by Timlin, Mark
Whatever, he thought. At least it wasn’t raining.
THIRTY-ONE
Time dragged on for Jimmy as he waited. It was all quiet in New Addington that night, and not even a cat or a dog fox disturbed his vigil. His eyes grew accustomed to the half-light that night time had become, even in the outer suburbs, and he could clearly make out the orange glow in the sky that was London. He had plenty of time to think about the events that had led him to this particular place at this particular time, and he wondered how things could have been different. Under different circumstances, could he have been tucked up in bed at home, an honest man with a wife, children and grandchildren who were proud of him and wanted his love?
Deep down Jimmy knew that it was too late for all that. It was even too late for regrets about what might have been. Even so, his mind went back to pleasanter times when he and Marje, Linda and Sean had been together and happy.
* * *
The 70s had been Jimmy’s decade. The kids were just babies then. Thanks to a slight problem with the law, Jimmy had spent most of the late 60s banged up in Wandsworth, leaving Marje to keep their home together in Kennington. No conjugal visits in those days, hence no patter of tiny feet. But Jimmy made up for it over the next ten years. He was part of the Jenner gang then, and it was during those ten years that John, Hazel, Billy Farrow, Chas and the rest really made their impact on south London. Business was booming, even though the streets were in a turmoil, what with strikes of public service workers, garbage piling up and bodies lying unburied in the mortuaries. But it was the perfect time to be a villain. As inflation spiralled out of control, the Jenner gang calmly doubled their rates and watched the loot roll in. The Sweeney was the most popular show on TV, watched by coppers and villains alike, and pretty soon it was hard to work out which was which. Friday afternoons there was almost a queue of unmarked cars outside Jenner’s office as, one by one, Old Bill on the payroll popped in for their brown envelopes bulging with cash. And Jimmy still loved the music and the fashions, though he’d be loathed to admit it now. Punk rock. That had been his favourite, even though he might’ve been a little old for it at the time. But not too old to appreciate the punk girls in their gothic makeup and ripped fishnet stockings. And then came the 80s… and it all fell apart.
* * *
As he waited for his quarry to return home, he heard a few cars coming and going, and each time he tightened his grip on the pistol, but they were all false alarms. Eventually – his cheap watch told him it was one oh six in the morning – the sound of a vehicle approaching was followed by the rumble of gates opening at the end of the drive. He knew then that he was in show business.
The car slowed as the security lights came on and Jimmy shielded his eyes against the sudden light. The garage door began to roll up smoothly and Jimmy felt himself tense.
The huge black car crept forward into the garage and Jimmy stood, his legs cracking. Too old, he thought.
As the garage door began its downward journey, Jimmy ducked beneath it then jumped up, gun at the ready. The Lincoln had stopped next to a Volkswagen Golf, probably Mrs Smith’s personal transport. The driver and passenger doors of the big car opened in tandem and Rodney Smith and his missus stepped out on to the concrete floor.
Rodney was the first to notice Jimmy standing there. ‘What the…?’ he said, and Jimmy raised the pistol. But looking at the pair of them standing there, Jimmy made the one mistake that’s unforgivable in the assassin’s code. He stopped to think about what he was doing and, as he did so, the gun began to tremble in his hand. He had come down with what is known as ‘shooter’s shake’, and all he wanted to do was to drop the gun and do a runner. But the next thought that flashed through his mind was, ‘They’ve both seen me up close, now I’ve got to do it.’ He grabbed his right wrist with his left hand in an attempt to steady it, and pulled the trigger. The silenced gun made hardly a sound as the first bullet missed by a mile. ‘Shit,’ said Jimmy out loud and fired again. The second shot punched a hole in Rodney Smith’s neck, and exited in a spray of blood and meat. Jimmy squeezed the trigger again and a round hit the fat man in the chest. Smith put his hand on the roof of his car, blood flowing from both wounds and tried to say one last word to his wife. But all that emerged was a bloody gurgle and he fell to the ground with a crash.
