Lynne poured another G&T and sat down on the sofa with a sigh. She fiddled with her bra as she downed the drink and went into the bathroom to run a shower. She really needed to wash away the grime of that grubby Detective Toshack’s eyeballing. The thought of him almost made her puke.
Her heart was pounding like one of those hi-energy songs Gorgeous George used to play at work. She could feel her pulse beating in her temples and her hands were clammy.
She went over to the drinks cabinet and poured another gin and tonic. She took a sip and put on a Dusty Springfield CD. ‘You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me’ started up and Lynne walked into her pink, chintzy bedroom and lit a black French cigarette with shaking hands before checking the door again.
She started undressing. Shoes, tights, skirt, blouse. Then she carefully took off her purple, lacy bra before placing it on the pink bedside cabinet. She rubbed her breasts delicately. They were sore, what with all that stuff rubbing against them.
Still, it was worth it, she thought as she looked down on the silver and gold jewellery that she’d managed to stash in her Triple DD cups.
If, once in your life, a window of opportunity opens up, then you just have to jump right through. Arse over tit, if need be.
TEN
Madge brought over a plate of mushroom omelette and chips and placed it in front of Father Tim who smothered it with brown sauce and vinegar before tucking in.
‘Bon Appetit,’ said Madge.
‘Ta much!’ said Tim, snowing salt over his chips.
‘Heart attack on a plate, that,’ said Marty.
‘Got to die of something, bruv. So, what’s the SP on the hospital visit?’ said Father Tim. ‘Who have we got in there?’
‘Big Jim, I’m afraid,’ said Marty.
Tim groaned. ‘Not Big Jim from Romford? Big Jim Lawson? That daft old soak’s well past his sell by date!’
Marty nodded. ‘The self same. When I said ‘I’m afraid’ it wasn’t just a figure of speech.’
‘What the bollocks did that fuck-up do?’
‘Well, the story that Uncle Tony told me is that Big Jim and Kenny Rogan had a rendezvous with Half-Pint Harry Hebb in a lock-up over Bermondsey way. Druid Street, I think. Back of The Golden Dawn.’
‘Half-Pint Harry? Isn’t he the bloke that works for Captain Cutlass, the Geordie?’ said Father Tim.
‘Mackem, actually,’ said Marty, ‘but six of one and half a dozen of the other. That’s the geezer. Captain Cutlass had sent him down to negotiate a handover of some valuable property.’
‘And what might that be, then?’
‘Well, they were there to collect ...’
Marty did a little drum roll on the table.
‘The briefcase ...’
Tim froze, a lump of omelette dangling inches from his wide open mouth.
‘Whoa there, Silver!’
‘The stainless steel briefcase? The briefcase?’ said Tim, spilling a forkload of chips down his shirt. ‘The one we’ve been hearing about pretty much non-stop for nigh on ten bleedin’ years?’
Marty nodded.
‘Yes. The briefcase,’ said Marty. ‘The Ark Of The Covenant. The Holy friggin Grail. The Golden Fleece, which apparently contains information vital to the well-being of this great nation blah, blah, blah.’
Tim shook his head.
‘And Tony hired Big Jim to collect it?’
‘Yep. Well, those two were all that was available, what with it being New Year and, you know, Kenny’s usually as safe as houses. Usually. Anyway, the problem is that is seems that they had a bit of a ... contretemps and, well, blew Harry’s brains out.’
Tim rolled his eyeballs.
‘Isn’t he Captain Cutlass’s factotum? Supposed to be off limits?’
Marty nodded.
‘Oh, great, very well done, boys.’ said Tim. ‘And ...’
‘And they dumped him in the boot of Kenny’s Jaguar.’
‘And then they headed off to Anarchy Al’s scrapyard for a quick disposal? Please tell me that’s what they did?’
‘And there’s the friggin’ rub a dub dub,’ said Marty ‘the two geniuses...’
‘Genii,’ said Father Tim.
‘Whatever. The thing is, they decided to sneak in a bit of smash and grab before they dumped Harry’s body. Some bird that Kenny knows works as a cleaner at The Picture Palace. You know, that swanky antiques-stroke-jewellery shop on Brixton Hill Road?’
Tom nodded.
