by Mark Timlin
I could read him like a book. Before I’d left home I’d put two hundred and fifty nicker into an envelope. I took it out and slid it across the table. He counted the money without looking, and grinned again. ‘It has to be night-time,’ he said. ‘For maximum annoyance to the neighbours. What night suits you?’
‘It’s got to be soon.’
‘First night he’s out then. I’ll check the place out today. Does he work nights, your copper mate?’
‘Bound to.’
‘Can you find out when he’s next liable to be out all night?’
‘Sure.’
‘Give me his address, and I’ll get back to you pronto,’ he said.
I had the information on a separate sheet of paper, which I gave to Monkey, told him to ring me before five, bought him another Irish and left.
I called Peckham nick as soon as I got in and asked for Collier. I laid on the cockney accent to the max. I did the same when I got through to CID. The copper who answered didn’t bother asking my name. He smelled fresh-cut grass, just like I wanted him to. ‘He’s not in today,’ he said.
‘How about tonight?’ I grunted.
‘Yeah. He’s on nights this week.’
‘T’riffic,’ I said. ‘I’ll catch him later.’ Literally, I hoped.
I smiled as I put down the phone. Perfect, I thought. Now it was down to Monkey.
He belled me at four. ‘No probs, Mr S,’ he said. ‘It’s just like I thought it would be. The locks on the front door are the business. Round the back they’re a piece of shit. And the back door’s sheltered by the walls of the garden. You could have a bunk-up round there and no one could see. And he has got a safe in there. I could smell it.’
‘Terrific.’ If Monkey said there was a safe inside the house, there was. The man’s instinct was phenomenal. ‘Can we get past the alarm?’
‘A piece of piss. It’ll take a while, but we’ll get it sorted.’
‘How?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘And no one sussed you?’
‘Get out of it.’ Once again he sounded offended. ‘I even earned a tenner on the windows. When can we do it? Tonight? Tomorrow?’
‘I’ve got another errand to run tonight,’ I said. ‘Don’t know how long it’ll take. Tomorrow’s good. He’s working nights this week.’
‘Tomorrow it is then. By the way, the cash is COD, ain’t it?’
‘Don’t worry, Monkey. You’ll get your money.’
‘I know I will, Mr S. I trust you. Always have. It’s just that I fancy a couple of days with the gee-gees next week and the rest of the dosh would come in handy.’
‘It’s as good as in your hand.’
‘Right, I’ll borrow a motor and pick you up about half-twelve tomorrow night. Sound all right?’
‘Suits me. And borrow a motor?’
‘It’s kosher, Mr S. Don’t fret. All being well it’ll be back before the owner knows it’s gone. I’ll even stick some petrol in.’
‘You’re a good neighbour, Monkey.’
‘Too right I am. Be at your window. I’ll flash me lights. I don’t want to knock on your door when I arrive.’
‘Do I bring anything?’
‘Just yourself,’ he said. ‘And the seven hundred and fifty nicker.’ And he hung up.
32
Jackie Harvey was waiting on the pavement outside her office when I arrived to collect her, and I drove to Vauxhall and then on to Bayswater through a fine drizzle. The hotel was off Queensway and not difficult to find. We went into reception and checked in. The receptionist told us there was someone waiting for Miss Clancey, and indicated a straight-looking geezer with a beautiful head of blond hair, wearing a neat blue suit, sitting in an armchair by the door to the bar. I told Jackie to wait, and walked over to him not knowing what to expect. He came to his feet at my approach in the way that athletes do when they don’t want to appear too athletic, and I wished that I was armed. At times like this I felt almost naked without a gun. I stopped just out of his reach, and he said, ‘Mr Sharman?’
I didn’t reply, but he must have seen my look.
He put out his hands in a gesture of surrender.
‘Don’t worry, sir,’ he said politely, in an accent that was pure Eton and Oxford. ‘Mr Slade sent me. I’m with the firm. I’m just going to reach into my side jacket pocket for my credentials.’
He did exactly that and passed me a leather wallet. Inside was a plastic laminate with his photograph, his name, which was Toby Gillis, and his job description. ‘Security’, it read. Nothing else, except that he had access to all areas inside any building within the publishing group.
‘Sorry to give you a jolt,’ he said. ‘Mr Slade thought it might be a good idea for me to be around, just in case. Is that the young lady?’ He indicated Jackie with his eyes.
‘That’s her,’ I said. ‘You don’t mind if I ring Slade just to confirm?’
‘I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. There’s a public phone over there.’ This time his eyes moved round to my left. ‘You do have the number?’
‘I can remember it, thanks,’ I said, and went over and quickly dialled the paper. I saw Jackie looking at me, and put up my hand to forestall her. I got put straight through to Slade’s extension.
‘Sharman,’ I said. ‘Toby Gillis. One of yours?’
‘Hello, Sharman,’ Slade said. ‘Certainly. I meant to tell you I’d put one of our boys in. He’s got the next room to Miss Harvey. I didn’t know if you’d be staying.’
‘I’m not,’ I said. ‘I have a few things of my own to sort out. It’s a good idea.’
‘He’ll be there as long as she is. He’s very discreet.’
