by Jake Arnott
‘Pleased to meet you Lenny. Come on in.’
He led us through the gates, we passed through a tiny courtyard with a font heavy with dark-green foliage, then through panelled and studded doors. Portuguese pink marble floors, textured-plaster wall with a dado of ornamental tiles and clusters of more coloured glass inlay. A stone fireplace with a driftwood sculpture above it. Huge urns at each corner of the room. Moroccan wall hangings. A smoked-glass and tubular-steel coffee table surrounded by a massive sofa and armchairs in white leather. There were sliding french windows at the far end. Beyond, a turquoise swimming pool shimmered in a blue-tiled patio.
‘Very nice,’ said Harry, scanning it all. ‘Yeah. It’s all been very tastefully done.’
Jock produced a bottle of Krug and some glasses. He popped the cork and filled a glass full of foam. His hands were shaking as he guided the neck of the bottle. He picked up a glass, his hand a bit more steady now.
‘Well, here’s to crime,’ he proposed, and we all drank the toast.
A roll call passed between them. A litany of names, of faces, of those ‘away’. When it seemed exhausted, Harry sighed.
‘So, let’s get down to business,’ he said. ‘I want to go through everything I’ve got down here.’
‘Yeah, sure, Harry,’ Jock replied. ‘But you’ll want to relax a bit first, eh? It’s been a long journey.’
‘Yeah, well, let’s get it all sorted and then I can relax.’
Jock cleared his throat.
‘Yeah,’ he said, nodding, rubbing his fat hands on the front of his shorts. ‘Of course.’
Just then there was a shout from the patio. ¡Señor Yock! ¡Señor Yock! Jock grumbled and rubbed his face.
‘The pool boy,’ he explained. ‘There’s something wrong with the filter.’
He stood up.
‘I just need to see to this. I won’t be long.’
And he went out through the sliding french windows.
Harry stared straight ahead and sipped at his champagne.
‘Something’s up,’ he muttered. ‘Jock’s in a fucking funny mood.’
Agitated voices out on the patio. Two sharp cracks like heavy branches breaking and then a loud splash.
Harry was on his feet and racing to the glass doors. I followed him. We came out onto the patio. Someone was vaulting over the high stone wall.
‘Oi!’ Harry shouted.
There was the sound of undergrowth breaking. A motorcycle starting up and screaming off into the hot afternoon. Jock was face down in the swimming pool. Dark clouds of blood diffused in the water.
‘Fuck!’ said Harry, looking down at the floating body.
There was an automatic pistol lying on the poolside. Harry picked it up and looked at it. He sniffed.
‘Fuck!’ he whispered harshly.
He pocketed the gun and started to move quickly, back to the house.
‘Shouldn’t we get him out of the water?’ I asked.
He beckoned to me.
‘Come on,’ he insisted.
I gazed at the bobbing body. I frowned.
‘Something wrong with the filter,’ I muttered.
‘Come on!’ Harry repeated.
He went into the house and pulled at the white fur rug in front of the fireplace. He lifted up a small section of marble to reveal a floor safe, worked the combination and opened it. Reaching down, he scooped his hand around it. It was empty.
‘Fuck! We’ve been cleaned out.’
He stood up and adjusted the gun in his pocket. The sound of police sirens came from not too far off.
‘Come on,’ he ordered and made for the front door. ‘We’ve been set up.’
We ran down the steps and down the street. Behind us cars were screeching to a halt in front of the villa. Another police car came racing from the direction we were headed. Harry pulled me in by a hedge and we watched it pass. We found ourselves in a small square. There was a taxi at the corner. We jumped in.
‘¡Vamos!’ Harry demanded.
‘¿Adonde?’ the driver inquired.
Harry pointed ahead.
‘That way,’ he said.
The driver pulled away and started down the road ahead.
‘You English?’ he asked.
‘Si, yes,’ Harry replied. ‘English, yes.’
‘Where you want go, English?’
‘Oh, I don’t fucking know,’ he complained, rubbing his face with his hand.
Suddenly his hand stopped in front of his mouth. His eyes lit up.
‘Fuengirola,’ he gasped with a look of inspiration.