‘Indeed. I bought a signed copy of ‘Never Mind The Bollocks’ there.’
‘Well it was supposed to be a piece of piss. Just a couple of hung-over shop assistants working there, what with it being New Year’s Day. Supposed being the operative word.’
‘And I suppose they thought that doing the robbery with Half-Pint Harry’s body in the boot of the Jaguar was a particular stroke of genius. Tossers,’ said Father Tim, pouring more rum in his tea.
‘Well, the job went alright, actually. You know, The Picture Palace doesn’t even have CCTV because the owner’s such a tight arse, but it was during the getaway that things went tits up.’
‘What did they do?’
‘They went the wrong way down a one way street and smashed into a Mercedes.’
Tim cringed and poured a little more rum into his tea.
‘Daft bastards. And?’ he said.
‘Well, luckily the first copper on the scene was one of Uncle Tony’s lads, Gary McGinty.’
‘The knicker sniffer? Married to the bent accountant from Mortlake?’
‘That’s the fella,’ said Marty. ‘He’s been in Tony’s pocket for donkey’s years, ever since that incident with The Krankies, and he managed to get on the blower to Tony PDQ. So, a lot of stuff has been tidied up but it’s still a bloody big bolloxing up.’
‘So, the upshot is that Big Jim Lawson is in the Brixton General Hospital?’ said Tim.
Marty nodded.
‘Private room?’ said Tim.
‘Of course. He’s under police guard, though. Well, he was found in a mashed-up Jaguar with a body in the boot. And he does have a criminal record as long as John Bindon’s dong, to boot.’
‘And Kenny?’
‘Dunno, it seems like he pissed off in the Mercedes with the driver.’
‘A civilian?’
‘Looks that way.’
‘And the briefcase?’
‘As far as we know the briefcase and the stuff from the jewellery shop are with Kenny. Wherever he is.’
‘Well, that’s not so bad. I suppose. Kenny’s a bit washed up but he’s a pro,’ said Tim. ‘Hopefully he’ll turn this shit to shinola. So, what does Uncle Tony want from me?’
‘Well, they’re not letting anyone in to see Big Jim at the moment but we think we could swing it to get a man of the cloth in.’
‘And then?’ said Tim, wiping his plate clean with a spongy bread roll.
‘What do you think? Would you trust Big Jim not to get outwitted by a smooth talking copper and blab?’ said Marty.
‘I wouldn’t trust him not to get outwitted by David Beckham, bruv,’ said Tim, his blue eyes turning cold and gun metal grey.
ELEVEN
The bloke didn’t even look fazed, thought Kenny, as they pulled up at a red light on Crucifix Lane. Kenny would have thought a yuppie type like that would be crapping himself.
After all, it’s not every day that you get hijacked by a rough looking tranny holding a Clint Eastwood sized gun. But this bloke looked like he didn’t give a toss. He was just munching on Mentos, singing along to some old punk song about Gordon The Moron and really doing Kenny’s head in.
Richard chuckled to himself and scooped up a bottle of Pepsi from between the seats.
‘Want a drink of gut rot?’ said Richard.
‘Nah, nah,’ said Kenny. In fact, he’d glugged too much Tizer and he was desperate for a slash.
The traffic’s lights changed and Richard drove the car into Gun Street and pulled up outside a boarde
d up pub, The Golden Dawn. On the other side of the street was the all night shop, News & Booze.
‘Is this the place?’ said Richard.
‘Yeah,’ said Kenny.
News & Booze was open. He could see Tony Singh behind the counter. Kenny would have loved to have knocked back a can of Nelson before he took the yuppie into The Golden Dawn’s cellar and got rid of him. He was getting antsy now. He knew he’d made a major fuck up.
‘Fancy a mint?’ said Richard, offering the packet to Kenny who was sweating so much his make-up was running. He felt as if his bladder was going to burst.
Kenny shook his head. The bloke grinned. He popped a mint in the bottle of Pepsi and shook it up.
‘Bad for your guts, eh?’ said Richard. ‘And can give you a headache too.’
‘Eh?’ said Kenny.
Then Richard pointed the bottle at Kenny’s forehead and it all went black.