Then Jimmy turned the pistol on Mrs Smith. But his hesitation had given her time to open the evening bag she was carrying and pull out a small, nickel-plated, pearl-handled automatic pistol and point it at him. He couldn’t believe his eyes as they both fired together. His bullet hit her between her breasts and hers skidded across the side of the Lincoln, spun up and went through the right sleeve of his new leather jacket, chopping two neat holes as it entered and exited, hitting the closed garage door behind him and ricocheting around the garage before whacking into the wall of the house.
Mrs Smith’s body hit the floor.
Jimmy stood for a moment before lowering his gun. He listened hard. The noise from his silencer and her tiny-calibre gun had made hardly any sound, but as quiet as it was outside, he wondered if the noise had carried to the neighbouring houses. He listened again: nothing stirred. He went into action. He checked her body first. She was still alive, but barely, and he held his gloved hand over her mouth and nose until he heard a rattle from her throat and she was still. He prised the gun from her fingers. It was a tiny .25 Sterling and he pocketed it. Then he went to Rodney. He was dead too.
Jimmy pulled up Smith’s jacket and shirt sleeve and, just as Butler had told him, he was wearing a solid gold Rolex so covered in diamonds it was almost impossible to read the time. Jimmy unclipped the clasp, pulled it off and stuck that in his pocket. Inside his jacket, Rodney carried a thick wallet that was stuffed with fifty pound notes and credit cards. The cash went into one pocket and the wallet and cards into another. Then he checked Mrs Smith again. She wore a ladies version of the same watch and Jimmy tugged it off and added it to his loot. Her bag contained a purse, this time with just a few smaller notes but several more cards. Jimmy took the lot. By this time he was dripping with sweat and still shaking with nerves, but there was still no sound coming from outside and he reckoned his luck was holding. He stood and took one last look around before hitting the red button by the door, which, as he surmised, opened the garage from the inside. The sound of the door opening seemed as loud as a small war to his ears and he ducked through again and stood for moment in the harsh light outside, before heading back the way he’d come.
He was over the wall in a moment, briefly checking that no one was in the lane, and he walked as slowly as he could back to the pub car park, where his car sat in solitary splendour in a dark corner.
Once inside, he controlled the shakes, started the motor and headed towards central London, making sure he kept to the speed limit and obeying every set of lights. This was not the time to receive a tug from some keen traffic patrol. The Sainsbury’s at Nine Elms was open all night and there were several vehicles in the parking lot. Jimmy dropped off the car, left the keys as arranged, and walked towards Vauxhall. He went on to the bridge and stood looking down at the dark river below. Although there were plenty of cars around, there was very little pedestrian traffic at that late hour. After a minute’s observation, he dropped the silenced .22, Rodney’s wallet and credit cards and Mrs S’s purse into the water. He thought about dumping her gun too, but there was always a chance he’d need some firepower, the kind of people he was mixing with, and decided to keep it, dangerous though it might be to do so. Then he turned in the direction of home and walked most of the way, before picking up a night bus that dropped him off outside Brixton tube.
Jimmy Hunter didn’t sleep very well that night.
The second person to see the Smith’s bodies was Elsie Thomas, their cleaner. She let herself in the side gate as usual on the first of her twice weekly mornings. Elsie was almost sixty and looked every minute of it. She was widowed and lived alone in a one-bedroom flat on the New Addingto
n Estate. She hated it. She hated the kids and the blacks and the Pakis. She hated the single mums with their screaming offspring, their late-night parties, drug taking and loud music. And for the fact that they could get a free home for just opening their legs and letting some randy git impregnate them. She hated her husband for dying without life insurance, and her children for leaving her. Sometimes she could hardly recognise herself as the young Elsie Richardson as she was then, who’d wet her knickers for Paul McCartney when The Beatles came to Croydon in 1963. She didn’t think much of her employers, either. He was a fat pig and she was a mutton dressed as lamb tart. All those diamonds she wore… But they paid her well enough, and Mrs Smith was always there for a cup of tea and a chat. And the work wasn’t too onerous.
