by Mark Timlin
I soaked for an hour, adding scalding water as required. I got out when my skin began to crinkle. There were hot towels on the rail. As I reached for one I crashed badly again. I felt dizzy and sick, and the room tilted and went grey and misty at the edges. Familiar items looked mysterious. I sat on a towel on the closed toilet seat and put my head between my knees. I closed my eyes and saw stars on a black background. Sweat popped out of my body and I gripped my calves and breathed deeply. Jesus, if this went on I was going to have to think about changing my lifestyle.
I felt wet hair on my bare thighs and pressed my eyelids hard into my eyeballs and put my head back on to the cool plastic of the cistern. There was a knock on the door. I modestly covered myself – every man does, take my word – and said, ‘Yes?’
Wanda stuck her head round the door and asked, ‘Are you OK?’
‘Sure, why?’
‘You’ve been in there such a long time.’
‘I’m good.’
‘I never noticed.’
‘Gee, thanks, Wanda. After that kind of compliment I’ll be right on top today.’
She stuck out her tongue. ‘Are you sure you’ll be OK? You look as white as a sheet.’
‘Just a bad moment.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘I’ll survive.’
‘Will you be all right on your own?’
I smiled, and it hurt. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said, and wondered who I was trying to convince. Her or me.
I finished drying myself and wrapped a towel around my waist – I went looking for Wanda. She was sitting at the kitchen table sipping at a china mug of tea and looking at yesterday’s Observer. She got up and got me a mug of my own. I sat down opposite her and pinched one of her B&H.
‘Want something to eat?’ she asked.
‘Good idea.’
‘Bacon and eggs?’
I tasted curry again. ‘Just eggs,’ I said quickly. ‘Egg and chips would be good.’
She looked at me strangely, she had fed me before, but ‘No problem,’ was all she said. ‘Your clothes are in the airing cupboard,’ she added.
I went and found them and dressed in everything but my DMs. I thought I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. Wanda had washed and ironed everything.
I went back to the kitchen which was warm and cosy with cooking smells. ‘Thanks for doing my laundry.’
‘I had to, they stank.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
I sat down at the table. It had been laid with a bright cloth, a knife and fork and ketchup and salt. She brought me the food, then sat down with another mug of tea.
‘So what happened?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
‘That means don’t ask, right?’
‘Right.’
‘But I’m curious.’
‘Curiosity killed The Cat Woman.’
‘That bad?’
‘For me.’
‘And you won’t tell me?’
‘It’s a long story. Too long. I can’t even work it out myself. I’ve just been taken for a mug by a whole bunch of people.’
‘And that will never do.’
‘It’s cost lives.’
She turned white. ‘You’re joking.’
‘I wish I was.’
‘Did you … ?’
‘No.’
‘Who, then?’
‘I’ll tell you all about it later. It’ll be over soon, one way or another.’
‘Stay here.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Please.’
‘I wish I could. It would be easier.’
‘Sod you then.’
‘Don’t be like that.’
‘A man’s gotta do,’ she said sarcastically.
‘Funny, I said much the same the other day myself. Strange how we all talk in clichés, isn’t it? Will you give me a lift later?’
‘Nick, it’s not a good idea. You’re in no condition.’
‘Forget that. Will you give me a lift or not?’
She gave in all of a sudden. ‘You can have the bloody car if you like.’
Her car was a Morris Minor 1000 traveller, circa 1955 with a dodgy transmission and bald tyres.
‘No. Thanks all the same. A ride will be fine.’
‘Where do you want to go?’
‘Waterloo.’
‘What’s in Waterloo?’
‘Who,’ I corrected her.
‘Who then?’
‘Someone I know. Someone I have to see.’
‘A woman?’
I nodded.
‘Why?’
‘I have to let her know I’m all right.’
Wanda pursed her lips but didn’t speak.
I ate the eggs and chips, and a tin of beans and some toast, and drank three cups of tea in silence. Hers as much as mine. I felt like a jerk treating Wanda so badly, but it was the only way I could protect her.
