BANKROBBER
THIRTEEN
The air in The Dirty Digger was as thick and sickly as a tin of oxtail soup that was well past its sell by date. Despite more than three years of a smoking ban, the pub, along with its handful of customers, still had a heavy nicotine tinge.
A big silver star dangled above the bar, slightly askew, just to the left of a massive West Ham United clock. Its tinsel border had pretty much moulted to nothing and the glittery red Merry Xmas greeting had dandruffed so many barflies over the years that it was almost unreadable.
The sound of The Shadows’ ‘Apache’ crept out of a crackly speaker as a smudged TV screen showed a repeat Christmasmas episode of Lovejoy. Bilko Sanderson sat in the far corner next to the Christmas tree version of mutton done up as lamb – emaciated and dressed in the worst Yuletide tat imaginable.
He was slumped over the rickety table holding an unlit cigarette and sipping his whisky, watching the ice cubes glimmering and shimmering. The bald patch in the centre of his thick, black hair shone like a halo. He was dragged out of his trance when he heard a loud bang.
Richard burst through the frosted glass door and rushed into the bar, bringing a trail of rain behind him. His wet hair hung down like party streamers. In his hand was a battered stainless steel briefcase.
‘Brass monkey weather outside, eh Dad?’ said Richard, slumping into a chair.
Bilko nodded, finished his whisky and looked down at his scuffed training shoes.
‘Are you getting them in, then?’ said Bilko ‘Just ’cos it’s my boozer, it doesn’t mean I can afford to give the stuff away, you know?’
‘I see you’ve still got the charm offensive without the charm,’ said Richard.
Bilko grunted.
‘Yeah, I’ll get ’em in, then,’ said Richard. ‘You go, though. I’m cream crackered.’
Richard slid a twenty pound note across the sticky table. Bilko seemed to creak as he got to his feet and walked to the bar.
Richard hadn’t seen his father for over a year and he immediately noticed how much older he looked. His squat but muscular frame was bent and Bilko’s tattoos had faded so much that they just made his skin look dirty. And he had a lot of tattoos.
Bilko had met Cilla, Richard’s mother, at school, when she was fourteen and he was eighteen. As was the custom, they’d both used sewing needles and bottles of ink to tattoo each other’s nicknames on their arms.
Cilla put a small ‘Bilko’ on her left bicep but stopped there.
Bilko, however, just kept on going. He had ‘LOVE & HATE’ tattooed on his knuckles. ‘Thank You’ was etched in the palm of his right hand and ‘Pay Here’ on the left. He had stars on his earlobes and a dotted line around his neck. He had a shoulder blade to shoulder blade crucifix on his back and a cross on the bridge of his nose which he called his ‘sight’, since head-butting was his favourite mode of combat.
And he’d been a fearsome sight in his youth, too. Short and stocky, with tree trunk arms, and a loud bulldog growl, Bilko Sanderson was a much sought-after nightclub bouncer and debt collector. And that was just the legal work. He’d also been one of the most successful armed robbers that the Cook Gang had used during their heyday in the late fifties and early sixties. Before he was banged up, that is.
Although, to be fair, Bilko Sanderson only ever did one big stretch inside, for a couple of sub-post office blags in Ilford. And that was because that professional idiot Big Jim Lawson had stolen a Robin Reliant to use as a getaway car. Still, he did his time and invested his takings well, buying a string of striptease pubs that opened after hours and had the local old bill as the main clientele. A niche market.
But he didn’t look much of a gunslinger now, wearing a saggy navy tracksuit and a beige moth-eaten cardigan.
And not for the first time Richard wondered how he’d come to look nothing like his father or his equally squat mother. The talent for music was a mystery, too, since no one in his parents’ families could play a musical instrument and Bilko was famously tone deaf.
As ‘Johnny Remember Me’ played, Richard sighed, his sweaty hands gripping the briefcase. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he looked up.
Sleepy Pete, a man with a face like a blackcurrant crumble and the smell of a soggy mongrel, sidled up to Richard, shuffling and sniffling, moving in close and conspiratorially like a double-agent in a Harry Palmer film. He was dressed, as always, in a pin striped suit and his pencil thin moustache certainly added to the spiv look.
