Bleeding London

by Geoff Nicholson

  ‘Well, I could tell you it was because I used to be a store detective.’

  She did not look convinced, even less so when Mick placed a wallet on the counter and offered it to her.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘The guy’s wallet.’

  She shook her head in disbelief, amused despite herself.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Mick. ‘He won’t be coming back for it.’

  ‘You’re a pickpocket as well as everything else.’

  ‘What’s everything else?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Surely I’ve earned myself something,’ he said winningly. ‘A bit of help? A bit of information?’

  Half an hour later Judy Tanaka was on her break and they were drinking coffee in an Italian caff and she was doing her best to help him. She turned back and forth between the list of names and the torn pages of telephone directory, and occasionally she consulted the index of her A–Z.

  ‘This isn’t as easy as it looks,’ she said.

  ‘It doesn’t look easy at all.’

  ‘Like here you’ve got a Jonathan Sands, and there are six people called J or John Sands in the phone book. Four of them I think we can rule out but that still leaves one in Hampstead, one in Chelsea, both pricey addresses, you know? It could be either.’

  ‘I can see the problem,’ Mick said.

  She continued to concentrate on her task, but she asked distractedly, ‘What are you going to do when you track down these people?’

  ‘We’re going to have a reunion party.’

  ‘Are you a private detective or something?’

  ‘Something,’ he said.

  ‘Are you some sort of criminal?’

  ‘Would it make a difference?’

  ‘I don’t know. Would I be an accessory?’

  She smiled as she said it. The idea didn’t particularly displease her.

  ‘Accessory to what? Partying?’

  She smiled more broadly. She knew he had no reason to be honest with her, and that was probably for the best. She found the prospect of his criminality intriguing but she didn’t necessarily want to know any detail.

  ‘Really,’ she said, and she sounded disappointed, ‘there’s only one of these people I can be absolutely certain about: Philip Masterson. For that name there’s only one address that fits the bill at all. It’s in Maida Vale, whereas all the other Philip Mastersons live in Walthamstow or Peckham or areas like that. He has to be the one.’

  Mick looked at her unsurely. These were all place names he’d never heard before. They evoked nothing for him, had no ring to them, no connotations. But he nodded willingly enough. He believed her. He trusted her to the extent that he had to. She was his only ally, his only source of favours and information. She handed back the pages of directory and pointed out the address that fitted.

  ‘You’re good,’ he said.

  ‘Not bad for someone who looks like a foreigner, eh?’ she said. ‘Do you know where Maida Vale is?’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said triumphantly. ‘I’ve got a map, remember.’

  CONSERVATORY

  If there was one thing above all others that made Sally Masterson and her husband Philip decide to buy the maisonette, it was the Victorian-style conservatory; an iron-framed structure with spangles of red and blue stained glass and french windows that opened out on to the elegant and well-stocked, if pocket-size, walled garden. The conservatory was lovely, bright, spacious, atmospheric: a special place an arena.

  They had no complaints about the rest of the property. They liked the fact that it provided living accommodation on two floors, ground and garden level. Sally liked the living room, especially the fireplace with its reproduction William De Morgan tiles. Philip was more impressed by the generously proportioned bedrooms, the wide hallway and the spacious en suite bathroom. All these factors had been persuasive enough, but it wasn’t until Sally saw the conservatory that she completely lost her heart. In fact, she loved it so much she had been prepared to postpone their honeymoon for the pleasure of moving straight into their new home.

  Sally had not wanted to change much about the conservatory. She knew there were times when a space had to be left to express its own essential personality. Nevertheless she had felt the need to express her own personality at the same time, hence the huge bunches of dried herbs, her collection of novelty salt and pepper shakers and a kind of totem pole from somewhere in Canada. Apart from that all she’d had to do was get a few panes of glass replaced and have the frames painted. Decisions about furniture had been easy enough: a rattan sofa, a small perforated steel table and a couple of Rietveld zigzag timber chairs. The conservatory was now perfection, although she sometimes wondered about blinds or curtains to keep the neighbours at bay.

