by Mark Timlin
‘I will,’ she replied, and cut me off without another word.
I spent the rest of the evening drinking and smoking in front of the TV. Not the most productive use of my time I’ll admit, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do.
6
Early In the Morning – Bobby Darin
I’d made my plans for the next day, but then plans can be changed.
At exactly seven thirty by the alarm clock next to my bed, someone started hammering on the front door and ringing both flat bells. Thankfully my downstairs neighbours were hardly there, otherwise my shaky relationship with them would only get worse.
I got out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans, ran my fingers through my hair, grabbed my keys, and barefoot, headed down one flight of stairs to the flat door, then down another to the street entrance.
I pulled it open, and I should have known, there stood Burke and Dixon.
‘What?’ was all I said.
‘Did we get you up? asked Dixon.
I didn’t bother to reply.
‘My word Sharman,’ said Dixon. ‘You are popular.’
‘How so?’
‘There’s a big cheese from Special Branch come all this way to see you.’
‘Why?’ I was still half asleep.
‘They don’t tell the likes of us.’
‘Most amiable fellow,’ said Burke. ‘Name’s Smyth. With a y.’
‘Better not keep him waiting,’ said Dixon, and gestured towards the car that was parked outside. The back door opened, and out stepped Martineau/Spencer. I might have guessed.
He pushed open the gate and headed up the garden path. Just like the one I was being led up, I thought.
He was immaculate in a grey Prince of Wales double breasted suit, a white pin-through collared shirt, and a fat flowered tie, complete with diamond tie pin. Only he’d left his stick behind. ‘Good morning,’ he said, pulling another leather case from his pocket, and flashing it in my direction. I didn’t bother to look closely. It was either as real or as fake as the police ID he’d shown me before. ‘Mr Sharman. We meet at last. So sorry to bother you at this unholy hour, but I’ve got more appointments this morning.’ He didn’t even have the manners to wink.
I said nothing. I was going to let this comedy play itself out, then maybe I’d know what the hell was going on.
He turned to the two police detectives. ‘Well chaps,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll take this from here. Wait in the car for me if you’ll be so kind. I won’t be long.’
Burke and Dixon looked a bit pissed off at this turn of events, but said nothing. Just turned and walked back towards their car.
‘Shall we go in?’ said Smyth or whatever. ‘You look a trifle déshabillé. Maybe a pair of socks…’
7
Truth Hurts – Bullet For My Valentine
He came in, and I closed the street door.
After much fro-ing and to-ing, and after you-ing, I led the way up to the flat and parked him on the sofa in the living room. The room still smelt sour from the previous evening even though I’d left the windows open when I went to bed, but there had been no breeze, just the oppressive remains of the day’s heat. There were empty glasses and a full ashtray on the coffee table which I’d left for the morning, but then I hadn’t expected an early wake up call. I didn’t bother to apologise for the mess, just loaded a tray with everything and dumped it in the kitchen next door. I went back and asked if he wanted coffee, though I didn’t care if he did or not, but I was dying for a cup. All very civilised, but I could cheerfully have throttled the bastard. He answered in the affirmative, and when I asked how he took it, he told me, ‘black as the Squeaker’s heart.’ Whoever the Squeaker was.
I left him where he was and went to the bathroom where I cleaned my teeth, took a piss, had a quick wash, and combed my hair.
Then back to the kitchen, where I fired up the coffee machine, put on some milk to heat, found clean socks balled up on the tumble dryer and pulled them on.
When the coffee was brewed and poured, I put the mugs on a tray and went back to where Smyth, as I’ll call him from now on, was waiting. I gave him his drink, then sat on the armchair opposite him. ‘So to what do I owe the pleasure of this rude awakening?’ I asked.
‘I apologise again but I do need to enlist your help. Just like I told you at our last meeting.’
‘I told you no then and I meant it.’
‘But circumstances have changed. You’re in serious trouble.’
