by Mark Timlin
The information that scrolled across the screen concerned a certain James Andrew Marshall with an address in Addington, close to Croydon. The posh part of Addington where the TV celebrities and comedians buy smart houses, then get them repossessed when fickle fame deserts them. Marshall’s date of birth was in 1960, which made him thirty-six next birthday. He’d been arrested more times than Elton John had been in detox, for everything from shoplifting to possession of Class A drugs, with a little bit of GBH and attempted murder in between, but had never been convicted and had only done time on remand. A fine, upstanding citizen by all accounts, and just the sort of geezer I was looking for. I found a scrap of clean paper on Robber’s desk and copied down the relevant details, then went back to my seat.
Robber came in a couple of minutes later and handed me a thick mug of strong, copper’s tea, then sat down behind his desk and turned off the computer without a word.
‘You want to be very careful,’ he said with his mouth full of bacon sandwich.
‘How careful?’
‘As careful as you’ve ever been.’
‘Why?’
He leant forward, elbows on his desk. ‘If you happen to be thinking about paying a certain party a visit, just remember that he’s a serious player. He likes body building, martial arts and guns. And he loves his doggie. A very vicious beast by all accounts. The kind that snacks it up on postmen when the Pal meat runs out. And, the thing he hates most is anyone trying to stop his God-given right to break the law.’
‘Him or the dog?’
‘Both.’
‘Is that right?’
‘It is.’
‘Is there anyone else at home I have to keep an eye out for? A homicidal mum f’rinstance?’
‘There’s a tart there to keep the home fires burning. Make his macrobiotic salads and keep his bed warm. Quite a girl herself from what we know. Karen. From Loughton in Essex.’
‘Nice little family.’
‘Nuclear. Literally.’
‘I’ll remember that.’
‘Not that you got it from me.’
‘Course not.’
‘I mean that, Sharman. It’s pension on line time.’
‘Trust me.’
‘Do you think you’d be here now if I didn’t?’
I shook my head, drank my tea, fed Robber’s nicotine habit with my Silk Cut and nattered about nothing. Then I left. As I went he said, ‘I don’t want to see you here again.’
‘All right, Mr Robber,’ I said.
‘Good luck, Sharman.’
‘And you.’
As I was between Tulse Hill and Croydon I decided to cruise round and scope out Marshall’s gaff. I drove the Chevy down to Addington, found the road I was looking for on the southernmost page of the A-Z, dumped the motor three streets away and took a stroll. The house was large, secluded and looked like it had cost close to a million. There was a high wall round the garden and a big iron gate in front of the drive. The place was belled up solid. Lots of alarm boxes and blue lights planted across the front of the house, but apart from a solitary squirrel sitting on the branch of a horse chestnut tree, there was no sign of life and the only indication that a guard dog existed was a solitary turd on the closely mown grass of the front lawn. I hung around for a few minutes, but the area was well patrolled by private security as well as Old Bill, so I didn’t stay long. I needed an expert to give the place a close going over and I knew just the face to do it.
But first I had to talk to Dawn.
So I went home and laid it all out for her. I had to tell her what I had planned. I was in a modern marriage after all. The bonding of equals. And besides, I needed her help.
She jumped at it. I was surprised she was so enthusiastic.
‘It’s going to be dangerous,’ I said. ‘These people won’t appreciate us putting our oar in.’
‘So?’ she said. ‘It’ll be fun.’
Fun wasn’t exactly the word I’d’ve used, but I said nothing.
‘But why these people in particular?’ she asked.
‘Because they’re there,’ I replied. ‘And they’re dirty.’
‘But they had nothing to do with what happened in Scotland, surely.’
I shrugged. ‘I doubt it. But that’s not the point. Anyone will do. Anyone who’s handy. Does it matter?’
She shook her head.
‘So it’s a runner?’ I said after a moment.
She nodded.
‘Great. How’s the cash situation?’
I knew that Dawn with her squirrel instincts had stashed some spare dough away. Her fighting fund she called it.
‘How much do you need?’
‘Five hundred for now.’
