
Robber was behind him, the S&W in his fist.
I clawed for the Detonics in my belt as the Ford’s driver turned the TEC on Harold and Robber, stitching a line of holes across Harold’s chest and knocking Robber off his feet, as the guy in the back threw himself across the seat, grabbed Judith and dragged her back into the Ford as the driver put his foot down and the Scorpio fishtailed away with a screech from the back tyres.
I stood in the flickering light of the burning BMW, gun in hand, and looked at the carnage. Harold was making horrible sucking noises from the wounds in his chest and Robber was rolling on the ground, clutching at his thigh where a bullet, or more likely a ricochet, from the look of the wound, had hit him.
I ran over and knelt beside him. ‘Not again,’ he said. ‘Get a fucking ambulance!’
I did as he told me, keying 999 into his mobile. ‘Ambulance,’ I said when the operator answered. ‘Windmill Pub, Clapham Common. Two men down with bullet wounds. One serious, one not so bad.’
‘Your name please,’ said the operator calmly, as if that sort of thing happened every day, which in south London was truer than most people imagined.
‘Just do it,’ I said and cut her off.
‘Are you OK?’ I said to Robber.
‘Stupid fucking question,’ he said through white lips. ‘I couldn’t stop him.’
‘Well he paid for it,’ I said, looking at Harold’s prone body.
‘Go,’ said Robber. ‘Get out of here.’
‘But…’
‘But nothing. There’s nothing you can do. Go.’
I stood and looked round. The Beemer was out of the game, still burning merrily, and a crowd had gathered outside the pub to watch the fun, some still with drinks in their hands. Less than twenty yards away in the car park a bloke was standing, one foot inside the driver’s door of a new Vauxhall Omega, the keys hanging from one finger. It wasn’t my car of choice, but beggars can’t be choosers, so I stood and ran towards him. I left Harold’s Uzi, which was hopelessly tangled up in his coat, but picked up Robber’s magnum, which I stuck into the pocket of my jacket where its weight dragged the material down, then grabbed the case of dope from where it had fallen. Too late, the geezer with the Vauxhall realized what was happening and made to get into the car. ‘Stop!’ I said. He did, with a look of surprise on his fat face. ‘Gimme the keys,’ I demanded.
‘Not my car,’ he said. ‘I just got it for Christmas.’
‘Hope it’s run in,’ I said as I took the keys, pushed him aside, threw the Detonics, the case and the mobile on to the passenger seat and was hit by the smell of new car. It was automatic, so I switched on the engine, revved it up and threw the stick into ‘DRIVE’ and the motor took off with a rattle of dirt under the bodywork as I screeched across the grass and bumped down on to Clapham Common South Side, and headed towards town and away from trouble.
Or into more.
74
As I drove along Clapham High Street, an ambulance passed me going in the opposite direction towards the common. Poor old Robber. Every time he helped me out he ended up in A & E.
I hoped he was going to be OK.
I looked at Robber’s mobile, expecting it to ring at any moment, when the battery indicator started flashing and the light that illuminated the tiny screen went dim, then blinked out altogether, letting me know, just at the wrong moment, that my communication system was down.
‘Shit, shit, shit!’ I yelled, banging on the steering wheel with my fist. God, was Judith all right? Would I ever see her alive again? Where was the Darkman? What the bloody hell was going on? And where could I go?
Soon the car I was driving would be the hottest ticket in town, and I was alone again.
For something to do, I headed for Deptford once more through the snow that was still slowly falling. When I got to Darkman’s flat, it was just as Harold, Robber and I had left it, the door still slightly ajar and no one inside. I was amazed. I would’ve imagined that the local scallywags would’ve been through it like a bad curry if they’d seen it open and deserted for so long. Perhaps the big black guy had been right: no one messed with the Darkman’s stuff. Even when he wasn’t around. I found a half-full bottle of Scotch in the living room and drank straight from the neck, and went back into the coke again for company. The flat was cold and I was pissed off. I lit a cigarette and thought that I was about as far up shit creek, paddleless, as I’d ever been in my not particularly illustrious career.
And I missed Judith. And Laura. And another woman who’d been dead for too long and whose pretty face I’d never see again, or hear her silly, beautiful laugh as it tickled my back when we lay in bed together. And I missed a tiny baby girl I’d only seen once, after she’d been cut out of her mother’s womb after they’d both burnt to death.
I went looking for the Rover 600 I’d got from Charlie and left parked up outside Darkman’s block. Miraculously it was still there in one piece and started on the button. At least that took care of the transport problems. Whilst I let the engine warm up to drive the heater, I sat and had a think.
There was only one place I could go where I might pick up a clue.
So I headed again for the whorehouse in Maida Vale.
75
I got there around seven-thirty and stashed the Rover at the back of a block of flats on the next street. I didn’t want to park it out front in case I had to beat a hasty retreat and someone spotted the number. There were signs everywhere about illegally parked cars being clamped. But I didn’t think they’d be working that late on Christmas Eve. And if they were, I’d just have to hijack another motor. Ho-hum. All in a day’s work.
I walked round to the h
ouse and buzzed on the entryphone. As I stood and waited, I turned my collar to the cold and damp and watched the thin coating of snow that lay on the streets being blown into tiny drifts against the front walls.
After a minute I buzzed again, and with a click, a female voice answered. ‘It’s Christmas Eve, we’re closed,’ she said.
‘Is that May?’ I said.
‘No. It’s Emily.’
The Chinese girl.
‘Hi, Emily,’ I said. ‘Is May there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get her for me, will you?’
‘We’re still closed.’
‘Get her please, dear.’ I was getting bored. And colder by the minute.
I stood there for another thirty seconds before another voice came on and I recognized May’s Liverpool accent. ‘We’re closed,’ she said. ‘Even we need a break at Christmas.’
‘That’s what I’m looking for too, May,’ I replied, ‘a break. It’s Nick Sharman.’
There was a pause. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, and she didn’t sound overjoyed.
‘Well it ain’t Father Christmas,’ I said. ‘Otherwise, I’d’ve just popped down the chimney.’
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘To come in. I need somewhere to get my head together for a bit. And you might be able to help me.’
‘With what?’
‘Just let me in, May. It’s freezing out here and it’s not something to be discussed on the doorstep.’
‘I could just call the police.’
‘I’m sure you could. And I’m sure you’ve got friends on the force. But if you don’t let me in I’ll just shoot the door down. And your door next. Now that’s something that even your pals couldn’t cover up. Questions would be asked. And there’s all that dope you keep around the place. All I want is a bit of a warm, a drink and a little chat. Then I’ll be gone and no one ever the wiser. Come on, May. Play the game.’
There was another pause. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Come on up.’ And she buzzed me in.