‘Trouble of your making.’
‘But no one but you and I know that. Delicious coffee, by the way.’
‘Glad it’s to your liking. I could always tell those two dunces cooling their heels downstairs the full story.’
‘And, of course, they’d believe you over me. From their demeanour, and their comments about you this morning in their car, I doubt that very much. Now, where was I?’
‘You were about to tell me why you’ve stitched me up over the last few days.’
‘Yes, of course. You remember I mentioned bringing in someone to put a spanner in Stowe-Hartley’s works? A scorpion in his Waldorf salad. A cat amongst his pigeons.’ Enough with the idioms already, I thought.
‘I remember,’ I said.
‘Well, you are that spanner, that scorpion, that cat.’
‘Just me, against this ruthless, cunning master criminal and his cronies. Your words remember?’
‘Precisely.’
‘So why not just kill him?’
‘Bold words. In fact, it’s been tried. Twice. Like I told you both assassins ended up in body bags.’
‘Lovely. That makes me feel much better.’
‘It’s up to you.’
‘But why me?’ Pathetic, or what? ‘No thanks, again. But just tell me where you got those notes that you paid me with. Money from the raid that no one else has seen since the day they were nicked?’
‘Bit of a cheat there, old boy,’ he replied. ‘A sleight of hand you might say. Or computer keyboard. You see they weren’t part of it at all. We sort of added those numbers to the original intelligence sent out to banks and building societies, anyone who might be interested, knowing somehow they’d turn up with your name on them. Bit of a foul ball. Sorry about that. But needs must when the devil drives.’
‘In this case who exactly is the devil? And the answer’s still no. And what bright spark hid the cash in my freezer? Any fool who watches cop shows on TV knows that’s the first place to look.’
‘That, I must admit, was my scheme. I wanted to make it easy for, as you put it, the likes of those dunces sitting waiting in their car for me. And it’s just as well you didn’t fancy a frozen lasagne for breakfast.’
I was getting even more pissed off with every word. ‘Take it as read,’ I said. ‘No way.’
‘Sorry, but I don’t think you have any options,’ he said. ‘We have your passport, your bank accounts have been frozen, and although you missed the morning papers, you’ll be all over the Standard this afternoon, as the first significant arrest after the bank job. You’ll be famous, not for the first time, and I’m sure Stowe-Hartley will be in touch. You see, Mr Sharman, you’ve been extremely lucky not to end up in jail after all your exploits in the past. You stole evidence, and in doing so, several of the ungodly got away scot free. You were a disgrace to the uniform you wore, and a traitor to those who wear it with pride.’ I couldn’t argue with that.
‘Well, now the chickens are coming home to roost,’ he went on. ‘You’ve sewn the wind, now you must reap the whirlwind. Just trust me, if you don’t do as I ask, I’ll guarantee you one thing. You’ll go on trial, and go to prison. A cliché I know, but you know what happens to ex-coppers in the shovel.’
I did, and it didn’t help when he ran the forefinger of his right hand across his neck. ‘I just wonder wh
ere it all went wrong for you.’ Like I said before. Totally fucked.
I didn’t answer the unasked question from his last remark, just asked, ‘What’s in it for me?’
‘Your freedom, which I can arrange at any time, the chance to be the model citizen you now claim to be, and the eternal thanks of Her Majesty’s security forces. Plus a little payment for your time and inconvenience. And talking of money,’ he went on, and reached inside his jacket, hauled out a thick envelope, and dropped it on the coffee table with a thud. ‘There’s five hundred pounds in there for expenses etc. We’ll sort out some increment for your time later.’
When he saw my face, he smiled. ‘Don’t worry, these notes are kosher. Nothing on the wanted list. And there’s a mobile phone. Just press any button and you can get me twenty four hours a day.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said. But I knew it sounded as weak to him as it did to me. I had no bloody choice, and he knew it.