  She would always vehemently deny that she was a snob. For example, it would have been possible, in fact it would have been all too easy, to claim that their new home was in Little Venice, but she made no such claim. She was quite happy to say she lived in Maida Vale. She knew that before long she would soon be moving on and up, but for now it would do, at least so long as she had her totally perfect conservatory.

  It was early; seven in the morning. She had risen, showered and had put on only underwear and stockings. She was now seated at the steel table in the conservatory drinking laceratingly strong black coffee. Philip was out taking his daily early-morning jog. She looked at her watch and saw that he was a little behind schedule. A familiar irritation surged through her.

  Sally was a trim, well-groomed, slightly boyish blonde. Her hair was cut into a short no-nonsense bob. Her breasts were small and her legs were long. Her eyes were a soft blue and her mouth was thin-lipped though pleasantly curved. When not in her underwear and stockings, her style of dress could be a little severe, and it was possible to think she was, austere, asexual, but that would have been a terrible mistake.

  At last, with some relief, she heard the front door open and close, heard Philip’s weighty feet on the ground floor landing, heard him descending the stairs to the lower level. He stood in the doorway between the breakfast room and the conservatory, breathing a shade heavily. He was sweaty and oxygenated. She loved it.

  He said, ‘Now?’

  She said, ‘Yes. Now. Of course. Here and now. Quickly.’

  Philip Masterson was a good-looking man, not film star good-looking, not good-looking in a way that meant he, or Sally, would ever have to fight off women; but when she first presented him to her girlfriends they all agreed that she had got herself a chunky handsome husband. He was dark and hirsute. There was thick hair on his head, arms and back, and there were many occasions when he needed to shave twice in a day. He was perhaps a little overweight for some tastes, which was surprising given that he took so much exercise; squash and swimming and occasional football, as well as the jogging. But he had a strong, big-boned frame and Sally thought he carried his bulk easily.

  He smiled roguishly and went into the conservatory to where Sally was ready and waiting for him. He went up to her, slid his hand inside her white lace briefs and pressed his big hot palm against her belly. She quaked with familiar expectation. She helped him off with his T-shirt, shorts and jock strap. She let him kick aside his own shoes and socks while she lowered her panties, folded them and placed them neatly on the unused chair. That was all she would be taking off. He would be hot and unshaven, laced with sweat, and she would be cool in white bra and sheer stockings. They wouldn’t do any kissing, since that would destroy her make-up, but she was happy to be, in fact insisted on being, mauled, thrown around, thoroughly fucked.

  He began by pulling her to her feet and dragging her over to the rattan sofa. He touched her neck, breasts, stomach, and moved himself so that his penis came into handy proximity of her mouth. She took it in her hand, firmly and quite fondly, but she pushed it away to avoid smearing her lipstick, then she got up from the sofa, finding it too soft and comfortable.

  Philip took her by the wrists a
nd spun her round. He squeezed her bottom before pulling her to him, snaking his hands around her and directing her towards the french windows. Her finely manicured hands grabbed the door handles. She braced herself, her head arched forward and Philip eased her thighs apart, stroked her investigatively before penetrating her.

  His actions were athletic, strong, purposeful, deeply felt. Sally’s face was tight, grimacing, fierce. You might have looked at that face and thought she wasn’t enjoying this very much, but that would have been another mistake.

  And she enjoyed herself even more as Masterson prised her away from the doors and they inched their way slowly, a little awkwardly, into the centre of the conservatory. They had to disconnect briefly and Masterson took the opportunity to sink to his knees and Sally went dog-like in front of him, her buttocks high, her legs wide apart. His hands gripped her hips as though they were conveniently placed handles of flesh and bone. His rhythm remained slow and constant, unhurried but insistent. He was prolonging the experience rather than hurrying it along and bringing it to its conclusion. This was not quite right for Sally.

