by Mark Timlin
‘Well off!’ he said. ‘I’m nearly skint. And that bloody mother-in-law of mine. She spends my money like it grows on trees. The old bitch. Anisede! What kind of fucking name is that? She don’t even spell it right. Fat old cow. Swanning round in tart’s clothes that cost a fortune, and me with holes in my underwear.’
Not a pretty thought whilst eating.
‘And always flashing her saggy old paps. Who’d want to suck on those?’
‘Georgio. I got food here.’
‘Sorry, Nick. But once I get started.’
‘Do you know she had a fancy man once? Dumped her by email. Couldn’t face her ugly mug to do the deed. Not that you can see it all, what with her moustache and all. She’s got a better beard than me.’
I had to smile, despite it all. ‘You could go back to Greece,’ I said.
‘Go back?’ he said. ‘The state it’s in. This EU is no good for my country. It’s broke and getting broker. The house I bought for our retirement, up in the hills. The geezer down the road. Same kind of house, but maybe a few more olive trees. Tried to sell it for two years. When he finally got a buyer it had lost half its value. What does that say for mine? We should get out of Europe, and so should you.’
‘I don’t know if we can, or you. Anyway, how could you bear to leave all this behind?’
‘You’re so right,’ he said. ‘More coffee?’ I declined, paid my bill and left.
The office was just like I’d guessed. Drawers open, papers all over the shop, and the business half of the computer gone. Luckily the coffee machine and the stereo still worked. I turned on both, and I got busy as Brother Ray Hit the Road Jack, and the espresso brewed. A couple of hours later I’d got the place organised, and, with nothing else to do, I headed home.
10
Roadrunner – Bo Diddley
On the way I stopped off at my local corner shop for a bottle of JD and the afternoon edition of the Standard. I knew something was up as soon as I walked through the door. My friend Mehmet didn’t give me his usual grin, and said nothing as I bought the booze and the paper. I opened it outside. I hadn’t made the front page, but I was all over page three. I read the piece leaning against a lamppost. It was worse than I thought it would be. I was pictured as a super thief, even though the word ‘alleged’ was used often. There was also a sidebar resume of my previous misdemeanours.
At least, the ones that they knew about. Some of the worst were still deep, dark secrets.
I dumped the paper in the first rubbish bin I came to, but kept tight hold of the bourbon.
When I got home, I microwaved some cheesy thing, then made a phone call. Jesus, but it was still hot, and my shirt was sticking to my back. Although the cops still had my phone with my stored numbers, they’d left my old address book. My Filofax. Remember them? I flicked through the index to G.
The call was to a bloke called Len. Len Goodman. He ran a second hand car showroom and garage in Balham. He’d used me to collect some outstanding debts, although I hadn’t heard from him for months. I called his direct line.
He picked up straightaway. ‘Goodman,’ he said.
‘Hello Len, it’s Nick Sharman.’
There was a short pause before he spoke again. Just enough for me to know I wasn’t going to like what I was about to find out. ‘Hello Nick. Long time.’
‘Yeah. All your punters paying up these days?’
‘Generally.’
‘Good. Listen Len, you put someone on to me a few days ago. How come?’
‘He just wanted someone who you’d worked for as a referee.’
‘Well, I’ve got to tell you, mate, he got me into a lot of trouble.’ There was another pause.
‘I’m sorry, Nick. You too?’
‘Me too what?’
‘Your tax. Are you, like a bit iffy with your tax returns?’
‘No, I pay my tax. What’s my tax got to do with anything?’
‘That bloke. Martini, or whatever he’s called.’
‘Martineau,’ I said. I didn’t mention Spencer or Smyth, why complicate things further.
‘He’s with the Inland Revenue. He said if I got in touch with you, tell you he wasn’t strictly kosher, he’d go through my books like the proverbial.’
I sighed. ‘And I suppose he had all the correct credentials?’
‘A pocketful.’
‘Of course, he did. I don’t think he’s with the Revenue. I don’t know who he’s with. He’s a fucking ghost. I do know that.’