‘Sure,’ replied the driver. ‘Fuengirola is 800 pesetas.’
‘Take us there. Take us to Pete’s English Bar, Fuengirola.’
FULL ENGLISH BREAKFAST, promised Pete’s English Bar. FISH ’N’ CHIPS 200 PSTS. SUNDAY ROAST SERVED DAILY. FULL RANGE OF ENGLISH BEERS. The interior was half-timbered white plaster. Horse brasses, a Union Jack and a portrait of Her Majesty framed by an alcove. A formal photograph of two ranks of a football team, one standing, one squatting. A maroon scarf tacked above with the legend VIVA EL FULHAM. Framed pictures of Henry Cooper and Winston Churchill. ‘Una Paloma Blanca’ was blaring out of the jukebox. A ruddily tanned man with a bleached-blond perm was wiping the bar. He looked up and smiled wearily at us.
‘What can I get you, gents?’ he offered.
‘Are you Pete?’ Harry asked.
He stopped wiping and squinted at us.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘A friend of Beardsley’s.’
He smiled.
‘Right. How is the old cunt? Keeping out of trouble I hope. Wait a minute . . .’
Pete craned forward and studied Harry’s face.
‘You’re . . .’ Pete began.
‘Yes,’ said Harry, holding a finger up to the side of his nose. ‘I’m.’
Pete looked about shiftily then cocked his head backwards.
‘Come out the back,’ he said.
We went through the kitchen. It reeked of bacon and chip fat.
‘We need somewhere to lie low for a bit,’ said Harry, handing him a wad of notes.
‘Sure,’ said Pete, pocketing the money. ‘I’ve got a room upstairs.’
Harry took off his jacket as Pete showed us the room. The pistol fell clattering onto the floor. Pete jumped back.
‘Fucking hell,’ he gasped.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Harry. ‘We won’t be staying long. I need to get across the water to Morocco. You know anyone who can take me? Someone who won’t ask too many questions.’
Pete nodded.
‘Yeah. I know someone.’
Someone arrived three hours later.
‘Hi, I’m Giles,’ he announced in a lazy public school drawl. ‘Mind if I skin up?’
‘Be my guest,’ Harry said.
‘I understand you want to hitch a lift across the Straits of Gibraltar.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. You got a boat?’
‘Yah,’ Giles affirmed licking a rizla. ‘Absolutely. Moored down at Puerto Banus. Planning to set off dawn tomorrow, actually.’
‘So you could take me?’
‘Oh, yah. For a price of course.’
‘And nobody else needs to know about this?’
‘Absolutely. There’s my crew of course, but Juanalito’s terribly loyal. I can trust him.’
‘And can I trust you?’
Giles flicked open a brass zippo and lit the joint. He took a sharp pull. A smile emerged from a wreath of hash smoke.
‘Don’t worry, man. I’m terribly discreet. I have to be.’
‘And why’s that?’ Harry demanded, with a slight edge to his voice.
‘Because I’m picking up half a ton of resin from the Rif mountains next week and bringing it back over here. If you’re planning to relocate to Morocco, perhaps we could do business sometime.’
He handed the joint to Harry.
‘Yeah,’ Harry toked thoughtfully. ‘Maybe. Look, Giles,
you know who I am, don’t you?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Yeah, but just supposing that you do. What’s being said?’
‘That you shot Jock McCluskey by his swimming pool.’
‘Right. Well I didn’t. OK?’
‘I’m very glad to hear it.’
Harry passed me the joint. I took a drag and held the smoke in my lungs.
‘You knew Jock?’ Harry asked Giles.
‘Knew of him. And that weird guy he was doing business with.’
‘What guy?’
‘Calls himself the Major. Supposed to be ex-army. Looks more like ex-Old Bill to me.’ Giles gave a stoned little giggle. ‘El Viejo Guillermo.’
‘What sort of business were they doing?’
I exhaled and felt the hashish rush into my bloodstream, a prickly warmth rising up from my legs.
‘Well, this Major guy, he’s supposed to be well connected, knows all the bent policia down here. He’s been approaching all the villains who are moving down here and offering protection. You know, acting as liaison with the authorities.’
‘And Jock was dealing with him?’
‘That’s what I heard.’
