Reap the Whirlwind

by Mark Timlin

  Sitting on my sofa, dressed as she had been when she left my office, but minus the dark glasses, was the fake Charlie Barnett very quiet and very dead. Someone had wrapped a leather belt round her neck and tightened it until her eyes bulged, and her bladder relaxed, and filled the room with the scent of urine. She was stone cold dead in the market. Even so I felt for a pulse. Nothing, although she was just slightly warm. Not quite stone cold, so I figured she’d been there for several hours. I used the landline to call an ambulance and the police. Then Bobby D.

  ‘Not you again,’ he said.

  ‘Bobby. No messing. Get to my house quick.’

  ‘Why should I after…’

  ‘Fuck’s sake man, she’s dead.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Charlie Barnett’s fake daughter.’

  ‘Christ Sharman! You sure she’s dead?’

  ‘She is.’

  ‘Have you called an ambulance just in case?’

  ‘Of course. And the police.’

  ‘Don’t touch anything. I’ll be there fast. Don’t let the cops take you away.’

  With that he cut me off. I took Riley’s card out of my pocket and called her. If I was going to have cops all over me I wanted at least one to be untouchable.

  Pretty soon the outside of my place looked like a scene from The Bill. An ambulance, a couple of squad cars, a SOCO van, all but the van with blues flashing.

  It was if my downstairs neighbours knew what was going to happen. Me, I was in the back of an unmarked police car with a couple of detectives. No expense spared when Sharman was back in the frame. Bobby D and Riley and Ward arrived pretty much at the same time. Riley took over. Murder squad trumps plain old local plain clothes every time.

  I got slung in the back of the Riley/Ward mobile and off we went to Streatham police station with Bobby D in the Beemer close behind. ‘Not a word,’ was all he said as we left.

  I obeyed.

  We ended up in an interview room. It looked recently decorated and was certainly more comfortable than some I’d been in. Both in and out of the Job.

  The usual rigmarole of our identities for the tape, then Bobby D said. ‘Can we go now?’

  Riley gave him a look. ‘Is it true you work out of the back of a car?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Fascinating. Now Mr Sharman how about bringing us up to speed.’

  I told them as much as I wanted them to know. I kept an eye on Bobby in case I was saying too much. I left out the bit about Colin the gangster and what I knew about what Charlie had been doing to earn a crust.

  ‘And you didn’t think to tell us about this young woman pretending to be Charlie Barnett’s long lost daughter.’

  ‘That’s down to me,’ said Bobby. ‘I thought we’d never hear from her again when I asked for a birth certificate to validate her next of kinship.’

  ‘And why do you think she ended up in your flat, deceased. Murdered.’ She asked me.

  I felt like saying, ‘You’re the Detective’, but that never goes down well. Instead I said, ‘Somebody wants me in jail.’

  ‘Somebody certainly wants something. We’ve estimated time of death as between ten and two. You were?’

  ‘In my office. In the Vietnamese restaurant up the road from my office, and in the pub opposite my office.’

  ‘But you could have nipped home.’

  ‘And left the body as I understand it lying on his sofa,’ said Bobby. ‘That would have been wise.’

  ‘Sitting,’ I explained.

  ‘Sitting. And then of course he gave you a call. Frankly, if he had murdered her he might have tried to get rid of the body.’

  I nodded.

  Riley looked at Ward, then at me. ‘Where will you stay tonight? Your flat is a crime scene.’

  ‘You mean I can go?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s no room at this inn,’ she said. ‘If we need you I’m sure we’ll find you.’

  I ended up at a local generic hotel chain. No five stars for me. Bobby D gave me a lift. I bought a toothbrush and paste at a BP garage. He promised he’d get me into my flat to pack a bag the next morning. Which he did. I loaded it into my car and drove to my office.

  What next? I wondered as I opened up and stuck on the coffee pot. Through all this, don’t think I didn’t feel sympathy for the dead girl whatever her real name was.

  Because I did. Obviously she had stuck her nose in something that had got it cut off. Curiosity certainly killed that cat.

