Find My Way Home

by Mark Timlin

  The air was full of a mist of blood, the stink of used gunpowder and the screams of the dying.

  Then I saw her, as I always do when this particular dream chooses to haunt me. The girl in the white dress which blooms suddenly red, like a flower opening in the sun, and the look of surprise on her face as her faculties desert her and she falls to the floor.

  A girl with a life that I stole. An innocent victim of a web of lies that I swallowed whole.

  Then, thankfully, the dream changed again. I am sitting in a car on a lonely airfield. I hear the engines of a plane and see my hand reach for the gear stick and put it into low drive, and my foot goes down hard on the gas. I see the plane filling the windscreen and I see myself jam a briefcase full of money against the accelerator, wrestle open the car door and hurl myself on to the tarmac and watch as the car and plane meet in a terrible conflagration that destroys them both. As I lie there on the cold, hard ground watching burning money floating down from the sky after the explosion I see a man walk out from the flames, seemingly unhurt and coming towards me. I am unarmed and I know that he will kill me if he reaches me, but before he can he stumbles and falls flat on his face.

  After minutes that seem like hours I drag myself towards him. He is my age and build and wearing a leather jacket, jeans and boots like mine. I remember that he was the pilot of the aircraft. He is dead, and I leave him and crawl off into the darkness.

  I walk across country, through freezing streams and damp woods until it gets light. I shiver from the cold but keep walking for hours until I finally find a pub at a crossroads near a tiny village, clean myself up as best I can and go inside. No one takes much notice, as if a filthy stranger alone on foot in the deep, dark midwinter is hardly worthy of note.

  And that’s more or less where it stops. More drinks, a taxi, a coach maybe. Then London and my flat.

  It all happened, just like the dream. Take my word. Only it was worse.

  I woke up in a tangle of damp sheets with Nancy standing over me holding a steaming cup of tea.

  She was wrapped up in a thick towelling robe, her face was scrubbed clean, and she looked to be about fourteen years old.

  ‘Bad dreams?’ she said.

  I took the tea from her and had a sip. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I’ve had worse.’

  She didn’t try and get back into bed and I didn’t invite her. If she had, or I had, and she’d accepted, I think it would have finished that morning. Instead she said, ‘It’s half-eight. There’s some bacon under the grill. How do you like your eggs? Over easy, isn’t it?’

  ‘You remembered,’ I said.

  ‘I’m like an elephant. I never forget. Five minutes,’ and she turned and left.

  I finished my tea, got up, went to the bathroom, got dressed and went downstairs.

  The egg and bacon, tomatoes and toast were great. We sat together in the kitchen whilst we ate. We didn’t talk about what had happened the previous night. We didn’t talk about Harry. We didn’t talk about much really. At nine-thirty I went back to the car, promising to call her if anything occurred. She kissed me on the cheek when I left. She smelled good.

  I went home for a shave and a clean shirt, then toddled on down to the office. All was quiet and I sat and drank another cup of tea and had a think.

  I thought about what had happened the night before, and the dreams I’d had, and what led up to them. Some of the thoughts were pleasant. Some weren’t.

  Then I had an unexpected visitor.

  It was almost eleven by then and I was wondering about popping over to the boozer for a livener when my office door opened.

  I looked up. ‘Christ,’ I said. ‘Where did you spring from?’

  ‘Victoria bloody Station. Where do you think?’ said ex-Detective Inspector Jack Robber as he moved his bulk from the doorway to my client’s seat, knocking the last couple of days’ papers off it as he went. ‘And then a bloody number two bus here.’

  I looked at him. He appeared to have cleaned up his act since his retirement and move down to Worthing to live with his sister. He’d lost weight and his eyes were clear and bright. The greasy old mac was gone, replaced by a dark overcoat. His shirt collar was pristine, his tie unsullied by gravy and egg stains, his trousers neatly pressed, and his black shoes polished.