Finally I faced up to my boots. The right one was OK, but the left felt like a vice on my foot. I survived.
Before we left she asked me if I wanted to see my cat that she had been looking after for longer than I cared to remember.
‘Sure,’ I said.
She took me into a back room where a big black and white moggie was lording it over a couple of smaller cats.
‘Is that him?’ I asked. ‘Christ, he’s grown. Do you think he’ll remember me?’
‘I doubt it. You don’t feed him.’
‘A man and his cat never forget.’ Cat looked at me suspiciously but came and sniffed my fingers and let me pet him. ‘See,’ I said, and he turned and spat at me. ‘Just like his old mum,’ I said proudly.
‘Are you ever going to accept your responsibilities for anything?’ asked Wanda. I heard tears in her voice. That one struck home. It referred back too accurately to my own earlier thoughts.
‘Let’s go,’ I said.
We went outside to where the Morris waited, and shoved hardened snow dotted with little specks of soot off the bodywork and on to the street. The old starter motor turned the engine over half a dozen times to no avail, and I could just begin to hear the battery beginning to lose power when the engine caught. Wanda pumped gas and the exhaust belched, missed, and belched again before the engine roared healthily.
Wanda adjusted the choke and looked over at me. ‘Good old car,’ she said.
‘Keep the revs up and for Christ’s sake turn on the heater, I’m freezing,’ I said. She did as she was told and the engine settled to a lumpy idle while warmish air crept into the cab. When everything seemed safe, I agreed with her. ‘Good old car,’ I echoed, and she smiled despite herself.
It was just after ten when we pulled away from the kerb, leaving an icy bare patch on the roadside.
Wanda headed towards town and within twenty minutes or so I directed her around to the row of pre-fabs close to Waterloo Station.
The little box of a house looked like an illustration on a Christmas card, with icicles hanging down from the trellis over the door and the flat roof covered in snow, except where heat from the chimney had melted a circle of moisture about a yard in diameter.
‘Who lives here?’ Wanda asked. ‘The seven dwarves or just Snow White?’
‘Don’t be like that, Wanda.’
‘How should I be?’
‘A friend, just be a friend.’
And of course she had been, and it was an insult for me to suggest otherwise, but ‘All right, Nick’ was all she said, an edge of sadness in her voice that I’ll never forget.
‘Thanks, Wanda. I owe you one.’
‘I’ll wait if you like.’
‘No, it’s OK. You get on home. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘What happens if she isn’t here?’
‘I’ll think of something.’
She shrugged and sighed, but let me go.
22
I got out of the Morris. It pulled away with a crash of gears, a clun
k from the engine and much dark smoke from the exhaust pipe. I didn’t see Wanda again for a lifetime, but that’s another story.
I lifted my hand to the retreating car as it turned into the main road past the hospital, but there was no acknowledgement.
I walked across the snowy street and up the freshly swept front path to the door of the pre-fab. My head was clear but my leg and foot were on fire and I hoped that I was doing myself no permanent damage.
I stood on the small porch and thumbed the doorbell. I heard the faint sound of ringing from indoors as I huddled inside my jacket for warmth, and waited.
A middle-aged man in a wheelchair answered the door. He was whippet thin, with long shaggy hair and a full, grizzled beard. He sat in the doorway and looked at me, I stood on the porch and looked back. ‘Is Fiona in?’ I asked.
‘Are you Sharman?’
I nodded.
‘We’ve been waiting for you. She’s told me all about you. Funny, I expected someone younger.’
I ignored the veiled insult. ‘Is she here?’ I said.
‘Yes.’
I stood there on the doorstep like a milk bottle. ‘Come on in then,’ the man said, wheeling himself back and allowing the door to open a little wider. ‘All the heat’s getting out.’
I edged through the gap and shut the door behind me, standing awkwardly in the narrow hall. It was warm and smelt of furniture polish and clean laundry. The inside of the house was tiny and neat. A hallway ran from front to back, with two doors to the left, three to the right. At the end of the hall was a half glass door leading to the back garden.
