by Mark Timlin
Li’s smile almost spilt his face in half at that, as Maureen arrived behind him. ‘Coffee?’ She asked.
‘Irish,’ said Robber.
I nodded my agreement, and she vanished again.
When we’d finished lunch Robber left, two hundred quid richer, and I stayed, two hundred and twenty quid poorer. The lunch had been on the house as we’d been Li’s guinea pigs. But on the way out I put a twenty in the jar by the door for a Vietnamese donkey charity. You should see how they treat those poor beasts.
Back in the office I regarded my dry cleaning bag and took it with me over to the pub. I felt like an afternoon away from my troubles.
But troubles have a way of catching one up. That was when the pickle turned to piccalilli.
I bought a pint and sat at a corner table. I draped my cleaning over one of the chairs opposite. I sat and let the news of the day rattle round my brain like pieces of a jigsaw. Nothing fitted.
Five minutes after I arrived a bloke in a decent suit came in, went to the bar, ordered a double malt, no ice and when it arrived added just a dash of soda from the siphon on the bar. I wondered how long it had been since anyone used it, but after a sip he seemed satisfied, turned, surveyed the room and strolled over to my table. ‘Mind if I join you?’ he asked.
Now, it was a summer weekday, past lunch time, but too early for any commuters and the pub was almost empty. Me. Two likely looking lads in the far corner, a couple of old boys nursing pints, and that was that. Plenty of empty tables. I nodded and he put his drink on a beer mat and sat down. ‘My name’s Colin Palmer,’ he said. ‘I’m a gangster.’
‘Never heard of you,’ I said.
‘That’s because I’m good at gangstering.’
‘So where’s the rest of the gang?’
‘Well there’s two over there.’ He indicated the likely lads who didn’t acknowledge. ‘And there’s two more outside in a car. They’re all armed by the way.’ He looked at my dry cleaning as if he expected one of the shirts to slide out and open fire with a semi-automatic.
‘I’m not,’ I assured him. ‘Not when there’s an R in the month.’
He didn’t seem amused. ‘Charlie Barnett was found shot in a hotel in Dulwich with your card in his pocket. He’d stolen a great deal of money from me. I want you to get it back.’
‘How do you know all this?’ I asked. ‘About him, I mean. And my card?’
‘I have my methods.’
‘Cops on the payroll.’ Not a question.
He shrugged.
‘Riley and Ward?’ I asked.
He smiled and shook his head. ‘No. They’re the untouchables.’
‘Jack Robber?’
That was a question, but I thought I already knew the answer.
‘Now that would be telling,’ he said. He didn’t touch the side of his nose, but he might as well have done. Of course it was Robber playing both ends against the middle as usual. But without him I wouldn’t be half the private investigator that I was.
‘How much?’ I asked.
‘How much did he steal, or how much am I prepared to pay for getting it back?’
‘The former. The latter would be a donation to a charity of my choice.’ I thought of the donkeys.
‘They said you were strange Sharman, and of course that’s assuming you’ll get it.’
‘And I assume if I don’t I’ll end up like Charlie.’
‘We had nothing to do with that.’
‘I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t.’
‘Why would I have him shot when he still had my money. No return in that.’
‘Unless he’d already spent it.’
‘Feckless, he might be, he’d have a hard job spending what he took in the short time between doing the deed and being left for dead.’
‘OK, you’ve piqued my interest. And as you’re here I’ll have another pint and you can tell me all.’
‘You’re a cheeky bastard, but I think I’m getting to like you,’ he said and raised a finger, and likely lad number one was at the tables smartish. ‘Lager?’ Colin asked me. I nodded. ‘And my usual. Send the others outside home. There’s nothing to worry about here. We’ll be a while. Relax.’
The geezer got our drinks, popped out, came back and sat down again, and Colin told me his tale.
Although he’d told me he was good at gangstering, our Colin had made one big mistake: trusting Charlie Barnett. The scam was smuggling blood diamonds jetted in from South Africa. Then onwards to Antwerp via Harwich to the Hook of Holland, delivered by Charlie in a Bentley with a hidden compartment under the back seat.
Diamonds out, Dollars, Euros and Sterling in. Charlie had managed clubs and bands in a small way when I knew him, like I’d hinted at with Riley and Ward. Nothing earth shattering. No number ones, just bog standard heavy metal. Charlie’s cover story was that he was scouting out venues and musicians. Colin even formed a record company which never issued any music, and an agency that never agented.
It worked too for a year or more, and Colin and his gangsters were sucked in by Charlie’s joie de vivre. Enough so that when a particularly heavy consignment didn’t arrive as expected, it took a day or so for the penny to drop.
‘How much?’ I asked.
‘A million five,’ said Colin.
‘When?’
‘Ten days ago.’
‘The car?’
‘Turned up in the long term car park at Gatwick.’
‘Riley and Ward don’t know that.’
‘Nor should they.’
‘Did he book a ticket?’
‘Not according to my sources.’
‘More coppers?’
‘Customs.’
Maybe he was as good at gangstering as he said. Anyone can make a mistake. And Charlie had been a cunning devil. That was why he was such a good snout.