  ‘I hardly recognised you, Robber,’ I said. ‘You look like you should be in Littlewoods’ catalogue modelling natty gent’s wear for the more mature man.’

  He touched a nicotine-stained free hand to his neatly barbered hair, then ran it over his freshly shaven chin.

  ‘It’s bloody murder, Sharman,’ he said. ‘Living down there. I feel like a right prat in this get-up.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s that sister of mine. Glynis. I mean, she’s the salt of the earth. But every time I take off a shirt it’s in the bloody wash. And all she’ll feed me is bloody rabbit food, and she puts bloody half fat milk in my tea. I’m only allowed a couple of pints a day, and there’s no smoking in the house.’ As if on cue he produced a packet of Benson’s from the pocket of his coat and lit one.

  ‘I’ll smoke my own,’ I said. At least his famous reputation for meanness with his fags was the same.

  I lit up a Silk Cut and regarded him through the smoke. ‘No more pork pies, then, Jack,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t. I have to pretend to be taking the bloody dog for a walk to get one of them. She even made me salad sandwiches for the train.’

  I had to laugh, and he scowled back at me.

  ‘What’s so bloody funny?’ he demanded.

  ‘You are,’ I replied. ‘Old bad, fat Jack Robber, the scourge of the south London villainati gone health conscious and skinny.’

  He scowled some more. ‘Not so much of the bloody “old”.’

  I held up one hand, thumb down. ‘What’s it like under there, Jack? All hot and sweaty, is it?’

  He ignored my remark. ‘She says it’s for my own good. Her old man was a copper. He retired and dropped dead a month later.’

  ‘That’s the job,’ I said.

  He thought about that one, then said, ‘For Christ’s sake, let’s go for a drink.’

  We adjourned to the pub opposite and I bought us each a pint. His bitter, mine lager.

  When we were seated at a table he said, ‘I hear you’re looking into Harry Stonehouse’s murder.’

  I stopped dead, my lager half-way to my mouth.

  ‘How the fuck do you know about that?’

  ‘I’ve still got my sources and contacts. Worthing isn’t on the moon, you know.’

  ‘Still . . .’

  ‘I knew him,’ said Robber.

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘He was all right. Took the right courses, licked the right arseholes.’

  ‘He retired early and got a good job.’

  ‘S’right. Just what you’d expect really. His career wasn’t fast track enough for him in the Met.’

  ‘Straight?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning that any copper in this town has to look the other way sometimes.’

  ‘Who told you, Jack? About me working on the case, I mean.’

  He grinned evilly, just like the Robber of old. ‘Later,’ he said.

  ‘So what exactly are you doing here today?’

  ‘I hear that you’re not getting much help from the constabulary. I’m going radio rental down by the seaside. I reckoned you could use a little help.’

  ‘You want to work for me?’

  ‘Bollocks, do I. I’ll give you a hand. We split any money you make fifty-fifty. Stonehouse’s missus isn’t short, so I hear. How much has she paid you so far?’

  ‘Later,’ I said, with a grin of my own. ‘This’ll take a bit of getting used to. Know a copper called Philip Bell? DI at Fulham.’

  ‘’Course I do. Little shit. He’s in charge, I believe.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You’ll get
nothing there.’

  ‘And DS Jackson’s in on the plot.’

  ‘That fucker. He never did like you, did he?’

  ‘I stepped on his favourite corns once or twice.’

  ‘You want to be careful where you step. There’s a lot of shit about. Shit that sticks.’

  ‘I’ve had my share, Jack.’

  ‘Don’t I know it. So do you want me to help or not, or are you considering just sitting around your office until some likely lad comes along with a saw and a bundle of black plastic sacks and confesses? Because with all the help you’ll be getting from our ex-colleagues, that’s what’ll have to happen for you to have any chance of getting to the bottom of this little lot.’

  Straight to the point. And perfectly correct.

  ‘But me, I’ve still got mates in the job, and I might be able to shake something loose,’ he went on.