‘I’m Stan,’ he said. ‘Her dad.’ I shook his hand. It was like holding a handful of hinged steel tightly wrapped in warm leather.
‘She talks about you too,’ I said.
‘Nothing good, I hope.’ He dropped my hand and spun the chair round on its axis. ‘She’s in there,’ he said, pointing to the second door on the left. ‘Go on in.’
I did as I was told. Fiona was sitting in an armchair by a tiny open grate that glowed hot with smokeless fuel. She was wearing jeans and a sweater, and her hair was tied back in bunches. She looked up, then looked again. ‘Nick, at last. I’ve been out of my mind. Where have you been?’
‘Around,’ I said.
‘The police are at your flat. They’re looking for you.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘It’s been on the news and in this morning’s papers.’ She gestured to a pile of newsprint on the floor. It looked like she’d bought the shop.
‘Let’s have a look,’ I said.
She passed me the top paper. It was the Express, not my usual choice of reading matter, but this wasn’t a usual day.
‘Get him some tea, Fiona,’ said Stan. ‘He looks like he could use a cup.’ Obediently she left the room. I reminded myself to ask him how he did it. I could hear her clattering about in the kitchen whilst I looked at the paper. I sat down in the armchair she had vacated, and moved it so that my bad leg got the benefit of the heat.
The story was on page four. It wasn’t very big, only two people died after all. There had been an earthquake in China over the weekend, 25,000 deceased and still counting. My little epic was very small beer compared to that.
PRIVATE EYE SOUGHT IN LONDON MURDER HUNT
Police are today searching for Nicholas Sharman (38), an ex-Metropolitan police officer and private detective, in connection with a bizarre double murder in South London on Saturday night. The body of Lawrence Taylor (42) and an unidentified woman were found in a flat in Kennington early on Sunday morning after an anonymous telephone call to Scotland Yard. Police entered the flat and found the pair who had apparently been tortured before being killed. Taylor, an officer in the Department of Customs & Excise, lived in Eastleigh, near Southampton with his wife Veronica (36). She was not available for comment at their luxury £250,000 detached house last night.
It is believed that Taylor was the officer in charge of a store of contraband drugs, and reports that a large, although yet unspecified, amount of drugs are missing from the store were denied by senior customs officials today.
Sharman, a shadowy figure with known drug and underworld connections, has been linked to a number of spectacular crimes in the past few years, including the deaths of music business moguls Charles and Steven Diva and the strange case of media supremo Sir Robert Pike’s bogus daughter.
A Scotland Yard spokesman said last night: “Sharman is well known in the area and we expect to interview him within the next twenty-four hours. However, anyone with any knowledge of his whereabouts should contact us immediately.”
All that meant was the Scotland Yard spokesman didn’t know where I was or what the fuck was going on, except I was on the ‘Most Wanted’ list. But at least the news item told me who the mysterious Lawrence Taylor was, or rather had been, a customs man in charge of the evidence cupboard. It was like a replay of my life and I felt chilled to the bone. It was all dropping into place, one piece after another. I riffled through the other papers. They all said much the same in slightly different words.
As I finished, Fiona came back balancing a tray with three mugs, a teapot, a jug of milk, a pot of sugar and a couple of spoons on it.
I took my tea and she said, ‘Come on Sharman for Christ’s sake, what’s happening?’
‘They got my age wrong,’ I said.
‘Be serious.’
So I was, and I told them. Everything since I’d dropped Fiona off two nights previously. Everything including what I’d found at the flat in Kennington, and as I told them about that I smelt cooking meat again and put the tea down and lit a cigarette.
‘Why didn’t you come straight here?’ demanded Fiona.
‘I got away on a bus, and it wasn’t going in this direction.’
‘A bus, eh?’ said Stan. ‘Desperado.’
Fiona flashed him a dirty look. ‘So where have you been?’ she asked.
‘At a friend’s.’