That morning, as Elsie trudged up the drive, she saw that the garage door was wide open, both cars was parked up and the light was burning inside. That wasn’t right. By the time she got close, she could smell something that reminded her of bonfire night and something else that reminded her of bad drains. Then she heard a faint buzzing and saw a small swarm of flies around the bodies. She didn’t get too close, she knew not to do that. Elsie fished out the mobile phone that her eldest son had bought her ‘just in case’ to ease his conscience as his visits became less frequent, and called 999. Then she took out a packet of cheap cigarettes and her lighter, and smoked one in the warm morning sun, waiting for the police to arrive.
The scene of crime officers found two dead bodies, identified as the owner occupiers of the house where they’d been found, two bullet holes in the male cadaver, one in the female. Two .22 calibre bullets were dug out of the wall behind the deceased, one which had passed through the throat of Mr Smith, one which had not. A .25 calibre bullet was discovered in the wall next to it; and on the floor, four .22 bullet casings without fingerprints and one .25 casing with some smudges. The bodies had been disturbed after death, and Mrs Elsie Thomas, who had discovered the double murder, confirmed that certain items seemed to be missing. Later, at the post mortem, three bullets were removed from the bodies. All .22 calibre. First conclusion: The unfortunate Smiths had been murdered by two or more armed assailants – hence the different calibre bullets – after a robbery had gone wrong. It wasn’t the first time this had happened in the suburbs of south London and it surely wouldn’t be the last.
The murders were going to be high profile for a day or two, and the police assumed that the killers had come from the estate up the road. They made plans to raid the flats of a few likely suspects.
Jimmy Hunter received a call on his mobile at about eleven. He’d finally managed to get off to sleep just after eight and, when the ringing tone woke him, he thought he was back inside and that it was the call for slopping out and breakfast. When he realised where he was and remembered what had happened the previous night, he reached for the instrument and summoned up enough saliva in his mouth to answer.
‘Yeah,’ he grunted.
‘Good morning, Jimmy,’ said Daniel Butler. ‘But not for some.’
‘Do what?’
‘I read the news today, oh boy,’ sang Butler, obviously in a fine mood.
‘I don’t know… oh yeah,’ said Jimmy, recalling a Beatles tune he’d sung himself once.
‘You did well, apparently.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I think we should meet.’
‘Hold on, ’ said Jimmy as he swung his legs out of bed and made for the kitchen tap. He stuck his mouth under it and sucked down the water. Refreshed, he said into the receiver: ‘Say again.’
‘I think we should meet. We have things to discuss.’
‘Like?’
‘Your family’s whereabouts, who dropped you in it twenty years ago. And your future employment. You’ve fulfilled your part of our bargain, and I’ve never been one to renege on a promise.’
Jimmy was coming fully awake by then and all he could think of for the moment were the two dead bodies in New Addington. ‘Yeah, Dan,’ he said. ‘Whatever.’
‘Could you make lunch tomorrow? My treat.’
‘Lunch. Bloody hell, it’s been a long time since anyone but the prison service bought me lunch.’
‘Well, it’s high time that changed. I know a little Italian in Kensington. Quiet, discreet and they do a fine veal Parmesan. Interested?’
‘Sure.’
Butler named the place and Jimmy scribbled it at the top of the back page of yesterday’s paper. ‘One o’clock,’ said Butler.
‘I’ll be there.’
‘And everything went well?’
‘As well as can be expected.’
‘No hitches?’
‘One. But nothing I couldn’t handle.’
‘You’ll have to tell me all about it tomorrow.’
‘I will.’
‘One o’clock then.’
‘See you there.’ And Jimmy killed the connection.
He stood in his chilly kitchen, his feet cold on the composition floor, and filled the kettle. Once it was set to boil, he went to the bathroom, made a fast toilet and, once dressed, put a tea bag, milk and sugar in a mug. He knew he’d not be able to face food just then, and drank his tea looking out of the front window at the street below, wondering how soon, if ever, the cops would come for him.