She went into our tiny bathroom and came out a few seconds later with a wodge of notes in her hand. Where she manages to hide it without me knowing I can never work out.
‘Got an envelope?’ I asked.
She dug one out of a drawer. I put the cash inside, wrote Marshall’s address on the back, stashed it in my pocket, found the car keys and said, ‘I’m going to look for someone. I’ll be back later.’
‘Do you want me to come?’
‘Not this time. The geezer doesn’t know you. You’ll meet him in due course. Unless he’s banged up at Her Majesty’s pleasure of course.’
‘Like that, is it?’
‘Yeah,’ I replied, kissed her on the cheek and split.
I was looking for ‘Monkey’ Mann, a jobbing villain, who’d always been pleased previously to earn a little extra dough to get me into places I shouldn’t be. His nickname came from the fact that he could climb anything. Anything. And make it look easy.
I took the car down to Beckenham and checked out Monkey’s local haunts. That day he was sitting at the bar of the Goat and Cheese, a dark cave of a boozer that had seen better days, located at the back of a huge shopping development where half the shops were empty and the other half were having closing down sales. He was deep in dialogue with a young lady of what I could only gather was easy virtue as I overheard the end of their conversation.
‘It’s fifty nicker, Monkey,’ she was saying tiredly as I came up beside them. ‘Cash. I don’t take kites or plastic.’
‘Listen, doll,’ pleaded Monkey. ‘I’m a bit short at the present. Cash flow problems. You know how it is. Couldn’t you see your way to letting me ’ave one on the slate? I’ll see you all right in the week. A geezer owes me a spot of wedge.’
‘On the slate,’ she said. ‘On the fuckin’ slate. What d’you fink I am? If I let you ’ave it for nuffin’, every bleedin’ punter in the place will want the same.’
‘Not for nothing, love,’ explained Monkey patiently. ‘Just give me time to pay. Like Montague Burton used to for a whistle.’
‘I ain’t Montague Burton, whoever he was, Monkey,’ said the young lady, who was most fetchingly attired in gold stilettos, black fishnets, a lime green skirt and a strawberry pink angora sweater that, if it had been cut any lower over her chest, would hardly have kept her belly button warm. ‘So show us your cash, you cheeky old fucker, or I’m out of here.’
‘Not interrupting anything, I hope,’ I said as I walked up to the pair of them.
Monkey looked up at the sound of my voice. ‘Hello, Mr S,’ he said. ‘Long time.’ He too was dressed for amour, I could tell, in a wide-lapelled safari jacket that went out of fashion just as punk came in, a dark blue sateen shirt with seven-inch points on the collars, pale blue flares and white casuals with gold bars across the fronts.
‘Hello, Monkey,’ I said back, looked him up and down in amazement and asked, ‘Who dressed you this morning? Agnetha from Abba?’
‘All the go this gear,’ said Monkey in a hurt tone. ‘The seventies are back.’
‘So they tell me. Want a drink? And one for your charming friend?’ I smiled at the girl. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.’ Although it was a racing certainty that most of the other geezers in the place had.
‘Sorry, Mr S. I’m
forgetting me manners,’ said Monkey. ‘This is Sonia. Sonia, this is Mr Nick Sharman, an old friend of mine.’
Sonia offered one hand whose black-painted nails were bitten to the quick. ‘Delighted,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a large G & T, ice and a slice. I’m a model.’
‘I thought so,’ I replied. ‘Didn’t I see you on the cover of Vogue last month? Or was it Vanity Fair?’
‘I do like your friend,’ said Sonia, blushing prettily. ‘Why haven’t I met him before?’
‘Not his usual manor, love,’ said Monkey, as I ordered Sonia’s drink, a large Irish whiskey for him and a pint for myself. ‘He comes from Tulse Hill.’
‘And I keep losing my passport,’ I said. ‘You know how hard it is to get across the border at Crystal Palace.’
Sonia looked perplexed. ‘I never have any trouble on Network South East,’ she said.
‘It must be your pretty face,’ I said back.
‘D’you think so?’ she asked as the drinks arrived and I exchanged a fiver plus change for them. ‘I do massage too. Would you like my card?’