‘And only ten grand was found at the hotel with a passport not in his name, nothing else?’
He shook his head. ‘Just your card.’
It seemed pointless to tell him again that I’d had hundreds, maybe thousands printed over the years.
‘And your mission, if you chose to accept it is to bring the cash home to me,’ he said.
And the tape will self destruct in five seconds, I thought. And maybe me with it.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘How do I get in touch?’
‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about that. I’ll be in touch with you.’
With that, he swallowed the remains of his drink, collected his likely lads and left. It was as if he’d never been there. And I wished he hadn’t.
I went back home carrying my dry cleaning with me. Once inside I called Robber. ‘I met a mate of yours today,’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘Colin the gangster.’
‘Oh Coll.’
‘Yes Coll.’
‘Yeah, I gave him a shout after lunch. I told him you’d probably be in the pub.’
‘I need to change my local. Why’d you sick him onto me?’
‘He’s got a bit of the hump about some cash Charlie nicked off him. I thought you could help.’
‘Cheers. He thinks I know something because of that bleedin’ card Charlie was carrying.’
‘Shame about that.’
‘Too bloody right. You’ve left me up shit creek.’
‘Looks like you’re the victim of circumstances, my son. Never mind, you’ve been in worse places. Coll’s all right, as long as he gets what he wants.’
‘Lovely. No more recommendations to your criminal mates please,’ and I hung up.
Wednesday finds me back at the office. I’m no closer to working out my next move when my next move arrives with a bang as the door flies open and a young woman dressed in jeans and a Jack Daniels sweatshirt arrives, all raven
hair, black sunglasses and scarlet lipstick carrying a large notebook and not much else. I’m guessing she’s late teens or early twenties when she asks ‘Nick Sharman?’
I nod in agreement, and she carries on, ‘I need to talk to you.’
‘Sit down,’ I say, and she takes one of the clients’ chairs, and puts the book on the edge of my desk.’
‘And you are?’ I ask.
‘Charlotte,’ she replies. ‘Charlotte Swift. But I used to be Barnett. Charlotte Barnett. Charlie Barnett.’
Did my mouth gape open? Yes it did. ‘Christ,’ I said. ‘Your father…’
‘My father is in hospital. I found out yesterday. It was on TV.’
‘That’s how you found out?’
‘Yes.’
‘No one told you?’
‘No one knows who I am. I hadn’t seen him for years, until he found me recently.’
‘He used to talk about you.’
‘That was dad. All talk, little action.’
‘How about your mother?’
‘My mother died three years ago. I live with my Nan in Brixton. She runs an antique shop in the market. Well, a junk shop.’
‘Brixton’s up and coming.’
‘Not if you live in a housing association flat.’
I nodded at that. ‘So what do you do?’
‘I’m at St Martin’s. I study design.’
‘That’s good.’
‘There’s no need to patronise me, Mr Sharman.’
‘I’m not, or I don’t mean to, and if I am, I’m sorry.’ She softened up a bit at that.
‘And it’s Nick. Mr Sharman was my father.’
‘OK, Nick.’
‘So why exactly are you here?’
‘My dad gave me this.’ She stood, pulled a wallet from the back pocket of her jeans, opened it and pulled out a card. You guessed it. One of mine. But this one was different to the one Charlie had when he was shot. On the back neatly printed was the name WILLIAM BRIDGES.
I’d wondered how she’d known it was her father when his real name hadn’t been released. ‘When did he give you this?’
‘Last week. I hadn’t seen him or heard from him for years. Ever since mum died. Then, out of the blue he walks into Nan’s shop and takes me up west for lunch.’
‘But why my card, did he say?’
She nodded. ‘He said don’t trust the filth. But I could trust you. He said you were his friend. He said if anything happened to him to contact you.’
‘How did you find my office?’
‘You’re in Yellow Pages.’
‘It pays to advertise. Did he by any chance give you anything else?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like a million and a half quid in various currencies.’
She laughed at that. ‘Sorry, no. Where would he get money like that? And if he had I think me and Nan would be in Benidorm, all inclusive by now.’ She suddenly got serious. ‘But where?’
‘From some very bad people. Are you sure no one knows where you or granny are?’
‘No. We don’t use that name now. I just took Nan’s surname when mum died. No deed poll or anything.’
‘That is probably just as well.’
‘So what do I do? I can’t bear the thought of him lying in a hospital bed all alone. I am his next of kin.’
She took off her bins and I saw tears in the corners of her beautiful blue eyes.
‘Believe me a lot of people care,’ I said. ‘Trouble is a lot are of the wrong kind. But don’t worry, you’re in safe hands now. Do you have a lawyer?’
‘Nick. People like me and Nan go to the Citizen’s Advice Bureau.’
‘Fair enough. Got a pound coin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Gimme.’
‘I don’t understand’
‘You will. Give us a quid.’
She stood again, reached into her jeans pocket, pulled some change, separated a pound coin and passed it over. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘You’re now my client. Anything you tell me I keep secret. Now. Do you trust me?’
She nodded.
I reached for the phone and called my lawyer, Bobby D. ‘You’ve got a new client,’ I said.
‘Rich?’