‘How’s life, Sleepy?’ asked Richard, keeping a safe distance from Peter’s sour breath.
‘Ask someone whose got one,’ smirked Sleepy Pete, before breaking into a 5000 watt grin that showed his false teeth.
‘Yes, very good Sleepy, you could make that into a joke,’ said Richard, idly tearing up a beermat. ‘Albeit a not particularly humorous one,’ he added.
Pete snorted.
‘Long time no see, Ricky boy,’ said Sleepy Pete.
‘Indeed,’ said Richard.
‘Heard you were in the U S of A for a bit in the summer.’
‘I was,’ said Richard.
‘Gigging again, were you?’ said Sleepy, a smug grin on his face. ‘Playing Carnegie Hall then? Reminds me of an old joke that goes: What’s the best way to get to …’
Richard cringed and help up his hand.
‘No, Sleepy. I gave up the music biz lark a long time ago, as you well know. I’m a just a boring and respectable businessman now. I only went there to get drunk between the moon and New York City. I know it’s crazy but it’s true.’
Sleepy Pete chuckled, staggered towards the bar and struggled onto his barstool. He took a sip of beer, farted and immediately fell asleep, his face smashing into a packet of pork scratchings, scattering them across the bar. Sheila the Sheila, the overgrown Aussie barmaid, put down her copy of The Da Vinci Code, took a pillow from behind the bar and put it under Sleepy’s head.
Bilko sat down and put a pint in front of Richard and a glass of whisky for himself.
‘So what the bleedin’ hell are you after? I know you’re after something. You only turn up when you want something, you do,’ said Bilko, not looking Richard in the eye. In fact he never looked at Richard when he spoke to him. Richard put it down to Catholic guilt. Bilko had been a bit too handy with his fists after he got out of the slammer. Hence Cilla doing a bunk not before long.
Richard put the silver briefcase below the Christmas tree and gulped his pint.
‘Do you ever bump into Ron Moody?’ said Richard.
Ron Moody was a pawnbroker, pickpocket, lock-picker, fence and a blackmail artist. A veritable pillar of the community and a long-time family friend.
Richard used to refer to him as Uncle Moody when he was a kid. He had many pleasant memories of sitting with his father and Ron in the front room of their terraced house, eating sausage sandwiches and watching old Norman Wisdom films on rainy afternoons, as wacky-baccy fumes filled the room.
‘Now and again,’ said Bilko. ‘I’m not really in need of his services that much these days. Why?’
‘I want him to open this.’
Bilko put his glasses. They were slightly askew; one of the arms was broken, pointing upwards. He looked self-conscious as he scrutinised the briefcase.
‘What’s in there, then?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Richard, wiping his clammy hands on his jacket. ‘It’s not mine. I picked it up by mistake. But I reckon it’s something valuable. Pretty, very, fucking valuable, indeed.’
‘I’ll phone Ron in a bit,’ said Bilko.
He picked up the briefcase and started to examine it.
‘You know, this looks bit familiar. If it’s what I think it is, it’s better we don’t get Ron to try and open it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What I mean is … I’m not saying that Ron Moody can’t be trusted but it would be next to impossible for him to let a good business opportunity pass him by. And this could be
a very good business proposition indeed. And I also think I know who this belongs to. Tell me how you got it.’
So Richard told him.
‘Silver skull and crossbones ring, you say? Could be a bloke called Kenny Rogan, he used to have one of them. Said it used to belong to Heinrich Himmler but we heard he’d got it a pawn shop over Queen’s Park. If it is Kenny, it may mean that I’m right about the briefcase,’ said Bilko.
The music changed, Bobby Goldsboro started singing about his dying wife and Bilko and Richard sat in reverential silence until the song was over.
Richard’s mind drifted and faded in on an image of Durham Castle; perched on a hill, looming over the city like a great black bat. He remembered being taken to visit his dad at Durham Prison when he was a nipper and he tasted the cold, metallic morning air. This then segued into his dad’s spidery black tattoos on his hands and face and the brown blanket- looking prison uniform that made him feel itchy.
Bilko wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes with an old grey handkerchief.
‘Do you hear much from your mother?’ said Bilko.
‘Every Sunday evening, on Skype. And I phoned her to wish her happy new year last night, I think.’