  Riley called me after lunch. ‘Not gone on the run then,’ she said. I was getting quite fond of her. I figured that the local cops would’ve locked me up for the night just for badness.

  ‘Nowhere to run to.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  I told her.

  ‘You’ll get your flat back soon.’

  ‘Don’t know that I want it.’

  ‘You could run guided tours.’

  ‘Not funny. She may not have been Charlie Barnett’s daughter, but she was someone’s.’

  ‘Yeah. Sorry. This job hardens you. But you know that. Does the name Barbara Green mean anything?’

  ‘No. Was that her?’

  ‘Yes. Went by the name Krystal with a K.’

  ‘A prostitute.’

  ‘Escort. She looked younger than she was. That was her USP apparently.’

  ‘She had a record?’

  ‘Nothing much. Kid’s stuff, but she was in the system. Kicked out of home. Mum and dad junkies. Abused. Fostered. A nightmare apparently. Poor kid.’

  ‘Who done it?’

  ‘Who knows? Someone who knew you, and didn’t like you.’

  ‘Plenty of suspects then. Thanks for letting me go yesterday by the way.’

  ‘Didn’t go down well with some.’

  ‘But fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Any news on Charlie? The real Charlie that is.’

  ‘He’s healing. Should go under the knife next week.’

  ‘Then maybe we’ll know something.’

  ‘Everything. If he wakes up.’

  I wish people wouldn’t keep saying that.

  ‘By the by, does the name McIntyre ring any bells. Harry McIntyre. Goes by Mac?’

  ‘No. should it?’

  ‘Just a thought. His fingerprints were found at your flat.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Personally, no. But he has a record any petty crim would be proud of. Lately, living off immoral.’

  ‘Krystal’s pimp.’

  ‘Ten out of ten. I knew you didn’t do it.’

  ‘I still owe you one.’

  ‘Just one? You disappoint me Sharman.’

  With that we finished our conversation.

  The week dragged on, and the weekend. No one was murdered and I wasn’t arrested. Colin gave me a couple of calls. He told me his patience was wearing thin. I told him I was doing my best. Without Charlie that wasn’t much good. On the Monday, Robber told me that Charlie had had an operation on Saturday afternoon, the prognosis was good. On the Tuesday Riley called and told me he was awake and asking for me. I asked if he knew Krystal was dead. She told me I would have the pleasure of breaking the news.

  The price of freedom I imagine.

  I called the hospital and talked to a pleasant sounding nurse on his floor. She said my name was on the visitors’ list. She also told me he was in excellent form for someone in his condition. She sounded a bit sweet on him. That was Charlie. I also phoned Bobby D and told him I was going visiting. He insisted on coming along. I said Charlie only wanted me. He insisted again. I gave in.

  I arrived in the hospital car park around five. Bobby was already in situ. We went upstairs in the lift. There was a cop sitting outside a private
room. I captured a nurse, and she told me Charlie was inside. I showed the cop my ID as did Bobby.

  I went into the private room, Bobby D close behind. Charlie was lying in bed, some kind of metal meccano set holding his head steady. There was a cannula in his wrist with two bags of clear liquid on a drip stand, antibiotics and saline probably.

  Hanging on the side of the bed was a piss bag half full of urine from a catheter. The room smells like death warmed up. His head doesn’t turn but his eyes do. ‘Nick,’ he says, then sees Bobby. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘My lawyer.

  If he could he would have shaken his head. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Just you.’

  ‘I should…’ That was Bobby.

  ‘No.’ Charlie again.

  ‘Bobby,’ I said. ‘Leave it. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘It’s against my advice.’

  ‘Duly noted.’

  He shook his head, more in sorrow than in anger I think, and left closing the door behind him. I pulled up a chair. ‘Well I don’t have to ask how you are,’ I said.

  ‘A drop of water please mate,’ said Charlie.

  I held a plastic beaker complete with bendy straw next to his lips. He drank some, then gestured for me to take it away.

  ‘Well, another fine mess you’ve got me into,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m glad to see you mate.’

