by Mark Timlin
‘What the fuck?’ I said to Stowe-Hartley. I described him.
‘You didn’t say he was American.’
‘American! What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘He had an American accent. Latin-American to be precise. Said he came from Baltimore.’
‘Where the lady comes from. And I could say I came from Timbuktu. What was his name?’
‘Sonajero. That’s all I know.’
‘Sonajero is squeaker in Spanish,’ said Madge, from her bed.
‘Christ,’ I said. ‘He’s taken us all for mugs. Again.’
And that was when it went all to hell. The door suddenly burst open from a kick, and the last of the mob I’d met in Croydon came barrelling through with a pistol in each hand, and his fingers tight on the triggers. As I remember, the first bullet went through the window next to me and off onto the common. Hope it landed safely with no loss of life. The next one parted my hair, the third took a chunk out of my left arm, and after a second it hurt like hell. I grabbed Stowe-Hartley round the neck and dragged him in front of me. Two bullets hit his chest and slammed through into my vest. One broke a rib. Both nearly knocked me sparko. That’s when I remembered to shoot back. My first bullet went straight through the open door and smashed a framed photo of Stowe-Hartley shaking hands with Jimmy Savile at some function; the second went through the shooter’s neck in a cloud of blood spray. The third must have hit him in the heart, because he collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. He hit the floor hard, the two guns flying across the floor.
I leant back against the wall, still winded.
Then Madge shouts ‘No’ and I see this other nurse has hauled a little pocket pistol from her uniform, and I’m looking straight down its black barrel, and at her finger whitening on the trigger. I couldn’t hold Stowe-Hartley’s body in front of me, as he was no lightweight and he gradually slid down and onto the carpet. Then Madge, doped or not, dives across to the nurse, bites hard on her gun arm, pushes her hand down just as she fires, so the bullet goes into the air mattress that deflates with a loud hiss. Not that I could hear much after all the explosions in a confined space, and the air was full of smoke and the stink of body fluids and gunpowder.
I look down and there’s blood all over my front and my left sleeve. I look like I’ve just come out of the day shift at a slaughter house. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ I said to Madge, who by then had the nurse in a half nelson, and was spitting blood herself. Then I glanced out of the window. On the pavement was a small crowd looking up at me, a couple of them on phones, and in the distance I could hear sirens. More than one. The gunfire must have made the natives restless enough to call the cops. Personally, with all the lead flying about, I’d’ve taken cover somewhere out of range.
I slumped back, suddenly tired, and I pulled Stowe-Hartley’s phone from my pocket and dialled Robber’s number from memory. He answered straightaway, and I said, ‘Jack, I need immediate assistance here.’
51
I’m Going To Be A Country Girl Again – Buffy St Marie
Time passed, and soon that short hot summer was just a memory. I spent some time in hospital as my arm wasn’t in any mood to heal quickly. Getting old, see. John Coffey fixed me up with a private room in a private hospital. Soft sheets and fine dining, all on his tab. You see I had done some other work for him, since that first job, and we’d become pretty matey. I even got served jerk chicken at his place made by his own fair hands.
But when I did come out, Madge and Judith organised a belated birthday party. Autumn was in the air, but still they did a barbecue in Madge’s back garden. Judith came in full Western kit. She bought me a load of DVDs of old British Swinging London films. Why? I have no idea. But it passed the time as the year dragged itself to its end. Madge bought me a hamper from that deli I told you about. Fridge fillers for the one-armed man. Well appreciated.
I still had a sling on, and favoured double denim that day. A difficult look to get right. Madge and Judith assured me I had it down. Maybe just for my ego, though.
John and his missus bought me a vintage Levi checked cowboy shirt. Judith found it on eBay, and he coughed up. He also bought a birthday cake in a cooler. Chocolate. My favourite.
Owlsley gave me a flower. Now I forgot to tell you about Owlsley. In hospital, I thought a lot about the old musician who shared his poke with me in the pokey. I found the scrappy piece of paper that he’d given me, and I called from my bed.