‘What friend?’
‘Just a friend. Does it matter?’
It obviously did, but what could I do?
‘Doesn’t your friend have a television? How come you didn’t know that you were all over the news? Were you too busy?’
‘I slept the clock round,’ I said. ‘I was dead. And, no, as a matter of fact she doesn’t have a television.’
‘She, I knew it!’ said Fiona, and threw herself down in a two-seater sofa, her face as black as thunder.
Shit, I thought.
Her father looked from her to me and back, and pulled a face. That was when I started to like him. I pulled a face back. He propelled his wheelchair towards me and helped himself to one of my cigarettes. ‘Why do you think this character Taylor telephoned you?’ he asked.
‘Who knows?’ I said. ‘Maybe he got an attack of the guilts and wanted to come clean. I’m not the police. Perhaps he thought he could talk to me and I’d help him. Maybe he had a gun at his head and whoever was holding it wanted me too. But I promise I’ll find out.’
‘So you think he was supplying Watkins with cocaine that had already been confiscated and that he liberated from the store he was in charge of?’
‘I think he was supplying, full stop,’ I said. ‘And it’s pretty obvious that Teddy was making the pickup, but Emerald knew nothing about it. I still believe that. If he knew, he wouldn’t be in Brixton now. He’d be long gone. The only thing that doesn’t make sense is why Teddy left the dope there when Emerald had been tipped off about the bust, and Teddy knew the lock-up was on the Bill’s hit list.’
‘Maybe he didn’t,’ said Stan.
‘Come again?’
‘Maybe Taylor was making a delivery and Teddy got cold feet waiting, knowing the fuzz were on the way.’
‘That’s it, Stan,’ I said. ‘Of course. And Taylor didn’t know what was happening and left the stuff, and the law found it.’
‘But who tipped off the law in the first place?’ asked Stan.
My h
ead was beginning to hurt. ‘Christ knows,’ I said. ‘That’s another thing I intend to find out.’
‘Go to the police then,’ said Fiona, her sulks forgotten.
‘Talk sense,’ I said. ‘You read what it said in the paper. My name’s right in the frame for this one. They’ve already got Emerald banged up on remand. They’d love to have me there too, and on a double murder charge. You didn’t see those people. Whoever did it was a psycho. I will go to the police, but not until I’ve got all the answers to the questions they’re going to ask me, and can prove that it’s Teddy and whoever’s behind him that they really want.’
‘You don’t think he’s doing it on his own?’ asked Stan.
I shook my head. ‘Whatever he is, he’s not capable of doing what was done on Saturday night, and certainly not alone. I’ll lay money that he’d never been to that flat before he went in with me.’
‘Tell the police that,’ said Fiona.
‘They won’t believe me, and he could be anywhere by now. This is my old game, why I left the force in the first place. Déjà vu, if you like. There’s a couple of detectives I know who’ll lose the key if I turn myself in now. I’m seriously fucked, and the only one who can get me out of it is me.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to go looking for them, starting with Jack Dark. At least I’ve got an address for him. He’s dirty that man, very dirty. Whatever those two in Kennington were up to, they didn’t deserve to end up the way they did. Someone wants me to carry the can for it, and I won’t. I think Dark’s the man, or knows who is.’
‘I’m going with you,’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Yes, you’re not going to vanish on me again. The only woman friend you’re going to be with is me.’
I looked at her father. He shrugged. He knew her better than I did. ‘I’d go with you myself if it wasn’t for these damn things,’ he said, and slapped one of his dead legs.
I gave in, I was past arguing. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But we’ll need a car.’
‘There’s mine,’ she said. ‘I went and got it yesterday. I had to dig it out. That’s when I saw the police at your place. It’s parked around the corner under the bridge, out of the way.’
‘Do behave, Fiona,’ I said. ‘It hasn’t even got a bloody roof, and it’s freezing out and we’re going to Essex. God knows what the weather’s like there. What we really need is a four-wheel drive. Teddy’s little motor would have been ideal.’