  ‘Me too.’ And it was the truth. ‘Have you been charged?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Well, apart from Colin’s money.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘Simple. He wants it back. He wants me to get it back for him because you spread my cards far and wide. And if I don’t I’ll be in the next bed.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t keep saying that, Charlie, or I’ll be tempted to give you a smack in the back of the head, and that might be fatal.’

  He almost said sorry again, but thought better of it. ‘You said cards.’

  ‘You gave one to your girlfriend Krystal.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Now was time for the truth. No matter how much it hurt. I almost felt bad, but serves him right I thought as I said, ‘I hate to be the bearer of more bad news, but she’s dead, mate. Murdered in my flat by her pimp. McIntyre.’ I described what had happened.

  I thought he might have a relapse at that news. His face went whiter than the pillow his head was resting on. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘She was a good girl, no matter what she did for a living. She was good to me. She didn’t deserve that.’

  ‘She fooled me,’ I said.

  ‘You met her?’

  ‘Once. She told me she was your daughter.’

  ‘Fucking hell. What else have I missed?’

  ‘We lost the last test match.’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘You told her about me. Told her she could trust me. So why did she go through that rigmarole. Why not tell me the truth?’

  ‘She was a whore Nick. She had a bad time. She was fucked up.’ He swallowed, and there were tears in his eyes. ‘We were going away to start over.’

  ‘And you wrote the name on your fake passport on the card. I don’t get it. Didn’t you trust her, if she was so good to you? And you two were off.’

  ‘With a million and a half at stake and that bastard McIntyre on the plot. He would have got it all out of her. He had his ways.’

  ‘And she wasn’t at the hotel with you. This is all upside down.’

  ‘She was too scared to leave him. He had her almost a prisoner.’

  ‘So why didn’t you run straight away?’

  ‘She didn’t have a bleedin’ passport. Poor cow. McIntyre kept hers so she needed a fake. That was what the ten grand was for.’

  ‘Christ, that’s a lot.’

  ‘The geezer doing it was a Van Gogh of fake paperwork. A fucking Picasso.’

  ‘Well I hope he didn’t do the photo.’

  ‘Fuck off, you know what I mean.’

  ‘So, what about Colin’s dough? The cops won’t be guarding you forever. He knows where you are. He knows almost everything except where the money actually is.’

  ‘And you want me to tell you.’

  ‘Yes. You know you can trust me.’

  ‘I know, Nick.’

  He knew alright. He knew he could trust me because the one thing I hadn’t told Riley and Ward, hadn’t told anyone for a lot of years was because I’d allowed Charlie Barnett to get away with murder. He’d had a sister then. Back ten years or more. Julia. Lovely Girl. But she’d got in with bad company. In particular one bad boy with flash suits, flash address, flash motors, and lots of flash cash. His name was Vincent. Almost a bloody cliché. He was a dealer, she was a sweetheart who fell for him in the worst way. It had to end badly, and did when he smashed up one of his motors and he walked away without a scratch. Julia didn’t. She hadn’t been wearing a seat belt. Flash boy was over the limit and full of coke. Somehow the evidence got corrupted and he walked out of court with a fine. Three months later Charlie called me up one night. He needed a favour. I found him in a lock up garage in Bromley with a dead body. You can guess who.

  I was Job. He was a snout. A villain too. I didn’t give a shit. I’d met Julia, and she was a diamond. 24 caret. We loaded the body into the boot of Vincent’s motor. Charlie drove, I followed on. There’s a lagoon in Crystal Palace Park where folks go fishing. The fish have an extra companion now. Now with a load of old heavy metal tied to his legs. Never heard a word about it since. I suppose the body is still down there. At least he was doing some good feeding those fishes.

  ‘If he does for you, he’ll have to do for me,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave a letter with my solicitor, only to be opened at the time of my death. I’m sure he’ll listen to reason. He didn’t seem so bad as it happens.’

  ‘He’s not. Nick, I was in love.’

  That can bring out the worst in us.

  Or the best.