‘She still in Spain, then?’
‘Yep, dancing flamenco and speaking the lingo too, these days. Well according to her she is, anyway. Though, I expect it’s a bit more like Spanglish. She says the pub’s doing good business with the ex-pats. She’s knocking out Sunday roasts and fry-ups from dusk till dawn.’
Bilko just nodded his head and whistled through his teeth.
‘Oh, there is one more thing before I forget,’ said Richard.
‘It’ll cost you.’
Richard laughed.
‘The thing is … Do you have enough room for a couple of bottles of wine?’
FOURTEEN
‘As the years have trundled by, Marty, I have increasingly come to recognise the veracity of the statement that one man’s meat is another man’s poison. Indeed, I have also reached the conclusion that one man’s meat can actually be the same man’s poison,’ said Tony Cook, looking at one of the grainy monitors on the back wall.
The Blue Lagoon was Fulham’s most successful and least legal Gentleman’s Club. Tony’s office was all red leather, oak and mahogany, his idea of what a traditional gentleman’s club would look like. The walls were adorned with oil paintings of Bobby Moore, Bobby Charlton, Geoff Hurst and Pope John Paul the Second. On the oak table there was a signed photo of Sir Alf Ramsey and a replica of the Jules Rimet Trophy. Tony lounged in a black leather armchair nursing a tumbler of whisky and smoking a cigar.
‘And the truth of this belief becomes even more apparent when I look upon a sight as pitiful as that.’
The rooms above The Blue Lagoon were rented out by the hour to the high roller club members, mainly politicians and lawyers. Tony referred to them as the crème de la crème because they were both thick and rich. They were entertained in private by Tony’s elite girls, The Pussy Posse. Every room had a design theme to suit the customer’s particular sexual peccadillos.
On the screen that Tony was pointing to, a short, fat man – looking like a big, pink blancmange – was in a room called The Batroom. He was blindfolded and strapped to a four poster bed as a tall oriental woman dressed as Catwoman repeatedly kicked him in the crown jewels with a black stiletto boot.
Marty said nothing, just sipped his glass of whisky and polished his Yin and Yang cufflinks, a gift from Veronica. Maybe he was getting old and going soft but he’d been wondering whether Veronica had a point. Maybe it was time to ... downscale his involvement in the family business.
‘Human depravity has no bounds,’ said Tony, shaking his head.
‘Ah. Bounds. Get it, Uncle Tony. Good one,’ said Marty, barely paying attention.
Tony looked down at the mountain of ash in his ashtray. ‘Empty that out, Marty, there’s a good lad.’
Marty raised his eyebrows but got to his feet, gave a little Gestapo click of the heels and did as he was told.
Tony Cook was in his late seventies but he looked about twenty years younger. He was constantly suntanned with bleached blond hair and his teeth were so white that they could dazzle Stevie Wonder. He wore a black suit and more than his fair share of bling. His black shoes shone, as always. He picked up a newspaper and started scrutinising the financial section.
The door buzzed open.
‘Evening all,’ said Kenny Rogan. He gave a nervous laugh. He was sweating and wearing a donkey jacket pulled over his sparkly dress.
‘Greetings,’ said Tony, gesturing Kenny to sit down. ‘You’ll be wanting a drink, I assume?’
Kenny sat at a table and took off his high heeled shoes, flashing his knickers. Tony grimaced and turned away as he put a black holdall and stainless steel briefcase down on the floor.
‘So, it appears that you made a bit of a bollocks of things, Kenny.’ He plonked a bottle of whisky on his desk along with two glasses.
‘A bit,’ said Kenny. ‘Well, a lot.’
‘Mmm,’ purred Tony, filling both glasses. He pushed one towards Kenny who picked it up and gulped the whisky.
‘I’ll help myself then, shall I?’ said Marty, who reached over and refilled his glass.
Tony ignored him.
‘I mean, I’ve got the stuff from the jewellery shop. A right Aladdin’s Cave that was, I can tell you. Didn’t get any lamps though.’ He smiled and winked. Tony sighed deeply.
‘Ron Moody’s just had a quick gander at the loot,’ said Kenny, ‘and he reckons there’s at least thirty grand’s worth of stuff there.’