  He knew he had me. ‘Are you thinking about commuting to and fro from Worthing every day then, Jack?’

  ‘Will I bollocks. I told you I’d still got contacts. There’s a little widow keeps a nice clean boarding house on Knight’s Hill. She’s got a room going spare. B&B, use of phone, and something hot on the kitchen table at night if I want.’

  ‘The mind boggles,’ I said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Sounds OK,’ I said.

  ‘So how much did she pay you?’

  ‘You think I couldn’t be doing this for love?’

  ‘I doubt it, though I did hear something once . . .’ He let the words hang for a moment. ‘Just as well Harry didn’t,’ he added.

  ‘A grand,’ I said, changing the subject.

  ‘Give us a monkey, then.’

  The thousand quid had been burning a hole in my pocket since Nancy had come into the office, and I was almost relieved to peel off five hundred and slip it under the table into Robber’s hand.

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘What now?’

  ‘What now is that I’ll go and get my digs sorted. I’ll do a little sniffing around then. Put myself about a bit. I fancy a decent ruby for a change. Meet me in the Star of India in Herne Hill at eight tonight and I’ll bring you up to speed.’

  ‘Whose treat will that be, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Whose do you fucking think?’

  And that was how Jack Robber became my partner.

  I was on time getting to the restaurant. Robber was late. Obviously I was more interested in hearing what he had to say than he was in saying it.

  The place was pretty empty and I got a table for four at the back, and got stuck into a pint of Kingfisher and a couple of poppadoms and the condiment tray.

  I was just coating a quarter of one of the giant crisps with a mixture of chutney, onion, tomato, and mint yogurt when he rolled in.

  He saw me, came over, dropped into the seat opposite me and called for a pint of his own.

  ‘Settled in, Jack?’ I asked through a mouthful of food.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The little widow glad to see you?’

  ‘Delighted.’

  ‘Good. Now maybe you can earn the money I’ve paid you and tell me what you know.’

  ‘Can’t I get my drink in and order first?’

  When his pint was in front of him and he’d gone through the curry card without referring to the menu, and I’d double ordered a couple of his choices, he sat back and looked at me.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Everything. Starting with who told you that Nancy had hired me.’

  ‘Know a bloke called John Hague?’

  I thought about it. ‘Don’t think so,’ I said.

  ‘Super on the murder squad. He’s investigating Harry’s killing.’

  ‘What about Bell?’

  Robber shook his head. ‘Local. He came in when Harry disappeared last year. He’s just holding Fancy Nancy’s hand. Or anything else he can get hold of. Unless of course you’ve beat him to it.’

  I ignored his remark.

  ‘How come you got involved?’

  ‘John’s an old mate. We talk. Naturally, as soon as I read about Harry I got in touch. Then he phoned me yesterday, to tell me that Bell’s got a bee in his bonnet because some tosser of a private detective’s sniffing about the ground. When I heard it was you I nearly bust a gut.’

  ‘And you came straight up. What a pal.’

  Just then the steaming platters of food started arriving from the kitchen and pretty soon the whole table was full of them.

  ‘She must be starving you,’ I remarked as Robber piled up his plate and dived in.

  ‘Nothing like a south London curry,’ he said. ‘They do try down by the seaside, but it ain’t the same.’

  ‘Must be the ambience of this place,’ I said dryly, looking round the shabby interior of the restaurant.

  ‘Dunno,’ he said.

  ‘So come on,’ I said. ‘What’s cooking? Apart from the chicken dhansak.’

  Robber finished his first plate of food in record time and went round for seconds before he spoke.

  ‘Right. Let’s look at it logically.’ He pulled an old envelope from his pocket. There was a spidery scrawl on the back.

  ‘Last October, Harry Stonehouse, who had a good job, a lovely house, a flashy car and an equally flashy wife goes missing. The police are called in but come up against a blank wall.’

  ‘And don’t seem too interested.’

  ‘According to Nancy. Right?’