***
The sterile, antiseptic-stinking hospital made Father Tim Cook’s flesh creep. He felt as if insects were crawling over his skin. He hated hospitals. He gazed longingly out of the window at the glowing womb-like pub opposite.
‘How is he?’ said Tim to the fresh-faced young policeman who’d been sat outside Big Jim’s private room reading the Guardian.
‘Well, he’s been in and out of consciousness for most of the day. It was touch and go at one time,’ said the uniformed plod, ‘and he’s not out of the woods yet.’
He’ll go far with that degree in clichés, thought Tim. Officer material, no doubt about it.
‘I’d like to go in and have a quick word,’ said Father Tim. ‘A moment of prayer, reflection. Just in case ...’
‘Well,’ said the baby faced policeman. ‘I don’t know if ...’
‘Officer ...’said Tim. ‘What’s your name, my son?’
‘Widdowfield,’ said the policeman.
‘Widdow-field,’ said Father Tim. ‘Nice old English name. Officer Widdowfield. Are you, by any chance, a Catholic?’
‘Er, yes,’ said the policeman uncomfortably. ’Actually, as a matter of fact, I am.’
Father Tim repressed a smirk.
‘So, as you know, it is vital that Mr. Lawson makes his peace with The Good Lord now. Just in case this is his final moment on this mortal coil. So that he does not shuffle off to an eternity of damnation,’ said Father Tim.
He glared at the young policeman.
‘Er, okay,’ stuttered Constable Widdowfield. ‘But, he’s had a nasty bump and he may not be that coherent.’
No change there, then, thought Father Tim as he walked into Big Jim’s room.
TWELVE
Camilla Sanderson was feeling quite drab and dowdy in her green cagoule and faded Marks and Spencer’s jeans. Carole Parker, however, was looking typically glamorous as she stood beside a weeping willow tree and pulled a black Zippo lighter from the pocket of her shiny black PVC raincoat. She was in her forties and tall, with long black hair and a slash of red lipstick. She lit a Gauloises cigarette, dissolving into the darkness as the flame flickered out.
Camilla had first met the American screenwriter at a dinner party at Hugh Grant’s place. Someone had commented on how similar they’d looked. Parker had laughed, saying that her father used to be in the Marines, and was once stationed in England, so maybe they were sisters. And then that was that. They immediately hit it off like lightning striking a plane.
A black cab buzzed past, ignoring Parker’s waving.
‘Assholes!’ she said, throwing the cigarette on to the pavement and stamping it out with her patent leather shoes. Her American accent was slight, due to her living all over the world for most of her life.
‘I fucking hate London cabbies,’ she said ‘They think they’re the kings of the fucking road. I hate this English weather too. The City Of Angels may be full of dick wipes but at least it’s warm. The next screenplay I write is going to be set in the south of Spain.’
She pulled a long, black scarf from her handbag and wrapped it around her neck.
‘Shouldn’t you be heading back home?’ she said to Camilla, who was shivering a little. ‘Your asshole husband may be back soon.’
Camilla grinned.
‘No way! It was almost too easy to piss Richard off this morning. I knew he’d stay out all day,’ said Camilla, looking at her watch. ‘He hasn’t been to any of my dinner parties for over a year. He’s probably getting hammered with some ‘dodgy geezers’ in one of those East End striptease pubs that his family used to run. He’ll no doubt stagger in sometime at the crack of dawn.’
‘Yeah, well, that loser husband of yours isn’t exactly the brightest spark, eh? He doesn’t even know that his wife’s a full blown rug-muncher!’ said Parker, laughing.
Camilla chuckled and shivered, again.
‘Okay, it’s bloody freezing, so I better get back,’ said Camilla ‘but I’m just glad that we could spend some time together. And talk about our plan.’
‘The Great Escape,’ said Parker. She sucked deeply on the cigarette. ‘So, I’ll meet you later, at midnight, then,’ she said in a voice as dark and as bitter as an Irish coffee. ‘The Bitchin’ Hour.’
‘Midnight it is,’ said Camilla Sanderson. She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Are you sure you don’t want another drink? We can pop into The Ravenscourt Arms and have one for the road? Or tube?’