‘So what trouble are you in then?’
‘Go get an evening paper and you’ll find out.’
‘You’re in the papers. Christ, it must be serious.’
‘It is.’
‘And it’s my fault. I’m real sorry, Nick.’
‘Not your fault. He’s a clever bastard, I know that.’
‘Anything I can do…’
‘No. It’s too late for that.’
‘No hard feelings.’
‘No. If he hadn’t used you, he would’ve used someone else.’
‘Sorry again, Nick.’
‘Forget it.’
And with that, I finished the call.
11
The Pub With No Beer – Slim Dusty
The afternoon moved on towards evening, and warmed up even more, I tried to stay cool, calm and collected. Which amazed me, as I knew all of this was not going to end well.
About four, the landline rang. It was my daughter, Judith. ‘Dad, it’s me,’ she said.
‘Hello, love.’
‘Dad, what have you done? You’re in the paper. Mum wouldn’t let me see, but I looked it up on the web.’
The blessed web, I thought. What would we do without it? ‘It’s nothing, love,’ I said. ‘I’ve done nothing.’
‘That’s what you always say.’
Which was true, but I didn’t need to hear it from someone her age. Laura had been right, she was growing up fast. ‘This time it’s true, I swear. Someone has put my neck in a frame, and they’re tightening the screws.’
‘Who?’
‘Long story. I’ll explain when it’s all over.’ I hoped it wouldn’t be at visiting time in Brixton Prison.
‘Promise?’
‘Of course.’ I thought it was about time to change the subject. ‘And by the way, what’s all this about horse riding?’
‘I was going to surprise you.’
‘What. And come round on horseback like Dale Evans?’
‘Who?’
‘Annie Oakley?’
‘Who?’
I gave in. ‘Like a cowgirl?’
‘Yes. I know how much you like cowboy shirts.’
‘And cowgirls. Do you ride Western?’
‘No English. Though they’ve got a Western saddle at the school. They said if I’m good they’ll let me.’
‘Then, be good.’
‘I’ll try. You too.’
‘Always.’
‘I’ve got to go. Mum’s back.’
‘Go on then.’
‘Love you.’
‘Love you back.’ And with that she was gone. I hung up the phone, and nearly cried.
I stayed in jeans, t-shirt, dark summer jacket, and black winklepicker boots, and hit the highway for Loughborough Junction at seven. It wasn’t a long run and I parked three or four car lengths from the Dog and Dart.
When I went in, it was just as it had always been. It was deserted. Quiet as a mouse, a dead one. The lights were dim, but did nothing to hide the sticky marks on the bar, and the brasses on the pumps were dull. The smell of the place was similar to Denmark Hill nick, but with the added piquancy of over-cooked vegetables. It was so quiet I half expected to see tumbleweed roll across the tattered carpet. Funny that I thought, when Cowboy Bob’s bar and
disco round the corner where the crack squirrels played was rammed every night. Surely the mystery of the Dog in the night time.
I went up to the jump. The till was open and empty; either business was as bad as usual, or they’d just been robbed. I favoured the former. Still nothing stirred so I called out, ‘Service.’
A minute later the landlord showed himself. He’d seen me many times before, but there was no sign of recognition. No welcome. Like I said, a right horrible place. I ordered a bottle of Becks.
‘No Becks,’ said the landlord. I should have remembered. Although there was a poster advertising Becks on the wall, there was never a drop to drink. ‘A bottle of whatever lager you’ve got, then.’
He pulled out a brown bottle from the cooler with some cyrillic style lettering and a name I didn’t recognise. I declined a glass and took the bottle to a far table and lit up a Silkie to disguise the odour. They say smoking will be banned in pubs soon. Some fat chance!
12
Too Much Monkey Business – Chuck Berry
Robber was ten minutes late and I hadn’t touched my beer. He was always late, just to show who was boss. When he came in, he went straight to the bar, not looking right or left. He knew I’d be there. He conversed with the landlord, received some brown foamy liquid in an old fashioned dimpled mug, paid, and headed towards me.