‘So I noticed,’ I said. ‘I hope he’s as good.’
‘He is. Take my word.’
‘I’ve got no choice. But I’m glad he’s here. She’s checked in, and I’m leaving now.’
‘Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow then.’
‘I’ll be there,’ I said, and hung up.
I went over to Jackie and explained who Toby Gillis was, then beckoned him over and introduced him to her. He was very polite.
Jackie asked me to stay for dinner, but I begged another appointment, and agreed to take a raincheck on dinner until the following evening. Gillis said that it would be his pleasure to keep her company. She shrugged, and said it was OK with her.
I wished them both a goodnight, and went back to the car and drove off in search of something to make me feel a little less naked.
33
Buying a gun in south London is not difficult. You just need to know where to go and who to see. And of course you need cash.
I went to a pub off the Falcon Road in Clapham Junction. I arrived at about eight on that miserable rainy evening and the pub was almost deserted.
I took a grand with me, split into ten bundles of a hundred pounds each, and stashed away separately in the pockets of my jeans, shirt and leather jacket. It was risky, but so was being unarmed.
I went into the saloon bar, and there was a geezer with a beard and a beer gut propping up one end of the counter next to a fruit machine.
I went up and stood about a yard from him, and ordered a lager top from the barmaid. I took out my cigarettes, extracted one from the packet, put it in my mouth and tapped my pockets.
‘Got a light, mate?’ I said to Beer Gut, and he obliged with a gold Dunhill.
I went over to the CD jukebox and chose a selection of records. First up was Madness. The music was loud in the empty room, but that suited me fine.
I went back and took a mouthful of sweet beer, and I sensed Beer Gut was giving me the once over.
I looked at him and said, ‘Poxy night.’
He nodded.
‘Drink?’ I asked.
‘Don’t mind if I do. Sam Smit
h’s.’
I caught the barmaid’s eye and ordered a pint of bitter for him, and a Scotch for myself.
The first record ended and the second one I’d chosen started. ‘My Girl’ by the Temptations. I love that song.
‘You might be able to help me,’ I said.
‘How’s that?’
‘I’m looking for a new hat.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What makes you think you’ll get one here? This is a pub.’
‘I asked around. A friend told me.’
‘What friend?’
‘His name’s Tony. Don’t know the other. He works the markets. Knock-off kids’ clothes mainly.’
Beer Gut took a sip of his drink and said, ‘Cost ya.’
I took out my cigarettes again and offered him one, which he accepted, then took one for myself. As he leaned over to give me a light I gave him one of the bundles of bank notes. It vanished like smoke in the air conditioning.
He finished his pint with a gargantuan swallow. ‘Wait here,’ he said, and left the pub.
As the last record I’d selected came on, I bought a box of matches and another pint of lager, this time without the lemonade, pulled up a stool and sat down.
I’d finished my third pint and smoked another four cigarettes, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d been mugged off, before Beer Gut returned.
‘The cab outside,’ he said.
I went to the door and out into the rain that had thickened to a slate-grey downpour, and saw a black cab parked at the kerb with its ‘For Hire’ sign switched off. I went to the back door and got inside. In the far corner was a large figure muffled up against the weather.
I sat next to him and the cab pulled away with a jerk. The driver was similarly muffled up, and wore a cap pulled low over his eyes.
‘Come here, dear,’ said the figure next to me, and I felt his hands all over my body as he frisked me down. ‘Sorry,’ the figure said, ‘but I’d hate for our conversation to be broadcast.’
‘I’m not wired,’ I said.
‘I certainly hope not. You’d be dead if you were.’
I believed he meant it.
The cab’s tyres sizzled along the wet streets as the driver took us through the back doubles until I was totally lost. I didn’t say a word as we went. When my companion wanted to talk to me, I reckoned that he would. Eventually we pulled up under a railway bridge and the driver switched off the engine.
‘You need a new hat, I believe,’ said the figure.
‘That’s right.’
‘Any particular style?’
‘A revolver. Small.’
‘Magnum?’
‘Not necessarily. What have you got?’
The figure reached under the seat and brought out a box which he placed on his knee and opened. Then he reached up and switched on the dim courtesy light in the back of the cab.
‘I have three here that might suit.’
He put his hand into the box and it emerged holding the dark shape of a gun.
‘This is a Charter Arms Bulldog Pug,’ he said. ‘.357 Magnum. Five-shot, two-and-a-half-inch barrel with a hammer shroud. Stainless steel. Nice gun.’
He passed it over. It felt good in my hand, but I wasn’t keen on the stainless-steel finish.
‘How much?’ I asked.
‘A monkey. Ammunition extra.’
I handed it back. ‘What else?’
In went the hand again, and out came another revolver.
‘A Smith & Wesson model 624. Fires S&W .44 ammunition.’ He gave it to me.
‘Too big,’ I said, and passed it back to him.
I saw him shrug. Then he stuck in his thumb and pulled out a plum. He handed me a matt black gun with shiny black rubber grips.
‘A Colt Commando,’ he said. ‘.38. A very rare gun. Factory fresh.’
