by Timlin, Mark
‘If you pay me before we go inside, I’ll be like your girlfriend, won’t I?’
‘That’s just what I was thinking.’ Jimmy coughed up the dough, including an extra fifty for the glassine packet of coke that Jane had hidden behind the passenger seat sun visor. Jimmy tucked it away in his wallet, and she took his arm as they entered the latest high class restaurant to try its luck on the mean streets of south London. But not as mean as they used to be, thought Jimmy, as they sat down.
The meal cost him an arm and a leg, and included two bottles of bubbly at eighty notes a throw, but with Butler’s heist on the horizon, Jimmy couldn’t have cared less. ‘Live for the day’ had been his motto since he’d come out, and Jane looked to be worth every penny in her scarlet mini dress, cut low front and back and held up only by two spaghetti straps that proved to all and sundry that not only wasn’t she wearing a bra, but that she didn’t need one.
When they were on the cappuccino, brandy and cigarettes, Jane asked: ‘Did you get a flat or a house?’
‘A flat. Just a small one. And I rattle around in that.’
‘Has it got a bedroom?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then we can rattle around together.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘I like you, Jimmy. I’ve always liked older men.’
‘Shall I take that as a compliment?’
‘If you want. I mean it. It’s always nice when punters are human.’
‘But still punters.’
‘That’s the way of the world. It’s a hard life, Jimmy.’
‘Is that a joke?’
‘No. But it could be.’ She was suddenly serious and leant over and placed her hand on his. ‘Let’s forget about the music, shall we? Do you want to go home?’
‘Sure.’ Jimmy signalled for the bill and paid in cash.
They went back to the car and he directed her to his street. She parked on a yellow line and said: ‘I’ll have to be off early. I don’t want a ticket.’
‘Don’t worry about that. If the worst comes to the worst, I’ll pay it.’
‘Oh, Jimmy,’ she said. ‘I’m getting to like you more and more. You do spoil me. Now it’s my turn to spoil you.’
They went inside. She asked for a moment to freshen up and Jimmy showed her the bathroom, whilst he went into the living room, put some music on the little stereo he’d bought, broke open a bottle of brandy and poured two decent-sized slugs into a pair of glasses.
When she joined him again, she’d taken off her dress and was wearing only black stockings, red suspenders and red silk knickers, so tiny as to be almost against the trades description act. Jimmy smiled when he saw her and felt himself start to harden. ‘Where’s that coke?’ she said. ‘I need something to get me in the mood for being really dirty. You deserve it.’
‘I’m already in the mood,’ said Jimmy, tossing the envelope on to the coffee table.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be with you soon. Then I’ll be a real coke whore,’ she replied.
‘I thought you already were.’
‘Cheeky.’
Jane found a credit card in her purse, wiped the table top with a tissue and poured out a good quarter gramme. ‘It’s good and rocky,’ she said. ‘I like that.’ She cut it up fine, then pulled out four fat lines. She took a silver straw out of her bag and handed it to Jimmy. ‘You first,’ she said. ‘But I hope it doesn’t make you go soft.’
‘With you around, impossible,’ he replied, before snorting one line, then another.
‘So many compliments,’ said Jane. ‘I know this is going to be a fun night.’
‘And a long one, I hope,’ said Jimmy.
‘Trust me.’
The coke was primo gear and went straight to Jimmy’s heads – both his big one and his little one – and he felt his cock swell even more in his pants. Jane started to undress him and he loved the feeling of her soft, smooth hands on his body. Finally she released him from his underpants. ‘Nothing wrong with that,’ she said, taking him in one hand and caressing his balls with the other. ‘You’re going grey down there, Jimmy,’ she said. ‘Very distinguished.’
‘It looks like Stewart Granger,’ he said.
‘Who’s that?’ she asked, and he laughed at their age difference.
‘I bet you don’t know who Manfred Mann is either,’ he said.
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He’s a he and a band,’ said Jimmy.