Like the boozer, he didn’t change either. Same old brown suit, run-down shoes, wrinkled shirt, tie pulled down, and top button undone. He didn’t appear to notice the weather. His reddish hair was beginning to show a hint of grey, and his moustache could have done with a trim. Sometimes it’s comforting when people and places don’t change.
He dropped into the chair next to mine, took a swig of beer, swallowed, then said, ‘I shouldn’t even be talking to you, on bail. Let alone drinking with you.’
‘I’m not drinking,’ I said back. Not this muck.
‘Maybe you should. Anyway, I am. How much?’
‘How much what?’
‘How much have you got for me?’
‘Yeah. Nice to see you too, Jack.’
‘Bah!’ Was all he said in reply. Then. ‘Just tell me.’
Now, you’ve got to understand that Jack Robber wasn’t a bent copper. Certainly not like the way I had operated when I was on the force. He just did favours for certain parties for a small remuneration. Parties like me.
‘A couple of hundred’, I replied.
‘Good.’
‘I hope you’re worth it,’ I said.
‘Aren’t I always? Now give.’
13
Police And Thieves – Junior Murvin
But first I filled Robber in on what had occurred that day. When I’d finished he asked, ‘So who is this geezer?’
‘Christ knows.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘There’s two DI Spencers in the Met.’ He fished in his inside pocket and pulled out a couple of photos. ‘Either of these him?’
I looked and shook my head.
‘Was the ID he showed you kosher?’
‘It looked the part. It fooled me, the Revenue ID fooled my mate Len, and the Special Branch ID fooled Burke and Dixon.’
‘Well, that’s not the hardest thing in the world. Smyth, you say.’
‘With a y.’
He took out a notebook and pen from another pocket, opened it, and scribbled a note. ‘What about the dough he hid at your place?’
‘It wasn’t part of it. Somehow he added those numbers onto the list of stolen money that was circulated to all interested parties. A sleight of hand as he called it.’
‘Clever bastard. Fucking spook, you betcha life.’
‘Yeah, I’m looking out for black helicopters in the back garden.’ He ignored that.
‘But how did he know you would pay it into your bank? And how did he know it was your bank?’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘I must have been on his radar for a while. I’m a law-abiding citizen these days. An open book. I pay my taxes and my TV licence. But you can be certain if I hadn’t, he’d’ve found some other way to sick the minions of the law onto my tail.’ Christ, I was beginning to talk like him.
‘It must be love,’ said Robber. ‘And what about this other villain, Stowe-Hartley? Sounds like a brand of biscuits.’
I had to smile. ‘He’s a solicitor. Real name Sidney Hartley. According to Smyth, he owns the firm Gyre and Gimble.’ I gave him the address. ‘There is no Gyre, no Gimble. And he owns an old folks home too. And Christ knows what else.’
‘Weird mixture. Master criminal and public benefactor.’
‘Money laundering?’
‘Could be. Stranger things happen. What’s he look like?’
‘Tall, dark and sleazy.’
‘I’ll check him out’. More scribbles.
It seemed to me I was giving out more info than I was receiving. Maybe Robber should be paying me.
‘Do that’, I said ‘But I don’t have a mobile. Those bastard coppers nicked it off me.’
‘Less of the “bastard coppers”. You’ll hurt my feelings.’
‘Sorry. I’ll get a new one tomorrow, and text you with the number.’
‘Do it.’
‘So what else have you found to earn two hundred quid?’ I asked.
‘Early days. But we do know that nothing from the robbery has turned up. Not even what they found at your place, apparently, if your mate is telling the truth. Red faces all round. Police 0, thieves 1. Like I said, early days. Now, show me the dough.’
I’d split the monkey Smyth had given me, folded two hundred quid and passed it over. ‘Not going to come back and bite me on the arse is it?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Better not, and that’s a promise.’