  I wish.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘There’s a boozer round the corner from my gaff in Battersea. The Hanging Judge And Usher. Most just call it the Usher. It’s right by the court funnily enough. Everyone from the court and the Bill drink there. Safest place for miles. Guv’nor’s called Nigel. Lovely bloke. Bent as a nine bob note. He keeps things for me behind the jump. There’s an envelope with your name on it. Inside is a ticket for the left luggage at Waterloo Eurostar. Paid up for months, inside are two bags. Cash inside. Not the full Monty. I’ve spent some. Colin will have to swallow that. Nigel will expect a back hander. A ton should do, and I expect he’ll front you a bevvy. Give him my regards. Get it back to Colin, and let the cards fall as they may. And what about Jack Robber? He’ll make himself busy you bet your life.’

  ‘The original sleeping policeman. He’ll be fine as long as he gets his bungs. Which he always does. He must have a pot somewhere.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think so the way he dresses.’

  ‘He won’t know a dickey bird ’til Colin gets the cash back. Then it’s up to them. We’ll be out of the picture.’

  ‘I hope it’s going to be that simple.’

  ‘Trust me.’ I hoped I was as confident as I sounded.

  ‘Last thing,’ I said. ‘How come you had my cards?’

  ‘You gave me a handful when you started out private. I still had some. I reckoned they’d get back to you.’

  ‘Thanks again mate.’

  I got up to leave as there wasn’t much more to say.

  ‘Thanks Nick,’ he said. ‘I’m real sorry it came to this. I’ll make it up to you. No danger.’

  ‘I’d like to say it was all a pleasure, but it wasn’t,’ I said and left. The cop was still outside.

  I went out to the car park as the evening was turning to night, and the moon
was creeping up behind the building, and went towards my motor, when I heard a voice I didn’t recognise from behind say ‘scuse me’, and I turned and the moon went out and night fell like a dark, velvet curtain.

  Later that same evening, or some bloody evening, the sun came out I woke up with blood in my mouth and a bright light in my eyes.

  ‘You’re back,’ said the voice I didn’t recognise.

  ‘Light,’ I said through a dry, thick throat.

  The light went off but my eyes were still full of stars. ‘Who are you?’ I slurred.

  ‘Name’s McIntyre.’

  ‘The pimp.’

  I got a slap for that.

  I was in a kitchen. Not flash, just a suburban kitchen. I was sitting on a kitchen chair, my wrists bound in front of me with what looked like speaker wire. On the table next to me was an automatic pistol with gaffa tape round the butt. Next to it was a Stanley knife with the blade open. Nasty things, Stanley knives in the wrong hands.

  ‘Any chance of a drink of water?’ I asked.

  ‘If you behave.’

  ‘Not much chance of me doing anything else.’

  He ran a tap, then put a mug to my lips and I slurped thirstily. ‘What d’you say?’

  Christ, I thought. He thinks he’s my mum. ‘Thanks,’ I said. I tested the wire, but it was tight. Too tight for me to stretch it unless I had hours to myself. Didn’t look to me that was going to happen. ‘Why’d you kill her?’ I asked.

  ‘She was going to leave me for that fucker.’

  That fucker and a million and a half quid, I thought but said nothing.

  ‘The money,’ he said. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘What money?’

  Another slap.

  ‘You know.’

  ‘Charlie didn’t tell me.’

  ‘Then I’ll kill you and go and ask him myself.’

  ‘There’s cops all round him.’

  ‘Not forever.’

  Just what I’d said.

  ‘So, the money?’ And he picked up the knife.

  I don’t know if I’d’ve given the dough up or not. It wasn’t mine and never would be, so what did I care? But I can be stubborn, even though the razor sharp blade of that knife would do a lot of damage before I talked or died. But I’d never know, because from the front of the house there was a crash loud enough to wake the dead, and suddenly the room was full of men but in black suits and helmets holding long guns. McIntyre grabbed me and stuck the knife into my neck and punctured the skin so I felt blood running into my shirt collar. The cops were shouting, And the knife went deeper and then one fired and the knife and McIntyre hit the floor in tandem. I was expecting to be covered in claret, but when I turned my head to look he was flat out but still breathing. My ears were concussed by the shot, but when I looked at the cop who had fired, he said, ‘Bean bag. We like them to stand trial.’