‘Could be.’
‘I’m interested.’
‘My office at two. We’re just going to lunch.’
‘Bon appetite.’
‘Do you like spicy food?’ I asked Charlie.
She nodded.
‘Then you’re in for a treat. We’ll talk more over lunch.’
We went to Lionel’s and off course he made a big fuss of Charlotte. We hit the menu hard, and it was a treat to see her enjoy the food. It made me think, no know, that I didn’t see my daughter enough, and when this was all over I’d make it up to her.
‘This is more than I expected,’ she told me over the food as I filled her in on what I knew.
‘The least I could do.’
Then, she opens her note book, pulls a pen from where it’s stuck down the spine, and with a few lines she draws a picture of me. It was good too. Maybe a few more laughter lines than I would have liked. She tears the page out and gives it to me.
‘That’s brilliant,’ I said, ‘and that’s not being patronising.’
‘A pleasure.’
After cappuccinos, time was marching on, so I paid the bill and we went back to the office. Now Bobby D was a strange kind of lawyer. He didn’t have an office, just worked from home, or more often from the back of a seven series BMW. I called him the Beemer brief, which he seemed to like. At exactly 2pm the motor cruised round the corner and parked opposite my office. Bobby D locked it up and headed to the door. I introduced him to Charlie and between us we told our stories. Bobby sat taking notes and accepted another pound coin as his retainer.
After we’d finished he took down Charlie’s address, the address of her grandmother’s shop and her home phone number. She didn’t have a mobile. Too expensive on what she earned as a barmaid and from helping Nan out in the shop.
‘No more student grants,’ she said with a shrug.
Bobby D told her needed to see her birth certificate with her Barnett name, and she winced, ‘It could be in with mother’s papers at home. Otherwise…’
‘Otherwise we’ll worry about that as and when,’ said Bobby.
He noticed her portrait of me and told Charlie she was extremely talented, and then he took his notes back to his car and drove off. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said as he left.
‘I’d better go too,’ said Charlie.
‘How are you getting home?’ I asked.
‘Same as the way I came,’ she replied. ‘The 2B drops me off at my door.’
‘I’ll go and get my car,’ I said. ‘Give you a lift.’
‘Don’t be silly. You’ve done enough. I’ve got my travel card.’ And with that, she kissed me on the cheek and left.
I missed her straight away.
The next day nothing. Nada. No visitors. No cops, no gangsters, no estranged daughters, no lawyers. Nothing to do with the case, if you could call it that, except I rang Riley to ask about Charlie’s condition. No change. No operation.
So I just sat in my office drinking coffee and listening to CDs on shuffle. ‘Bags’ Groove’ played often.
In the late afternoon I took fish and chips home and ate them out of the paper washed down with cold white wine.
That was kind of the calm before one of the many storms to come.
Back to the office the next morning. A fine London June day, with blue skies, and a warm breeze from the south.
About eleven Bobby D’s Beemer turns into the street and he parks opposite. He gets out, slams the door and marches over. His face is how they say? Like thunder.
Bang goes the d
oor, and he shakes his head and says ‘Well Nick, this is one for the books.’
‘What?’
‘Just that Charlie Barnett, at least the female of the species does not exist.’
‘What?’
‘The phone number she gave us is dead. Her home address is a kebab shop with storage above that the owner was kind enough to let me see. Gran’s shop is indeed second hand stuff. Old records, run by a gent who has never heard the name. St Martin’s have no record. Can I say more?’
I had no answer.
‘So what did you tell her?’ he asked.
‘Everything.’ And I told him. Everything Riley had told me, and my visit from Colin the gangster. Every bloody detail.
‘Well I don’t know how she could use that information, but use it she will. I tell you what to do. Write GUM on your forehead so that every time you look in the mirror, what will you see?’
I got the picture.
‘And another thing.’ He reached into his pocket and took out a pound coin and dropped it onto the metal of my stereo. Instead of ringing true it landed with a dull thud. ‘Even that nicker she gave you was snide. And I’ll be billing you for my time,’ he added as he walked out.
So that told me.
I spent the rest of the day hanging around my office, figuring out what I could do. Leave town was an option, but I never had been one who took the easy option. To my own regret often. The hell with it, I thought. Bon temps roule, as the saying goes. Let the good times roll and the dice fall as they may. I had lunch at Lionel’s again.
Long and liquid. What the hell? Then it was over to the boozer. Again. No gangsters this time. I know I said I’d change my local, but I was used to the place and they were used to me.
By seven I must admit I was a bit pissed. A bit more than a bit actually. I made my farewells to staff and regulars and headed home. I wasn’t staggering, but close. When I saw the street door to my flat open I sobered up quickly. The people who lived downstairs had finally got tired of my shenanigans and moved. Or maybe they’d just felt like a change. Whichever, I was in sole occupation for now. I pushed the door open and saw the door to my flat open too. I wasn’t armed. Not even a Swiss Army knife or a Mont Blanc biro. And certainly no firearm. Actually I was trying to give them up. Foolishly maybe, I pushed that door open too, and quietly crept upstairs. If the open front door had partially sobered me up, what I found it in my living room did the complete job.