‘Yes, very nice. We’ll come to that FUCK UP a little later,’ Tony boomed, slamming his drink down on the marble table. The ice cubes almost jumped out of the glass.
‘And I’ve got this,’ said Kenny, putting the briefcase on the table.
Tony nodded and scrutinised the scratched briefcase.
‘Get Ron Moody in here, sharpish. Let’s get this open,’ said Tony. Marty got up. ‘Shall I get you a kebab while I’m at it, Uncle Tony? Apes, ivory and peacocks?’ he said.
Tony ignored him.
‘My friends at Brixton nick have CCTV of you heading off in a Mercedes with a civilian. Leaving behind a big, black frigging Jaguar. And one with a body in the boot, of course. What, pray tell, happened after that?’
Tony glared.
‘Well,’ said Kenny, ‘it was a bit weird, wasn’t it? Well, very weird.’
He glanced at one of the monitors which showed a geisha girl waving a samurai sword around as Bert Kwok, a local Estate Agent, knelt in front of her, chanting. On another monitor a tall blonde in a nurse’s uniform was doing something fairly unusual with a stethoscope, much to the satisfaction of the man bent over in front of her.
He turned back to Tony.
‘You know, it’s a bit of a funny story, really. You see, well, it’s amazing what you can do with a bottle of Pepsi and a packet of Mentos isn’t it?’
He grinned but Tony’s gaze was elsewhere.
‘Oh, bollocks,’ said Tony staring at the screen showing the Kamikaze Room. ‘Hope we’ve got plenty of Shake and Vac.’
FIFTEEN
Tosh had heard that the posh ones were the dirtiest. Up to all sorts of carryings on; threesomes, water sports, spanky-panky, girl-on-girl love action. The lot. But this one seemed well frigid. Stiff as an ironing board.
They were sat in one of them super-clean, minimalist kitchens that you see on the telly. It was bigger than Tosh’s flat. Mrs. Sanderson hadn’t even asked him to sit down and he was feeling more than a bit frayed around the edges. He’d had a couple of pints at lunchtime but they were starting to wear off.
It was hot there too. He took off his waxy raincoat, revealing a muddy-brown suit that was as worn and weather-beaten as he was feeling, and leaned against a stainless steel fridge. A fridge with a television screen. His eyes grew wide, as if he’d seen heaven on earth. He dragged himself out
of his trance and turned toward Camilla, who had the look of someone who had just smelled an unfamiliar fart.
‘We’ve been trying to contact you all afternoon,’ said Tosh, rubbing the heel of his thumb across his nose and producing a disgusting squishy sound. ‘You and your husband.’
Camilla grimaced. ‘Oh, Richard never answers the phone if he doesn’t recognise the caller’s number,’ she said, pouring a large glass of wine and easing herself onto a bar stool. ’Bloody annoying it is too but there’s not a lot I can do about it.’
Tosh nodded and tried to picture doing it to Camilla doggy style but it just didn’t work. Nice gaff, though, he thought. Must have cost her an arm and a leg-over. Bet she got it on her back, mind you. That sort always did.
Camilla had obviously been cooking earlier and the food smells were making his stomach rumble. He could murder a Scotch egg or a sausage roll.
‘So, you can’t think of any reason why your husband’s car would be seen driving away from the scene of an accident, then?’ said Tosh.
‘I really have no idea,’ said Camilla.
‘This is quite a serious matter,’ said Tosh. ’There is also a connection to an armed robbery that took place not long before the accident.’
Camilla sighed. Like father like bloody son, she thought, knocking back her glass of wine and immediately pouring another.
***
‘No, really. He just shook up the bottle of Pepsi and popped in the mint. And then he pointed it at me and it all went black!’ Kenny rubbed the mark on his forehead. ‘I woke up in a puddle of piss outside News & Booze in Gun Street. Terry Singh was stood over me laughing his cock off, wasn’t he? Piss-taking twat. Still, at least he lent me the donkey jacket and the dosh for a sherbet dab.’
Marty just shook his head.
‘Yeah, I think I saw something like that on You Tube,’ said Marty. ‘How to kill a man with a bottle of Pepsi and a packet of mints! Who’d have thunk it, eh?
Guns of Brixton Page 5