  She turned her head to make brief eye contact with him, and as she fixed him with her glance she said, ‘That’s not hard enough, you bastard,’ and that spurred him on no end. He pushed her head down with the flat of his hand so that she fell all the way forward, her torso flattening and slipping against the cool smooth expanse of the conservatory’s pink sandstone tiles. He dragged her back towards him in a charade of savagery and mastery and he finished off with a few hard, ferocious strokes, not great in number but putting all he’d got into each of them and into her. When she knew he was coming then she could let herself go too, and as she climaxed she yelled, ‘Oh, Mummy.’

  He withdrew briskly, stood up and made for the shower. Soon Sally would get up too, collect herself and dress for work, but for a few savoured moments she lay there motionless, and if you had been in a position to peer in through the roof of the conservatory you would have seen her looking as happy as she ever looked, having been had briskly and sweatily and uncomplicatedly on the floor in her very favourite place.

  *

  Mick Wilton was, in fact, in just such a position, lodged in the middle branches of a mature horsechestnut tree that overlooked the Mastersons’ conservatory. And having watched the floor-show with great, perhaps indecent, interest, he moved from his vantage point, and climbed easily through a couple of the neighbouring gardens so that he was there at the front of the house, ready for Philip Masterson’s departure for work.

  Less than ten minutes later, now shaved and showered, Masterson bounced out of his front door. He was wearing a navy wool pinstriped, three-piece suit and he was carrying a full briefcase, but he still looked intensely athletic, as though the day would be a series of sporting contests, jousts; not just business as usual. He repeatedly tossed his car keys up in the air and caught them as he walked along the tree-lined street, along the row of residents’ parking spaces until he came to his own car, an E-type convertible, a low-slung, racing-green slab with personalized number plates. The hood was up and even though it was a cold winter morning he intended to lower it before driving to work. That was the sort of chap he was. But as he got closer he saw that someone had cut three long, jagged slashes through the thick black material of the hood.

  ‘Fuck,’ he shouted at the world. ‘Fucking hell.’ And he ran up to the car, threw down his briefcase and looked as though he might stamp his feet and throw a full-blown tantrum.

  Then, out of nowhere, Mick appeared. He was someone who would always be better suited to the night than to the early morning, but he was trying hard to look like a man who was on his way to work, a man who had heard the shouting of a neighbour and had decided to help.

  In what he took to be a neighbourly fashion he said, ‘Car trouble?’

  ‘You could say that,’ Masterson replied. ‘Some bastard’s done this,’ and he pointed at the hood.

  ‘That’s a rotten dirty trick,’ Mick sympathized.

  ‘If I ever get my hands on them …’ said Masterson.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mick and he went over to have a closer look at the damage. He inspected the cut material and said, ‘How much does a new hood cost?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Masterson said. ‘Enough. But that’s not really the point.’

  ‘Are you insured?’

  ‘Of course I’m insured, but…’

  Masterson calmed down a little, not because he felt any more philosophical about the damage but simply because he knew there was nothing he could do about it at the moment and because he had to get to work. ‘I’ll worry about it later,’ he said, and he began to undo the catches that held the hood in place.

  ‘Need any help?’ Mick asked.

  ‘No.’

  But Mick took no notice and started grabbing at the edge of the material.

  ‘I can do it quicker myself,’ Masterson insisted, in what he generally knew to be a commanding voice.

  Mick said, ‘Oh, OK,’ and he stopped fiddling with the hood. Instead he stood back and stared at Masterson as he completed the operation, rather clumsily since he was angry and because he didn’t like being stared at. Then, when Masterson was finished and had got into the driver’s seat, he watched in disbelief as Mick opened the car’s passenger door and slid in beside him. The leather seats didn’t fit Mick’s body very well but he tried to get comfortable and he reached for the seat belt to strap himself in.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Masterson bawled. ‘Excuse me. What exactly do you think you’re doing? Get out of my fucking car. Now. No argument. All right?’