‘And where might one find this Major chap?’
‘He’s got a place up in Llanos de Nagueles. I could find the address if you want.’
‘Yeah, you do that.’
At nightfall we drove up to a moresque villa overlooking the sea. It seemed dark and empty. We got out of the car. Cicadas chirped in an expectant rhythm. There was a firework display down by the beach.
Harry went up to the front door and rapped on it. He peered up at the windows. Nobody stirred. He came back out.
‘Nobody home,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a look at the back.’
He told the driver to wait and we walked around the premises. A burst of green cinders blossomed against the skyline and a gentle patter of thunder rolled up from the seafront. There was a low pillared balcony at the back of the house.
‘Right then,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s have a little look, shall we?’
‘You’re going to break in?’
‘We’re going to break in.’
‘Harry, look . . .’
‘Shut up and listen. A bit of practical work for you. Now concentrate. I’m going to explain breaking in. Here’s the modus operandi. A team of three. Right?’ Harry held up three fingers. ‘Driver, minder, goer.’ He counted off. ‘The driver’s obviously Pepe over there, I’m going in, so that leaves you to mind. Keep watch and keep your wits about you. If anything turns up, give me a shout. And then make sure the motor’s ready to go when I come out. OK? Remember, rule number one, no one gets left behind.’
‘I’m really not sure about this.’
‘Don’t worry. You’re nervous, that’s natural. Use your nerves to keep you on your toes. Oh,’ he added, ‘and you get to hold on to this.’
He slipped something into my hand. I felt cold heavy metal. It was the gun.
‘Oh, fuck,’ I groaned.
‘Don’t worry. I put the safety catch on.’
He padded across to the balcony and started to scale it. A rocket whooped up into the night. A bright orange star shell dropped slowly behind a row of palm trees. I could hear Harry rattling the shutters, forcing an entry.
Cars passing. A group of revellers in the distance breaking into a terrace chant. Syncopated pyrotechnic clattering. An engine sighed to a halt in front of the house. The sound of a car door clumping.
I walked briskly around to the front, clutching the pistol in my pocket. Someone was at the front door. Keys jingled, slotted, ratcheted. I ran back to the balcony.
‘Harry!’ I whispered harshly.
No response. A light went on.
‘Harry!’ I repeated, a little louder.
Still nothing. I started to climb up the balcony myself. The light went on in the room beyond. I crawled to the french windows and crouched behind the shutter Harry had forced open.
Harry was stooped over an open suitcase on the bed. It was full of money. There was a stocky man with close-cropped grey hair and piercing little eyes standing by the door. He had a gun in his hand.
‘Hello, Harry,’ he said. ‘Long time no see.’
Harry gave a little start. He looked up.
‘Mooney,’ he moaned. ‘Fuck.’
‘I see you’ve found your legacy.’
Harry picked up a sheaf of notes and let it drop back into the suitcase.
‘You had Jock killed, didn’t you?’ he asked.
Mooney sighed.
‘Jock,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Yes, that was unfortunate. I tried to work things out with him but he could so easily have fucked things up. And after I’d done so much for him. When he first came down here he really stuck out like a sore prick. It was easy to track him down. I’ve been here for quite a while, you know, established some very useful friends in the guardia civil. I could have had him thrown out on his ear. Instead I suggested a more co-operative approach. I helped him get set up. So much gelt coming in from Soho. Some of it owing to me now, let’s face it. Plenty to go around. Then you break out of Brixton and Jock gets all flustered. Like an old woman. I say it’s simple, let me know where you are and I’ll just make a little call to some old pals at West End Central. And he’s whining on about not wanting to grass you up. Dreary petty-criminal morality. When he does finally squeal, it’s too late, you’ve already moved on. Then Jock gets near enough hysterical. You’re on your way, what are we going to do. Like it’s always up to me to sort all the shit out. I could have had you arrested at Malaga. But then I think, why not get rid of you both? Jock’s becoming far too unreliable. I get him to hand over the loot to me for safe keeping. Tell him not to worry, I’ll deal with you.’
‘And then you have him bumped off ?’