It wasn’t a happy thought.
The discovery of the bodies was too late to make the morning papers, but was reported on the local radio and TV during the day and made a splash in The Standard that evening. Not much of a splash, but enough to make second story on page three of the early editions. It was just such an edition that Linda Spiers was reading when Sean arrived home from work that evening. He’d called in to see how Linda was, before going up to his flat. It was the au pair’s night off and Linda had given the children an early supper and bath, packing them off to bed, before digging out the inevitable wine bottle and ashtray.
‘Bad business,’ Sean said, tapping the paper before getting himself a glass. He figured that it was easier to join her than to make some comment that would just set her off.
‘New Addington,’ she said. ‘Just round the corner. This place is getting worse. What happened? Do you know?’
‘I heard a bit,’ he replied, taking a sip. ‘At first they thought it was just a robbery gone wrong, but forensic figured out that the woman had a gun.’
‘How?’
‘I shouldn’t be talking about this. But apparently there were a few bullets in the walls and they worked out that one had been fired at the shooter. And bugger me if it wasn’t the woman who did it.’
‘How do they know?’
‘Well, once they figured the paths of the bullets, they checked both bodies for gunpowder residue, and it was on her hands.’
‘Gutsy girl.’
‘Gangster’s moll, more like. Those two were rotten.’
‘You know a lot.’
‘I make it my business to know what’s going on where I live. Anyway, neither gun’s been found, so it’s possible that more shots were fired, and that our killer’s got a bullet in him.’
‘They say in the paper that some valuable jewellery was stolen.’
‘Yeah. Perk of the job. Or maybe the killer wanted to put us off the scent.’
‘I can still wear my Mickey Mouse watch without fear?’
Sean didn’t find the comment amusing. ‘I suppose,’ he replied.
‘So what do you want?’
‘Just to see that you’re OK.’
‘And not passed out on the sofa, with a cigarette in my hand, setting fire to the furniture.’
‘Don’t, Linda.’
‘Sorry, Sean.’
‘I wish I knew what was wrong.’
‘So do I,’ she lied.
Jimmy spent that day and night at his flat. He was in no mood for company, haunted as he was by the sight of the two people he’d gunned down in cold blood. He watched the story on the box and tried to read between the lines as to what the cops were doing. He ate little, kep
t the little pistol he’d taken off Mrs Smith handy, and marvelled at the intricate gold and diamond work on the two watches he’d stolen. Eventually, he found a loose board in the corner of the bedroom floor, levered it up and hid the Rolexes there. It wouldn’t take much of a search to find them, but he figured that if the police got as far as his flat, he was done for anyway.
The cash he’d taken from the Smiths totalled about six hundred quid, but his leather jacket was ruined by the bullet that had come close to hitting him in the arm, and he knew he’d never wear it again. He bundled it up and put it in a black garbage bag ready to dump as far away as possible. He’d liked that jacket and intended to get another. So, cash wise, he’d come out of the job with less than a ton. Not much for two deaths, he thought. But at least he was going to get a free lunch out of it. If there was such a thing.
The next day dawned fine and Jimmy took a bath, shaved closely and dressed in one of his new suits. He set off early for his appointment with Butler, walked to the tube and made just one change to get to Kensington High Street. He found the restaurant just after twelve and, being early, he went into a pub on the opposite corner for a livener and to scan the paper he’d bought at the station. The murders got hardly a mention, so much other evil was happening in the world. He mentally shrugged, lit a cigarette and sipped at his lager. The door to the pub was open to let in the spring air and, all in all, he reflected that things weren’t going too badly.
Jimmy was finishing his second pint when he saw a Roller draw up outside the Italian, with Bob at the wheel. Dan Butler got out of the back, said something to his driver, who pulled away. Jimmy watched through the open door as Butler entered the restaurant, then gathered up his cigarettes and lighter, left the paper where it was and walked across the street.