14
Havana Bound – The Pretty Things
That said it all really.
I stayed a bit longer as Robber bought another pint, and a ham roll that seemed mostly thick white fat covered in lumpy, acid yellow mustard. He loved it.
‘So, how’s business?’ I asked.
‘Same shit,’ he replied. ‘Nasty one today. Pulled one out of the river. Bloating and floating. Black skin, blue eyes he’d been in so long. Stank like a khasi.’ He sniffed his fingers. ‘Thank Christ for non-latex gloves.’
‘Accident? Murder? Suicide?’
‘Who knows? Bleedin’ nuisance is all I know.’
‘Enough to put you off your supper.’
‘No fucking chance,’ he said, and sunk his teeth into a bit of fat protruding out of the roll.
And that said enough, so I left, and left my untouched beer on the table. I stood outside in the gloaming and smoked another cigarette, then got in the car and drove home. Air conditioning on full.
It was just getting dark when I got there, and had to park a bit up the road from the house because a big, black, continental looking SUV stood in the space I usually called my own. Loads of chrome, and blacked-out windows all round. I should have sussed out something wasn’t right. My bad guy radar seemed to be on holiday lately.
There’s no residents’ parking on our street at the moment, so we don’t suffer too much from parking wars at my end. At the bottom, where most of the massive old Victorian mansions are divided into four, five, or even six flats, it’s a different matter. Still, I felt a bit miffed as I got out, slammed the door and set the alarm from my key fob. I walked down towards the garden gate, when the back door of the SUV slid open, a huge figure emerged, grabbed me by the lapels of my jacket and literally threw me into the vehicle. I landed on my back on the carpet, more shocked and surprised than hurt, when the figure jumped after me and slid the door to behind him, with a bang.
15
Drive, He Said – Pere Ubu
The geezer who’d picked me up like I was a l
ittle kid was big. Big, black and bald. And built like the proverbial. He had muscles on muscles. Biceps so vast they stretched the sleeves of his black suit almost to ripping point, and quads that filled his trousers the same. He even had muscles in his face that moved under his skin so when he spoke he resembled Dizzy Gillespie taking a solo. And he was sweating cobs. The inside of the SUV was cool. They must have been running the A/C. But even so, the geezer was soaked, and the atmosphere stank like a hog’s privates.
‘Sit up,’ he ordered, and gestured with the automatic pistol that had magically appeared in his left hand. ‘Empty your pockets.’
I pulled myself up onto the back bench seat and, for the second time in three days, I did as I was told.
He looked at the phone Smyth had given me and tossed it to the bloke in the driver’s seat. ‘Kill it,’ he said. The driver took off the back, took out the battery and tossed it into the passenger-side well. So much for ‘call me any time’.
Next my wallet. It contained cards and the remains of the cash I’d got that morning. He pocketed the money and threw the wallet back. Car keys he let me keep. Mont Blanc ballpoint, he threw back, notebook he kept. ‘The watch,‘ he said. I took off my Rolex and he studied it with a grunt. ‘Real?’ he asked.
‘Twenty five quid in Thailand,’ I said back.
He grunted again, and tossed it at me. I put it back on, and thought that if he couldn’t tell a real Roller from a fake, he was more stupid than he looked.
‘The boss wants to see you,’ he said. ‘Wants to know what your game is.’ I said nothing. There was nothing much to say.
‘Drive,’ he ordered, and the driver turned the ignition key.
16
Death Cab For Cutie – The Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band
We took off down the hill towards the main road. Right at the lights, and on towards West Norwood. Then the driver turned left. Hard left, and the black guy put up his left hand, the one holding the gun, to steady himself against the side of the car, the barrel of his pistol moved off me, and I took my chance. I grabbed my Mont Blanc ballpoint and shoved it hard into his right eye. As hard as I could. I guessed if these two got me to Stowe-Hartley I wouldn’t be coming home, except in a box. The black guy screamed then. Not deep like his voice, but high pitched, and he kept on screaming.