‘Yes.’ Mooney smiled. ‘It seemed such a perfect solution. To do it while you’re at the house. You’re the most obvious suspect, after all. And it has been pinned on you, you know. There’s a very good set of fingerprints on a glass found in the villa. Scotland Yard have already confirmed that they belong to you.
‘But once again you have evaded capture. You’ve become quite a desperado, Harry. Now I can bring you in myself. A bit of glory. Retired detective collars the Torture Gang Boss. It’ll do my reputation no end of good. You know, there’s still some nasty rumours about my past, my time in the force. This will shut all of that up for good. And it’ll impress my friends in the policia. A minor gang war cleared up. Just the sort of thing that they’re dreading with this extradition difficulty. I can persuade them to let me have a free rein. Keep in line all the old lags that’ll be coming down here to lie about like lizards in the sun. It’ll be quite like old times, really. Familiar faces, just a bit of suntan. And bigger and better deals. It’ll be my duty to properly police the expatriate criminal community. And it’ll make me very rich. Now, put your hands up where I can see them.’
‘Isn’t there something that can be done?’ Harry asked.
‘Ah! That ancient phrase. It quite takes me back, it really does. You’re of the old school, Harry, I’ll give you that. I’d really like to be able to say yes, just for old times’ sake. But I’m afraid, I’m going to have to hand you over. A little offering, as it were. Don’t try anything. I’ve got a licence for this thing and using it to shoot a dangerous intruder would suit me just as well.’
Keeping his pistol trained on Harry, Mooney picked up the receiver of the telephone on the bedside table. He clutched it, then used the forefinger of the same hand to start to dial a number. I pulled out the pistol Harry had given me and edged forward. Suddenly the window shutter that obscured me swung inwards noisily. Mooney looked across, his little eyes narrowing in on me. I raised my gun and pointed it at him.
‘Go on,’ Harry urged gruffly. ‘Shoot the fucker.’
I pulled at the trigger but it wouldn’t budge. I tried again. Mooney swung his pistol around in my direction and fired
.
Glass exploded next to my face. I staggered back out onto the balcony.
‘The safety catch, you stupid cunt!’ Harry called out.
Mooney followed me out, bearing down on me, both hands holding his gun, steadying its aim on me. My arms dangled at my sides uselessly. I still felt the weight of my pistol at the end of one of them.
Mooney pointed his gun at my face. I stared at the little hole at the end of it. Mooney grinned at me. I gasped a breath. My brain screamed with fear.
Then, with a thud, he fell forward, collapsed into a sprawling heap in front of me. Harry had hurled the suitcase against his back. Its hinged shells now gaped open, spilling out bundles of money onto the tiled floor and all over the back of the ex-policeman. Mooney stirred, coughing. He looked up over his shoulder at me. I only needed to lift my weighted arm a few degrees to bring the barrel of the gun in line with his view. I clicked off the safety catch.
Mooney curled up foetal. His beady eyes gleamed in panic. He made little palsied spasms of terror.
‘Please,’ he squealed.
All my fear turn into disgust. I felt a surge of animal loathing for weakness. Aerial maroons exploded in the sky behind me. My shoulder spastic with recoil. Cordite stinging the back of my throat. The gun was hot in my hand. I don’t know how many bullets I put into Mooney. Harry got hold of me.
‘That’s enough, Lenny,’ he shouted in my ear, pulling the gun arm gently down. ‘That’s enough.’
He carefully prised the pistol from my tense grip. Unthreading the forefinger from out of the trigger guard, unclawing the rest from the butt. There were neat little wounds in Mooney’s face. The back of his head was a red and pink pulp. Blood grouted the tilework floor of the balcony.
I started to hyperventilate. Harry pulled me away from the body and slapped me across the face a couple of times.
‘Come on. Breathe out slowly. That’s it,’ he spoke softly, soothingly. ‘Let it go.’
I grabbed the window frame to steady myself and retched a couple of times. Not much came up. I drooled a few drops of bile over Mooney’s well-polished shoes. Warm, sickly sweet odours wafted up from the voided body beneath me. My head throbbed with knowledge. I had killed. I had killed without mercy.
‘Right,’ said Harry, crouching down to repack the suitcase. ‘We’re going out the front door. Nice and calm now.’