‘Owlsley,’ he said when he answered, because it was he. He later told me it was his name when he was in a folk-rock band around 1965. ‘Like Donovan,’ he told me later. ‘Only not so airy-fairy.’
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘We met in Mile End nick.’
‘Christ,’ he bellowed. ‘Nick Sharman. I’ve been reading about you. Quite the hero. Where are you?’
I told him what hospital, and the next day he turned up, guitar in hand, and gave an impromptu concert in the day room. Went down well.
When he’d had to get past the copper sitting in the corridor, he said, ‘Is he to keep you in, or someone out?’
‘You tell me.’
Of course, he met Madge, and they hit it off big time. I don’t mean romantically, though who knows? I wouldn’t dream of asking. But within a couple of weeks, he’d moved into her guest suite.
‘It’s not as if my kids come visiting,’ she said. ‘And there’s plenty of room even if they do.’
He does the garden, sous chefs for Madge, cleans the windows and grooms the cat too, for all I know. I don’t know how permanent an arrangement it’s going to be, but he visited one of his ex-wives and rescued what was left of his wardrobe. So he can turn up as a mod, a hippy, a soul boy, a glam rocker, a punk rocker, a new romantic, a rude boy, or a Rasta. Or any mixture of the above.
What I do know is that it all seems to be copacetic. Home sweet home. Li turned up with a tureen of hot and sour as his contribution. Vegan too just for Owlsley.
Even Robber showed his face. He brought nothing, of course, but his precious Purple Frenzy LP on vinyl. Turns out he was a huge progressive rock fan, and when he’d found out about Owlsley in his psychedelic pomp, he was like a big kid wanting his record signed. Who knew about his hobby? Mind you, he does live with his sister, which might explain things. He even pretended not to notice the two thriving marijuana plants Owlsley was growing in one of those miniature greenhouses out behind the garden shed.
The barbie was a success; steaks and corn on the cob, mashed potato, onion rings, and hot bananas burnt black on the outside. Plenty of booze, and music from Madge’s old radiogram. Elvis and Cliff. Ricky Nelson and Buddy Holly. Ray Charles’ Modern Sounds in Country and Western.
As I was changing a record, Madge cornered me. ‘How’s it going, Nick?’
‘Could be better.’
‘Your arm hurting?’
‘Not that. Just what happened.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Nick.’
‘People died.’
‘Not your fault. You should be glad we survived. You saved me. Think about it. And God knows how many old folk you saved from that man. Forgive yourself, Nick.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Have you forgiven Smyth or whoever he really was?’
‘Nothing to forgive,’ I said. ‘I could have blown the whistle on him any time, but I was quite enjoying it. I liked the bloke. A real chancer. Anyway, who was going to believe me, a rogue ex-copper who walks on the dirty side of the street? Anyway, it was too damn hot.’
‘Yes it was, and think about what I said.’ So I did, and I still am.
Later, a murmuration of starlings started throwing shapes over the garden.
‘They’re early,’ said Madge.
‘Probably means a hard winter,’ said Owlsley. And it was but that’s altogether a different story.
When the l
ight went, and a chilly breeze sprang up, we moved inside, lit a fire, and Owlsley fetched his acoustic and sang a few old songs. He dedicated one of my favourite Buffy St Marie tunes especially to Judith. He just changed the ‘I’ to a ‘She’.
The cat kept guard and we all partied like it was 1959 until the wee small hours.
EPILOGUE
The Letter – The Box Tops
So that, my friends, is all she wrote. Or he, or us, or me.
Smyth, or whatever his real name was, got away scot free. I didn’t care. No matter what shit he’d got me into. No matter that he’d wound me up like a clockwork kipper, and let me go, I’d actually become quite fond of him.
As a footnote, the police van carrying the gems we’d hijacked was hijacked itself, and the lone driver was handcuffed to the steering wheel with his own bracelets. Nothing was ever recovered.