‘I think my wife might confiscate it and put me in the corner for the evening.’
‘Are you into domination then?’ asked Sonia. ‘I do a very good line in punishment for naughty boys.’
‘No, not really. If anything, I like to be the one in control.’
‘I just bet you do,’ she said and licked her little pink tongue across the hot red lipstick she wore. ‘And I bet you’re good at it too.’
‘Sonia, I’m afraid that’s something you’ll probably never find out, sad to say. I’ve turned into a very boring and faithful husband.’
‘They’re the worst kind when they get out on the loose,’ she replied, obviously out of bitter experience. ‘But never mind. If you change your mind, Monkey knows where to find me.’
‘I’ll remember that. Now I’m sorry to be rude and I don’t want to break up the party, but I need fifteen minutes alone with the man. Could I ask you to excuse us?’
‘No problem,’ she replied, taking out her cigarettes, lighting one and slipping a length of chewing gum into her mouth at the same time. ‘Monkey’s skint, and I can see an old boyfriend of mine’s just come in. I think I’ll go join him.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘And Monkey might just be coming into some money, so I wouldn’t elope with the other fella if I were you.’
Sonia raised her eyebrows, slid off the stool where she’d been sitting and sashayed across the carpet towards a florid-looking individual in a suit that looked like he’d been cleaning streets in it, who’d just rolled in to join the fun.
‘Still got impeccable taste in women I see, Monkey,’ I said as I took over the stool that was still warm from Sonia’s bottom.
He looked over his shoulder at her retreating back appreciatively. ‘I dunno, Mr S,’ he said. ‘I must be gettin’ old. Can’t even get a bunk up on tick any more.’ Then he turned back to me and said, ‘So what can I do for you today? You mentioned money.’
‘I need to get into a house.’
‘No problem.’
‘This is no ordinary house,’ I said. ‘There’s lots of security. Burglar alarms. Probably infra reds. And a very big, very fierce dog.’
Monkey shrugged. ‘Do the alarms go through to the police?’
‘I doubt that very much,’ I said. ‘This place belongs to a bad man. A very bad man. The Bill would love to be able to get inside for a squint.’
‘Security firm?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Give us the address. I’ll take a look round myself.’
‘Be careful, Monkey,’ I said. ‘I mean it. If this geezer finds out you’re sniffing around, he’ll hurt you. Hurt you seriously.’
‘I have done this sort of thing before, Mr S,’ Monkey said sniffily as if I was questioning his professional abilities.
‘I know.’
‘When do you want to go in?’
‘Soon as possible.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then you piss off, Monkey. You get us inside and then you vanish. That’s it.’
‘Us?’
‘Me and Dawn.’
‘You’re going in with a bird?’
‘She’s my wife. The only one I trust. And Monkey. We’re going in armed.’
He shrugged. ‘How much?’
‘A grand. Five hundred now, five hundred on the night.’ I showed him the envelope I’d brought with me.
‘A monkey for Monkey, eh?’
I nodded. ‘The address is on the envelope. Memorise it and burn it.’
‘You sound like Mission Impossible.’ Well up on trash TV was the Monk.
‘I don’t want anyone knowing who went into that house,’ I said. ‘Ever.’
‘You ain’t gonna kill nobody.’
‘I hope it doesn’t come to that.’
‘Who’s inside?’
‘A bloke called Marshall. And his girlfriend. And the pooch. That’s it.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why you going in?’
‘It’s a long story. Marshall’s got some information I want. At least, I think he has.’
Monkey looked over his shoulder again at Sonia, who was comfortably seated next to her other friend with her arm linked through his.
‘Gimme the dough,’ he said.
‘If you take it now, Monks, you go through with the job. No backing out.’
‘I don’t back out, Mr S. You should know that by now.’
‘I know,’ I said, and slid the envelope towards him across the pub table. It vanished into an inside pocket of his jacket.
‘Righto, Mr S,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
‘Soon.’
‘Soonest.’
‘See you then, Monkey. Have fun.’ And with that I walked out of the pub, giving Sonia a wave as I went.