‘News to me.’ And she knelt in front of him and took his penis in her mouth. The warmth and wetness made him even harder and he leant his head back, opened his mouth and groaned with pleasure.
‘Good?’ she asked as she let him slip out, a thin line of saliva still joining them.
‘Perfect.’
‘I aim to please.’
‘And you do.’
She went back to blowing him and he forced her head on to his prick until she gagged. She moaned too, as he began to pump into her mouth, but she wrenched her head back and said, in a voice thick with sex: ‘No. Don’t come. Not yet. It’s too early. I want more coke.’
He let her go, and she strung out more lines and they both indulged and he could see that the crotch of her knickers was wet with lubrication. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ he asked.
‘More than I should. This is business.’
‘Forget it. I want to fuck you.’
She found her bag again and fished out a condom.
‘No,’ he complained.
‘Oh yes,’ said Jane. ‘I know what you boys get up to in prison. It’s a rule. No going bareback.’
‘I’m clean.’
‘So am I. And I intend to stay that way. I told you that last time. Don’t worry. These are extra thin. You’ll feel everything, just like the last time.’
She ripped off the foil packaging and expertly rolled the rubber up over his cock, then pushed him back on the bed and mounted him. ‘I love being on top,’ she said. ‘Hope you don’t mind.’
By this time Jimmy didn’t care what position they were in as long as he could come and she rode him like a pony until he spurted into the condom.
‘God, but that was good,’ he said as she gently lifted herself off. ‘But it’s too early.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she replied. ‘Let’s have another drink and I’ll show you how I can make you hard again.’
Which she did by whispering dirty stories into his ear. Stories he loved to hear and he kissed her passionately and she responded in like style. ‘You’re a dirty bitch, ’ he said.
‘And you’re a very dirty man.’
‘A dirty old man.’
‘If you like.’
‘I do. And you’re very naughty.’
‘So what do you want to do about it?’
‘I think I should smack your arse.’
‘Do you? Well, go on then,’ and she lay across his lap, her pert bottom sticking up in the air.
‘God,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever done this before.’
‘There’s always a first time,’ she replied. ‘Go on, daddy. Punish me.’
So he did. He raised his right hand and brought it down hard on her left cheek. ‘Oww,’ she cried. ‘Ooh, that hurts.’
‘But you love it.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Yes you do,’ he insisted and spanked her hard until both buttocks glowed pink.
She rolled off him and when she sat up she said: ‘That really stings.’
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s do it again.’
‘You’re the boss,’ she said. ‘How do you want me? On my back or all fours?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘So let’s do both.’
And they did. Their sex going on half the night until Jimmy, at least, was exhausted. ‘I can’t keep up,’ he said as a distant clock struck four. ‘I need some sleep.’
‘Do you, old man?’ she said. ‘Can’t we just do it once more?’
‘I don’t think so.’
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‘Fair enough. But don’t say I didn’t offer.’
‘I’ll never say that.’
They climbed into the wreck of the bed and Jimmy was soon asleep. Jane lay next to him until she saw the beginning of the dawn, and then she too closed her eyes. Tomorrow is another day, she thought, looking at the man lying next to her.
Earlier that day, someone else had been looking at Jimmy. But this time on a tiny screen in the back of Gerry Goldstein’s shop. Mark Farrow had telephoned first thing and caught the jeweller as he’d opened up. ‘I need to see that tape,’ he’d said.
‘OK,’ said Goldstein. ‘I’m free this morning ’til twelve.’
‘I’ll be right over,’ said Mark. He left his hotel and drove up to the city. Goldstein let him in and took him through to the back room, where he played the tapes showing Hunter’s two visits to the shop. Of course, Gerry Goldstein being Gerry Goldstein, the CCTV he’d had installed years before was tired and old and the tapes had been used so many times, they were almost transparent. The small monochrome monitor wasn’t exactly state of the art, either. Jimmy hadn’t helped matters by keeping his face out of the frame most of the time. Whether this was deliberate, by accidental or through instinct, Mark didn’t know. But occasionally there was a clear shot of him. The first time, Mark frowned and said: ‘I know that geezer. Where the hell…?’