Smyth had said he was going to collect the loot.
Whoever, or whatever he was, he was something important in the Establishment. National Security, MI5, MI6, Special Branch, the Met. None of them liked one of their top men going rogue. Off the reservation. So they gathered their skirts together and looked for the easiest way out with no scandal.
Stowe-Hartley died as a result of his wounds. What remained of his henchmen and women were rounded up and are now serving various sentences for various crimes. Madge, of course, stepped up for me. She still had friends in high places from her time in Naval Intelligence, and used them.
Me? I was given a Section 71, complete immunity on all charges, and for the second time in my life signed the Official Secrets Act. Then everything was neatly brushed under the carpet.
I got my car, my phone and my reputation back, for what the latter was worth. End of story.
Well, not quite.
Three months after that short, hot summer, I received a letter at home.
The envelope and sheet of paper inside were thick vellum, the postmark was London, but somehow it seemed to have a more international feel. I think it had been posted by a third party. It smelt of sun and suntan oil on the chilly autumn morning it was delivered. Something Spanish maybe. Or Latin American. The envelope even had a grain of sand or two at the bottom. Of course, knowing Smyth, it might have been a double bluff, and he was living it large in the Elephant and Castle.
It read:
My dear Nicholas,
I hope I may call you that. Firstly, let me apologise for the inconvenience I caused you last summer. It was simply when I looked for a loose cannon, your name just kept appearing. I’m afraid you only have yourself to blame.
Thankfully, from what little I have been able to glean from the media, you seem to have managed to have been exonerated, and remain free as a bird. Well done! I hope your wounds have healed. I take full responsibility for them.
As for my reasons for the whole debacle:
Firstly, I needed to free myself from Stowe-Hartley and co. Although I painted him as a criminal genius, in fact he was an idiot who surrounded himself with other idiots, and, incidentally, I have rather expensive tastes (you would be amazed how much a first edition Agatha Christie complete with dust jacket costs. But enough of that.) and was growing tired of sharing.
And secondly, my lords and masters in my day job were beginning to smell a rat. Nuff said.
So there you have it. I wanted to let you know there was nothing personal. My love to Blighty,
Your friend, Guess who?
And that really was the end.
I folded the letter neatly and put it inside a mint copy of Edgar Wallace’s novel The Squeaker that I’d bought on Charing Cross Road, complete with dust jacket. It cost me a few bob, I’ll tell you. But worth every penny. And yes, with Madge’s help, I knew exactly how much a first edition Christie was worth.
BECAUSE THE NIGHT
In my business sometimes you need an oppo. An op-pro if you like. A professional. A wingman. Roy Caton was my go-to of choice. Me, his. He was ex-job like me. Disgraced ex-job like me as it happens. Scratching a living as a private investigator. Just like me. But that wasn’t all. Roy had one specific talent. Although he was six foot four, sixteen stone, and dressed like a dandy, he could quite literally vanish at will. Dress him in nothing but one of his garish kaleidoscope patterned ties, and stand him in the middle of Oxford Street at rush hour and no one would notice. I asked him once how he did it. Turned out before joining the police he had been in the army. A sniper. He’d sometimes have to lie for days on end, wearing a nappy under his camouflage, being nibbled on by insects and small animals without moving a muscle. Surviving on dried food and an occasional sip of stale water. ‘You become one with the background,’ he explained. ‘Simple really.’