‘No thanks, hun,’ said Parker. ‘I’m just going home to hit the sack for a couple of hours. I’ve hit the bottle enough the last few days. Anyway, you’ve tired me out.’
She winked and dragged Camilla toward her and gave her a hard kiss. Then she pulled away and walked toward the warm glow of Stamford Brooke tube station with an exaggerated wave.
‘Bye honey,’ said Camilla, to the fading sound of high heels clicking on wet pavement
She walked through the tree lined streets as if she were floating on air. Tense but excited. She’d been sleepwalking through her marriage for too long. The last few years had been like wading through molasses. But now it was a chance to change things. To have a New Year’s revolution.
When she got close to home and she saw the police car outside her house she froze. ‘Bugger,’ she said. ‘Bugger, shit, bugger, wank!’
Or words to that effect.
***
Big Jim woke up feeling like a bag of shite and he felt a hell of lot worse when he saw Father Tim stood over him. A sharp pain sliced through his head as he tried to sit upright and he winced.
‘Jesus!’ he said.
‘Not quite,’ said Father Tim. He winked and sat down beside Jim’s bed.
The room was dark but a small anglepoise lamp stood on a bedside table and illuminated Father Tim’s expressionless face.
‘How do, Jim?’ said Tim.
‘Not three bad, Father,’ mumbled Big Jim, scratching under the bandages that were wrapped round his head.
‘Did your Uncle Tony send you?’
Father Tim nodded. ‘Indeed,’ he said.
He took a deep breath.
‘Jim, I have a couple of questions for you. Are you well enough to answer them?’
‘Yeah... I suppose,’ said Big Jim. ‘But my noggin feels like I’ve been drinking Anarchy Al’s home brew.’
Tim took a plastic pill bottle from the bedside table and popped out a green tablet. He handed it to Jim, along with a beaker of water.
Jim sipped and swallowed the tablet, choking and spilling a little water over his chest.
‘Jim,’ said Father Tim, leaning close. ‘What does 2001 mean to you?’
‘Ey?’ said Big Jim.
‘2001,’ repeated Tim.
Jim thought for a moment and started to drool. He felt like his face was going numb. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
‘Dalmatians?’ he said.
Father Tim shook his head.
‘The Film? ‘Space Oddity’?’ said Big Jim.
‘Not quite,’ said Father Tim. ‘Anything else?’
‘Oh, I kn
ow,’ said Big Jim. ‘The Two Towers. Seven-eleven and that.’
‘Very good,’ said Father Tim. ‘An important point in history. Pivotal. It changed the world as we know it.’
‘Yeah,’ said Big Jim, coughing and gasping for breath. Tim poured a glass of water and handed it to him.
‘And it was also an important year for my Uncle Tony, your employer, eh?’
‘Maybe,’ said Big Jim, confused.
‘Oh, it was’ said Father Tim. ‘Due to the millennium bug, which, as we all know was mostly much-ado-about-fuck-all, Uncle Tony came into possession of some very important documents. Documents that were later stolen but, luckily, retrieved, by you, today, from Half-Pint Harry Hebb.’
‘Ah,’ said Big Jim.
‘Yes, ah,’ said Father Tim.
‘So I will ask you a few direct questions and all that you have to do is answer a simple yes or no. Understand?’
‘Crystal,’ said Big Jim. The medication must have been starting to take effect since he was starting to feel a little blissed out.
‘Okay,’ said Father Tim, gazing into Big Jim’s bloodshot eyes. ‘Do you have the briefcase?’
‘No,’ said Big Jim.
‘Do you know who has the briefcase?’
‘Er, no,’ said Big Jim. ‘Maybe ...’
Father Tim grimaced.
‘No,’ said Big Jim. ‘Not a clue.’
‘Do you know where the briefcase is?’ said Father Tim.
‘No.’
‘And do you have any information that may be able to help us retrieve said briefcase?’
Big Jim shook his head slightly.
’No,’ he whispered.
Father Tim nodded
‘Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat; et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis ...’ said Father Tim, as he took the pillow and pressed it hard over Big Jim’s face. ‘Sic transit Gloria friggin’ Gaynor.’
He glanced at his watch as he continued smothering Big Jim and smiled to himself. Still time for a swift half before Lovejoy.
Guns of Brixton Page 4