And bold as I liked to pretend I was, in fact, and I’ll only admit it to you, he was telling the truth, and the truth bloody hurt.
‘You know what they say?’ he asked. ‘When you come to a fork in the road. Take it.’
Wise words.
8
The Big Beat – Fats Domino
He left then, I got dressed and made more coffee. I sat back down in the living room and thought about what had just happened. It wasn’t that Smyth or whatever he was calling himself today had shafted me, it was more about what he’d said about me going to what he’d called the dark side. He hadn’t actually asked what had turned me from being a copper to being a crook. But he might well have.
It was simple.
I had a friend once. More than a friend, more like a brother. His name was David, never Dave. Always David. We first met when we joined the Met at the same time, trained together at Hendon, then we were both stationed at Kennington nick. After being puppy-walked by more senior constables, we were teamed up and walked the beat in tandem, when coppers still did that.
We had a fine old time. Up Westminster Bridge Road from the nick, past Lambeth North tube station, turn right into the Cut market, past the Spanish Patriot pub where we were on the pool team, into Waterloo station to ogle the female office staff, whom we called secretary birds, down the east side of the Cut again, then took a right into the Blackfriars Road and back to the station, then home.
In fact, home was the section house at the Elephant. Living was easy with free uniforms and good cheap food in the canteen. You might say we carved a swathe. We got free food in cafes and restaurants too, and free drinks in the pubs that liked having coppers for customers, and indeed, some which didn’t.
There were plenty of pretty girls who gave themselves for free as well. And we tasted some illegal substances from time to time. Good days.
We got up to some larks, no danger. But we were good coppers on the whole. I’ll tell you a true story. One deep December morning we got a call out to the local Peabody estate. Bad smells reported by neighbours. Not good, especially when the temperature was below freezing. The kerbs were crusted with dirty snow, and you could see our breath in clouds as we walked over.
After giving the bell and knocker some stick, David bent and pushed open the letter box. He flinched. You could smell the death stink a mile off, and there was a strange humming sound from inside. We forced the door and went into a hoarder’s paradise. Newspapers, magazines, old records, bits of electrical equipment, all sorts. The kitchen was a roach’s paradise, the sink piled high with mouldy dishes, and the noise we could hear was flies. Hundreds, maybe thousands of the bastards. The three bar electric fire was on full, and had been for a long time. Lying on a sofa in front of it was the skeletal, mummified remains of an old man. At least, we thought it was a man. Could’ve been either sex given the state of the body. David waved his hand in front of his face. ‘Now I know where flies go in the wintertime,’ he said.
By the sofa was an ordinary shopping bag. Tesco’s as a matter of fact. I picked it up. Inside was a treasure trove of banknotes, thousands of them. Some notes too old to be legal tender. We could’ve had them away easily. But no, we handed them in at the station. Didn’t even take a drink. No one claimed them, and they ended up in the widows’ and orphans’ fund. We took some stick for that from older coppers. But I think we did the right thing.
Or maybe, I’m justifying what happened later. I’m good at that.
Then circumstances between us changed. I got a girlfriend, then got married and we had a baby. Family life and a big mortgage sort of puts a kibosh on the strongest bromance.
I cleaned up my behaviour, David didn’t. The booze and drugs got stronger. He lost his flat and moved back into the section house.
One afternoon, on one of my days off, David phoned me at home. He wanted to see me, he said he was desperate. But then he’d always been a bit of a drama queen. What I did then was unforgivable. I took the phone off the hook, and went back to my family.
Two hours later, I put it back. It rang almost immediately. It was one of our sergeants. David had been found hanging in his room.
I went to the section house then, but didn’t go inside. I stood in a doorway opposite and smoked a cigarette. It was raining. The private ambulance, just a polite name for the meat wagon, was parked outside, its cellulose bible black, and the raindrops on it reflected the street lights like jewels.
The coroner’s men, bareheaded and wearing long black coats, brought the stretcher out. I watched them drive away, dropped my cigarette end, ground it out, and went home.