So that was it. We’d met when I was watching a bloke who cheated older women out of money and jewels. I’d been hired by this rich old lady’s grown-up children who didn’t fancy seeing their inheritances going down the pan. The geezer was living on and off with the woman, who believed in the off times he was busy earning a living as a salesman for an unnamed publishing company. The suspicion was that he was in fact servicing one or more equally rich, equally aged women for all he could grab. Hence surveillance. Hence I needed another pair of eyes. My old mate Jack Robber tossed me Roy’s name, we met, hit it off over a Ruby and several bottles of Cobra beer, and Bob’s your uncle, Lily’s your aunt. He helped me trace the bloke in question’s three other living accommodations with three other elderly, rich ladies who probably lunched. He’d been quietly helping himself to their legacies, but none were prepared to press charges. It was love every time. He got clean away with Christ knows how much, but at least the original woman’s kids paid the bill although mum wouldn’t hear a word against the bloke who’d relieved her of close to a hundred thousand pounds. Ain’t love grand?
After that Roy and I got to be really close over the years. Thing is, if you’re webbed up in a motor for long periods you either get to be the best of friends or the worst of enemies. We were the former. Another of Roy’s talents were puzzles. He was fiend for them. I thought I was good at the Telegraph crossword, but he beat me hands down. Many a happy hour we spent across and down.
The last time I saw him was in that summer. This time at our favourite Chinese in Soho. He was on his own then. He and his wife had long ago split up. I’d never met her. He’d never met mine. Him and me haunted pubs, drinking clubs, cocktail bars, restaurants. That was where we met when not at work. No cosy evenings in front of Coronation Street with pipes and slippers.
Me. I was having an on off on off with a young woman named Jill. A beautiful blonde. Natural as I can testify. I met her on a Monday and my heart stood still etc etc. But that never lasts. She had her own place and a key to mine. She was too young for me. A wild child I knew would soon be on her way. I don’t even know if I cared that much. But more of her later. Roy had never met her either. Roy and I parted friends at Piccadilly tube that last evening. Me south, him east. We spoke on the phone a few times later that summer and he hinted there might be a shilling for me soon. But no details. When I asked, I could almost see him touch the side of his nose, smile and say ‘You’ll find out in time son.’
Then, one autumn evening Roy went missing. Nothing strange there, he often vanished on jobs for days, even weeks on end. Then, sometime later a headless, handless corpse was discovered in a burnt out car in a pub car park in Newham, east London. It took another few days before the body was identified as Roy’s. It had been a warm season, and just like when he’d been a soldier, insects had fed on him. In fact, it was the flies swarming the car’s boot that signified it was not just another stolen car, joy ridden, then torched to hide prints and DNA, that even the dumbest crook knew about from TV cop shows. I saw a bit about it in the Standard, but never put two and two together until I got a call from his ex to tell me. Apparently there was no one else to do the necessary. I asked if I could help a
s she said I was his best friend, though I never realised that, and was sorry I hadn’t, but she said she had it under control and would see me at the funeral.
There was quite a fuss in the media about the mystery of the headless, handless corpse that turned out to be ex-Met slung out for what the papers, radio and TV called over zealous interrogation techniques. He told me he beat the shit out of a little cunt who turned out to have relatives in high places, and had to pay the price.
After the identification the police rounded up the usual suspects, and because I was who I was, I was scooped up too. Nick Sharman, always a ready made suspect even in the murder of a friend. As it goes, it wasn’t the most thorough investigation by the look of it. No interview room with a tape on. No good cop, bad cop. More dumb cop and dumber cop. Two DCs, Bond and Blackburn in an office with two desks covered in paperwork. Bond hitched his fat bottom on one, Blackburn took a seat behind the other. This was going to be a rare occasion when I would tell the minions of the law the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. For once I had absolutely nothing to hide. I swear guv’nor.
Bond kicked off. ‘Mr Sharman, can you tell me when you last saw Roy Caton.
‘July seventeenth,’ I said. ‘It’s in my diary.’
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘We had dinner up west at our favourite Chinese. So pleasure. But he hinted there might be some work for me when we spoke on the dog a few times later.’
‘What kind of work?’ Asked Blackburn.
‘Dunno,’ I replied. ‘Surveillance probably. We used to double up. It gets pretty boring on your own in a car pissing in a bottle and eating Burger King. But you’d know all about that.’