I went back home again and told Dawn what had gone on down at the pub.
‘How much cash have we got left?’ I asked her, when I’d finished.
‘Here?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How much do you need?’
‘Enough to buy some guns.’
‘How much is that?’
‘A lot. I need a handgun for each of us, and I thought I’d invest in a fully automatic machine pistol if I can get hold of one.’
She didn’t turn a hair. ‘Why not wait for a couple of months? Father Christmas might bring you one down the chimney.’
‘No time, love. Have we got three grand?’
‘Just about.’
‘What, here?’
She nodded.
‘You’re amazing,’ I said.
She ignored the compliment. She knew what she was. ‘And there’s plenty more in the bank,’ she said.
‘That’s good. Get me what we’ve got and I’ll worry about the rest later.’
Dawn went into the bathroom again and came back with a large Jiffy bag which she upended on the table and a whole bunch of fifties and twenties slid out. We counted the dough and it came to two thousand eight hundred pounds, which we bundled up into four lots of five hundred each and eight single hundreds. That evening I went down a boozer off the Falcon Road in Clapham where I’d been before on a similar errand, taking the cash with me. The same bearded, beer-gutted geezer I’d seen there the last time was hanging out by the bar. He looked at me as I walked in, and followed me with his eyes as I went to the bar. I ordered a pint of lager and looked over at him. ‘Drink?’ I said.
‘Do I know you?’
‘We’ve met before.’
He nodded. ‘Lager top,’ he said.
I ordered it when my drink arrived. When the barmaid put the second, tall, frosty glass in front of me, Beergut walked over and joined me. ‘Something you need?’ he asked.
‘A new hat. Hats. Two.’
‘Going in mob handed, are we?’
I smiled. ‘Something like that.’
He fished out a cigarette and s
aid, ‘Gotta light?’ I pulled out one of the bundles containing a ton and passed it over to him with my lighter. He lit his cigarette and the money vanished. ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Gonna be around for a bit?’
‘As long as it takes.’
‘Keep an eye on my drink.’ And he walked out of the boozer.
I stayed put for half an hour before he came back, tasted his beer pulled a face and added some ice from the bucket on the bar. ‘The cab outside,’ he said. ‘Same as last time.’
I finished my pint. ‘Cheers,’ I said and left.
Outside in the warm, autumn air sat a black London taxi with its ‘FOR HIRE’ sign turned off. As I approached it, the rear door cracked open slightly. I pulled it all the way and climbed in. Before I could close it properly again, the cab pulled away. I fell into the back seat next to a large figure wrapped up unseasonably in a heavy coat, scarf and hat. The driver was equally bundled up and he had his mirror turned so that I couldn’t see his face.
‘Hello again, dear,’ said the figure sitting next to me. ‘Back in business?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Whatever happened to that nice little piece I sold you the last time?’
‘It got mislaid.’
‘So much of my merchandise does. What do you need?’
‘A couple of pistols. An auto and a revolver. Small calibre revolver. Nine-mill auto. Plus some clips for the auto and ammo for both.’
‘I hope you’ve emptied your piggy bank.’
I said nothing, and the large figure awkwardly pulled a cardboard box from beside him. There wasn’t much room for the pair of us on the seat, but he managed. He opened the top of the box and pulled out a Browning niner semi-automatic.
‘Been used a few times,’ he said. ‘But I’ve changed the barrel. It’s been test fired and is very accurate.’
He passed it over and I hefted it in my hand.
‘Fifteen-shot clip,’ said the figure. ‘A very fine weapon.’
‘How much?’
‘Six hundred.’
‘Ammunition?’
‘A hundred rounds, a hundred pounds.’
I put the gun in my lap. ‘Got spare clips?’
He nodded.
‘Revolver?’
‘A thirty-two?’
‘Sounds fine.’
He put his hand back in the box and drew out a Colt Detective Special with a two-inch barrel. Not much of a stopper, but handy for Dawn’s handbag. He passed it over. It was an old gun with the blueing on the barrel worn away in places. I told him so.