I can measure my downfall from that day. The day I let my best friend down.
I went to his funeral. Dress uniform, tall hat, white gloves, whistle in my breast pocket on a silver chain. His family asked me to be a coffin bearer, but I couldn’t. You should have seen the looks I got. And I deserved every one. That’s the story, and I never forgave myself. Not to this day. Eventually, of course, I got my comeuppance.
I did well as a copper for a bit. Got promoted to detective constable at Neasden, passed some exams, took a Metropolitan police advanced driving course including defensive and offensive tactical manoeuvres, served as a uniformed sergeant in Islington, was licensed as a firearms officer for side and automatic weapons. And finally ended up as a detective sergeant back in south London. Fast tracking they call it now. Dunno what they did then. A big mistake as it turned out. An embarrassment.
You see, I got in with some bad people. Of course, being a plain clothes copper you’d expect that. But not on their payroll. And I came by a nasty habit. The extra money went straight up my, and several young ladies’ nostrils. But nothing’s for nothing, and I found myself owing a great deal of money to several people one just did not owe money to. So I was forced to rob the evidence cupboard at my own nick of several grams of A1 cocaine to pay off the vig, as I believe it can be called. After that, I was shot in the foot because I went on a raid hungover and still stoned from the night before. Totally my fault, and I got away with an honourable discharge, a lost pension, and a limp that reminds me who I am. Pretty lightly to be honest.
On the way, I lost my wife and child. To a better man as it turned out. At least one who didn’t stay out for days at a time, and come home stinking of booze and someone else’s perfume.
So that fucker Smyth got me bang to rights. And it didn’t get any better.
9
Zorba The Greek – Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass
After a bit, like I’d planned, I decided now was the time to face the bomb site that I was sure the cops had left of my office.
But first I needed food. I walked down to the high street and over to Georgio’s, our local Greek greasy, or greasy Greek. The food was lousy, but it was cheap and there was plenty of it. The perfect recipe for a hangover cure. I went for the full English: sausage, bacon, fried egg, mushrooms (tinned), tomatoes (tinned), b
aked beans, and two white toasts. Washed down with Georgio’s coffee, thick and black as sludge. Or the Squeaker’s heart, as Smyth had said.
There was also a full Greek on offer, which added chips and a stuffed vine leaf. You probably got a knife in the back as a bonus. I kept mine to the wall just like Wild Bill Hickok. But look what happened to him.
When I was halfway through my dish fit to put before a king, Georgio came out from behind the counter and headed my way. He was a sight for sore eyes. Rotund, bald, handlebar moustache, wearing a Greek international football shirt stretched by his enormous belly, and pink shorts that exposed legs hairy enough to make a gorilla jealous.
‘Nicky, my friend,’ he said when he got to my table. ‘How’s your bad luck?’
‘That’s just it mate,’ I replied. ‘Bad luck is right. If I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.’
‘I know the feeling,’ he said, pulling up a chair, and easing his bulk on to it. ‘Man, with a wife like mine, there’s no end to it.’
Georgio was constantly moaning about his wife, his mother-in-law, and his dozen children who ate him out of house and home.
‘How is Mrs Georgio?’ I asked.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘And the kids?’
‘Still hungry,’ he said.
‘How many now?’
‘Still twelve, I think,’ he said. ‘I lose count. She’s addicted to having kids. No sooner is one off the tit, than she wants another. I get confused. I went home the other night, saw one in the front room, told him to get ready for bed, turns out he belongs down the road. Just visiting. I don’t know what to do.’
‘With all this, and you’re moaning,’ I said, gesturing around the cafe, where the heat was even more intense than outside from the burners and chip fat bubbling in the kitchen, and the lone ceiling fan, black with twenty years’ or more cigarette smoke turned lazily, and hardly shifted the air. ‘You don’t know when you’re well off.’