Then it struck him. It was the man walking by Linda’s house the previous afternoon. ‘Well, I’ll be fucked,’ he said.
’What?’ said Goldstein.
‘He was there,’ said Mark.
‘Where?’
‘Never mind,’ said Mark. ‘But I could’ve mullahed him, no problem.’ He laughed. ‘Bugger me,’ he said. ‘Talk about missing your chances. But I’ll know the fucker next time.’
THIRTY-THREE
The next morning, Jane was awake, up and dressed by nine and shook Jimmy until he opened his eyes. ‘Time to go time,’ she said.
‘What time is it?’ he asked with a mouth gummy from booze and drugs.
‘Nine.’
‘Do you have to?’
‘Sure do. The clock’s running.’
‘Can we do it again?’
‘Any time, Jimmy. I enjoyed myself.’
‘Me too.’
She leant down and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You’re all stubbly,’ she said.
‘That’s life.’
‘Call me,’ she said as she went to the bedroom door. ‘I’ll find my own way out.’
‘Hope your car’s OK,’ he said.
‘You promised to pay the ticket if it isn’t.’
‘And I will.’
‘So I’ll see you?’
‘You will,’ he said, and she blew him a kiss and left. He heard the front door slam and he lay back on his pillow.
Outside, Jane rescued her car – which was ticketless – turned the stereo up as loud as it would go, and roared out of the street.
Further up the road from Jimmy’s flat, a man sitting alone in a nondescript motor saw her leave and jotted down the number of her car in a little notebook he’d taken from his jacket pocket.
When Jimmy was totally awake, he washed, shaved and put on water for coffee. He checked his wallet and realised how much last night had cost him, and when he’d had his breakfast, he phoned Gerry Goldstein.
‘How long before we go?’ he asked once the jeweller had identified himself.
‘You’ll find out soon enough.’
‘I need some cash.’
‘And you’ll get it. Relax.’
‘Just as long as you haven’t forgotten me.’
‘How could I, Jimmy?’
‘As soon as you know something, call me.’
‘Of course I will. Trust me.’
‘OK, Gerry. But I hate waiting.’
‘It’s out of my hands, you know that,’ said Goldstein.
‘I know. All right. I’m just getting impatient. It’s been a long time.’
‘Soon, I’m sure.’
‘Right. Speak to you later.’
‘Later, Jimmy,’ replied Goldstein, and they both hung up.
Goldstein sat and wondered just how he’d got himself into such a mess. What with Jimmy on one side, and Mark Farrow on the other, he felt he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. And that wasn’t even taking Butler and his mob into consideration. If it was ever discovered that he was playing both sides against the middle… well, he knew it wouldn’t be a good time to start getting interested in TV serials.
And it could have been so different, he thought, if only he hadn’t got himself in a mess over money.
* * *
Gerry had been a Stamford Hill moddy boy in the early 60s and had met John Jenner and his little firm at clubs and concerts all over London. Gerry had been a loner, famous for always wearing tweed suits whatever the weather, and Jenner had approached him one night in Klooks Kleek, a little club over a pub in West Hampstead. ‘Tasty suit,’ he’d said. ‘Where’d you get it made?’
‘Sam Arkus,’ said Gerry, proud that Jenner had noticed that the suit was bespoke.
‘Good tailor. Got any gear?’
Gerry shook his head.
‘Want some?’
‘What you got?’
‘French blues. Interested?’
‘Yeah.’
Jenner had sold him a few pills and Gerry joined him and his boys on the dance floor, where they’d made their best moves to the sound of some loser band trying to be the next big thing and failing miserably.
Afterwards they’d cabbed it down to Soho and spent the rest of the night at some club or other where they served soft drinks over the counter and scotch under it. Gerry was working for his father in Hatton Garden, learning the jewellery trade, including the more lucrative area of fencing stolen goods, which was where good old Dad made his real money. Gerry and John had often met over the intervening years and Gerry had made lots of cash from the Jenner gang. But he was greedy. As his bank balances expanded in line with his stomach, he married a nice Jewish girl called Rebecca and had three daughters who spent as prolifically as their mother. But business wasn’t always that good and he began taking more and more chances in order to support their extravagant lifestyle.