I hefted it in my hand. It fitted perfectly. It was small and stubby with a two-inch barrel. And with the black finish, it was almost invisible in the gloom where we were sitting.
‘How much?’ I asked.
‘Six hundred.’
‘Pretty steep.’
‘Like I said, a rare gun.’
‘Ammunition?’
‘A box of fifty shells, a century.’
‘Don’t mess about,’ I said.
‘Take it or leave it.’
‘It’s dear.’
‘Overheads,’ he replied.
I looked round the interior of the vehicle. ‘The cost of cab fares is prohibitive these days. Five hundred for the Colt and the ammo.’
I heard him laugh.
‘Try again,’ he said.
‘Six hundred. You give me the shells, and pay for the cab.’
He hesitated. ‘Done,’ he said, after a minute.
I have been, I thought.
I went through my pockets and gave him six packets of one hundred pounds. He counted each one carefully.
When he was satisfied, he reached into the box and took out a box of fifty .38 special ammunition and gave it to me.
‘Put it away, dear,’ he said. ‘I’m the only person who carries loaded firearms in this car,’ and I heard the deadly click as he cocked a pistol he produced from somewhere about his person.
‘Be cool,’ I said. ‘I just want a gun, not a gunfight.’ I put the Colt into one pocket of my leather jacket, and the box of bullets into another.
‘I’m glad we understand each other,’ the figure said, and leaned over and tapped on the partition of the cab with the barrel of his gun.
The driver switched on and pulled away again, and took me back as far as Arding & Hobbs.
‘You don’t mind if I drop you off here, dear, do you?’ asked the figure. ‘The pub’s just up the road. I’m sure you’ve got a car near it, and I don’t want you to follow me or anything silly like that. If you want to sell the gun back, I’ll give you twenty-five per cent of what you paid, anytime. Just see my friend who you saw before. He’s in most evenings. It’s been a pleasure.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, and got out of the cab at the lights, and walked back to the Jag in the driving rain.
34
When I got home I checked the action of the gun, and dry fired it a couple of times. It seemed fine, so I loaded it with six brass-jacketed bullets from the box the geezer in the cab had sold me.
Dawn called me at around ten, to tell me that she and Tracey were safe and well at Tracey’s mum’s in Milton Keynes, and to give me the phone number there. She was adamant that they hadn’t been followed. I trusted her judgement. She told me to be careful. I told her the same. I didn’t tell her I’d bought a revolver.
I called Jacqueline Harvey at the hotel. She was in her room.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘It’s me. Nick. How was dinner?’
‘Wonderful. They’ve got an excellent chef here. And Toby was great company.’
So it was Toby now.
‘I look forward to joining you tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Unless you’ve got a heavy date with old Toby, that is.’
I almost felt her blush over the phone.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘You almost sound jealous.’
‘I almost am. He’s a lot younger and fitter than me.’
‘But you’re you.’
‘Thanks, Jackie,’ I said. ‘I appreciate that.’
‘It’s the truth.’
I changed the subject. ‘I’m meeting the news editor from the paper tomorrow at lunchtime; I’ll ring you when I get back. OK?’
‘I’ll expect your call.’
‘And I’ll see you tomorrow evening.’
‘I wish you were here now.’
‘Me too,’ I said. And I did.
‘I’m lonely, Nick.’
‘Me too,’ I said again. I didn’t mention
Toby. The time for teasing was over.
‘Goodnight,’ she said.
‘Goodnight, Jackie.’
And I put down the phone.
It was true that I was lonely. But it was Dawn I missed the most. Up until then I hadn’t even realised that it was. I’d have to watch that.
The night passed quietly. I slept with the Colt under my pillow, and took it with me when I went for a piss at three a.m.
I called King’s the next morning and the ward sister told me that Chas was on the mend, although not talking yet.
That made me feel better.
I took the gun with me when I went to meet Slade.
That made me feel better too.
I was in the Crown & Sceptre by eleven forty-five. It was a big old boozer on a corner, with seats and tables outside on the pavement. Très continental, and just right for a lungful of carbon monoxide. I went inside and asked behind the counter for Tom Slade. The barman sent me into the back where a grey-haired geezer in a dodgy sports coat was sitting, with a briefcase and the biggest pile of linens I’ve ever seen on the table in front of him.
‘Tom Slade?’ I asked.
‘Sharman?’
I nodded agreement, and he pushed the papers to one side, gestured for me to sit down, and asked what I wanted to drink.
‘Lager,’ I said.
He went to the bar, got me a drink, and brought it back, plus one more for himself.
When we were sitting comfortably, we began.
‘Have you seen Chas?’ I asked.
Slade nodded.
‘Is it true that he can’t talk? Or is that hospital flannel?’ I asked.
‘It’s true,’ said Slade. ‘He’s under sedation, and his jaw’s wired up. He’s not a well boy, but he’ll survive.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ I said. ‘And I’m pleased to hear you’re still considering using the story.’
‘It’s a good story,’ he said. ‘Or it would be if you could supply us with corroborating evidence. Some hard corroborating evidence.’
‘I will.’ I hoped I sounded more convincing than I felt. If there was nothing at Collier’s I was well fucked.
‘You’d better, or we’ll have to drop it.’