  Mick shook his head. ‘I cannot tell a lie, Masterson. It was me who slashed your hood.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was a bit juvenile, I know.’

  ‘What? Did I hear you correctly? Who the fuck are you? And how do you know my name?’

  Masterson raised his clenched fist as though he was about to punch Mick in the face.

  ‘Bad idea to do that,’ said Mick. ‘I have this thing in my inside pocket. It’s a 9 millimetre, fifteen round EAA Witness. Solid steel construction, three dot sighting system, combat trigger guard, staggered high capacity magazine. I got it from America. It’s nice. It gets the job done. Honest.’

  He opened his jacket so that Masterson could see the hard outline of the gun against the lining. Masterson’s fist still hung futilely in mid-air, then his fingers unclenched and he gingerly put his hand on the huge, wooden steering wheel.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, moving and speaking with a new-found, meticulous precision.

  ‘That’ll become obvious,’ said Mick. ‘But for now just drive.’

  Masterson obeyed, and as he set the car in motion Mick admired the vehicle: the short black gear lever and silver hand brake, the serious sculpted dashboard, the long snout of the car pushing out in front of them. Then he looked out at the street they were driving along, still Masterson’s street.

  ‘London,’ said Mick. ‘Just like I pictured it. Skyscrapers and everything.’ But Masterson didn’t know what he was talking about.

  ‘I don’t know much about London,’ Mick continued, ‘but this looks like a nice enough place to live. Wide streets. Plenty of trees.’

  ‘We like it,’ said Masterson.

  ‘What would a house like yours cost?’

  ‘We don’t have the whole house actually, just a maisonette.’

  ‘Still, it can’t come cheap.’

  ‘I don’t see that it’s any of your business, actually.’

  ‘Well, I’m the one with the gun.’

  ‘I’m not frightened of you, you know.’

  ‘No? Then you’re very stupid. So what’s the house worth?’

  It took Masterson no time at all to realize the significance of the gun.

  ‘About two hundred grand,’ he said. ‘It’s a very nice maisonette.’

  ‘Well, yeah, it’d need to be. In Yorkshire that sort of money’d buy you a mansion.’

>   ‘Unfortunately I happen not to work in Yorkshire.’

  ‘What line of work are you in anyway, Philip?’

  He thought about telling Mick to mind his own business again, but he knew it would be useless.

  ‘I work in the City,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah? Which city?’

  ‘THE City. The City of London.’

  ‘Yeah, but what do you do?’

  ‘I do the kinds of thing you do in the City. I buy and sell. I deal. Brokerage. OK?’

  ‘Oh right, I’m with you. You mean the CITY. People use the term all the time, but nobody knows what it means.’

  ‘Some of us do.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  Patiently as if explaining to an insistent but not very bright child Masterson said, ‘Historically the City has been the most important financial centre in the world, a place where money and markets are made. And even though its power has declined in the face of Tokyo and New York, it still ranks in many ways as the leader in global finance. Geographically the City is the square mile of London that contains international banking institutions such as the Bank of England, Lloyd’s of London, the Stock Exchange, the Baltic Exchange et cetera, et cetera.’

  ‘Must be handy having them all so close together.’

  ‘In the age of the computer, less so, but for various historic reasons, mostly to do with monarchy and empire, we’re all there together, yes.’

  ‘So if you were a member of some terrorist gang and you planted a couple of bombs in the City, it wouldn’t matter if you missed one target, you’d still be bound to blow up something worth destroying.’

  ‘Arguably, yes.’

  ‘So maybe you should all split up, some of you go to Land’s End, some to John o’Groats, some of you come up to Sheffield.’

  He said it drily and he didn’t laugh, and yet he wasn’t taking himself absolutely seriously. But he seemed to be demanding some reaction from Masterson. In the event Masterson said, ‘What do you want?’ There was a little desperation in his voice. ‘Is this a mugging? You want my wallet?’