It was a risky business, but so was denying his family their cars and furs, designer dresses and anything else their greedy little hearts desired. Gerry had to skate closer and closer to the edge to make up the shortfall in his finances until, one day, a certain lawless individual whose name doesn’t matter – but the very mention of it in certain areas of London could still empty pubs and clubs and have mothers cover their children’s ears for fear they would be corrupted – arrived in Gerry’s life, bearing certain items that were so warm, he almost had to wear asbestos gloves to touch them. Gerry thought then that he could see a way out of his troubles.
This individual was well aware that what he had obtained could not easily be turned into cash money, so he came up with the idea that Gerry would supply him with ten percent of the insurance value up front, then he’d approach the insurance company that held the policy on the items and obtain the going reward – something like fifty per cent of said value. Then they could split the money to the tune of sixty/forty, the lion’s share going to the individual in question, with hopefully, no questions actually being asked.
It took a lot of nerve, as the police weren’t happy that robberies were taking place under their noses in the first place, never mind that the villains and the insurance companies were then colluding to hand out what were essentially tax-free lump sums to villains. And, as the deals required that the police not be informed until after the event, there was no real fear of capture for the perpetrators. In response, the busies were getting busy, recruiting a network of informants only too pleased to put names in the frame and sit back and collect their own little bit of tax-free bunce.
So, when Gerry made a meet with a claims adjuster concerning the bag of tomfoolery the certain individual had happ
ened upon on his nefarious way around London, someone put the boot in good and proper and Gerry got carted away to the nearest nick, cautioned and bailed with the assistance of his notorious and expensive brief.
Things didn’t look too bright for Mr Goldstein, because when the individual discovered that his bag of swag was resting at Her Majesty’s pleasure, he told Gerry in no uncertain terms that, unless the story had a happy ending, his particular story would not. In particular, he said, the Thames was very cold and deep and that no matter how artfully they were coiffed and dressed, Jewish women didn’t float. Especially if their pretty little feet were encased in concrete.
So Gerry went to his old friend John Jenner in the hope that he might remonstrate with the individual, both having a certain history in crime together, but John knew from day one that it was a no go situation. Then Mark Farrow came up with a plan. He was a daring young man and the nick in question had long had the nickname of ‘the sieve’ for the very good reason that it was famous for losing evidence. One dark night, Mark and Eddie Dawes – dressed as police constables – dragged Tubbs into the station, demanding that they take care of their prisoner until transport could be arranged. The custody sergeant made the trio welcome until Tubbs pulled out a pistol and stuck it into his ear, forcing him to show them where the evidence locker was. By the time they’d had it on their toes, not only was the evidence on Regina v Goldstein missing, but also a good kilo of pure cocaine.
The jewellery was returned to the individual who later employed another go between to sell it back to the insurance company, with no arrests being made at that time.
So Gerry Goldstein lived to fight another day and the women in his life had no idea how close they had come to a watery grave. Of course, Gerry was most grateful to Mark, who told him that one day he could return the favour. But Gerry didn’t have an inkling of what that might entail until Mark let him know that the only way he could wipe the slate clean was to give him Jimmy Hunter on a plate.
And there was the rub.
Gerry wasn’t the only one obsessed with Jimmy Hunter that day. DS Sean Pierce also had him on his mind. After he’d lost contact with his father at the Russell Hotel, Sean failed to find hide nor hair of him. He wasn’t to know that Jimmy had a flat just a couple of miles from where he sat in the CID office at Streatham Police Station, biting the end of his pencil and looking through the window at the building site opposite. Sean had the feeling that his old man wouldn’t be down the Job Centre looking for honest work that spring morning, and he wondered when he’d pop back up on the police radar. When rather than if. And then how would Sean be able to keep their relationship secret?