  I nodded.

  ‘But according to John Hague on the other hand, DI Bell and his associates did a thorough-going job. It’s not illegal to do a runner, you know. Harry left no criminal charges, no debts, no young birds with a bun in the oven or anything embarrassing like that.’

  ‘Hague had to say that,’ I said. ‘He won’t badmouth Bell. You know how the ranks close up.’

  ‘He would to me. He knows what I think of Bell.’

  I left that one. ‘So was there another woman? One he went to, maybe? Nancy says no.’

  ‘She would, wouldn’t she? But I think she’s right. There’s no evidence that he set up a love nest in Paddington or anywhere, and he never touched a penny in any of his bank accounts.’

  ‘Was there one no one knew about?’

  ‘Could be. But once again Nancy told Bell that all monies were accounted for.’

  ‘And he left his passport and papers and his beloved car behind.’

  ‘Passports are easy, Nick. You know that.’

  It was Nick now. The spicy food and beer was mellowing him out.

  ‘So it’s a mystery?’

  ‘But a good one. More about that later.’

  He referred to the envelope again. ‘Now two months ago our Harry starts turning up like a bad penny all over town.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Shocking,’ he said. ‘With a year missing out of his life.’

  ‘So where was he, and are there any suspects in the murder case?’

  ‘You want me to do everything, don’t you?’ said Robber, spearing a succulent piece of king prawn off my plate.

  ‘You copped a monkey this morning, Jack,’ I said. ‘So far I think I could’ve told you what you’ve just told me. And I have to ask myself if you’re worth it.’

  He grinned through gappy teeth and said, ‘Ah. But now it gets interesting.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I phoned up Johnny Hague again today. Told him where I was, and what I was doing, and he shtummed up.’

  ‘More toes being trod on.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He wiped his plate clean with naan bread and loaded it up for a third time. I’d had enough and pushed my plate away and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Come on, then,’ I said. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’

  He took a small piece of something from his mouth, looked at it suspiciously, put it on the side of his plate, chewed, then swallowed, took a mouthful of lager, swallowed that too, and said, ‘Johnny didn’t seem to mind me looking into Harry’s murder. But when I to
ld him we were investigating the lost year he suddenly found he had another engagement.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, you’re not using your loaf, Sharman. I reckon he knows exactly where Harry Stonehouse was for that year, and exactly who killed him.’

  I dogged out my cigarette and waved the waiter over. I ordered two Irish coffees, and when the waiter had gone I said, ‘And what makes you jump to that stunning conclusion so soon into the investigation?’

  ‘I’ve been doing my homework. Earning that monkey you gave me this morning. And by the way I think it’s about time you billed the lady and got some more dough. And I bought you this.’ He fumbled in his overcoat pocket and pulled out a tiny portable phone which he put on the table between us. ‘It’s on line. The number’s here. And all the instructions.’ He went back into his coat, pulled out a small handbook and gave it to me. ‘Sixty minutes free airtime a month. I’ve got one too. Cheap and cheerful. I’ve missed mine since I left the force. I’ll take cash. No kites.’

  ‘A portable fucking phone,’ I said, poking it gingerly with my finger.

  ‘Get into the nineties, son,’ he said. ‘We need to keep in touch.’

  ‘And you expect me to pay for both of them?’

  ‘You’ve got the other monkey. I’ll get the dough in the morning. Now put it away, you’ll have people thinking you’re a yuppie.’

  ‘I thought they were all dead.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I picked up the phone and put it in my pocket and said, ‘So. Homework? Tell me about it.’

  ‘You don’t last as long in the job as I did without knowing where a few bodies are buried, and being owed a few favours. So I phoned a bloke I know at CRO and he went into the SID computer software for me—’

  ‘What’s that?’ I interrupted.

  ‘SID. Systems Intelligence bollocks of some kind. It’s new.’

  ‘And that’s SIB.’

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Yeah? And?’

  ‘And Harry Stonehouse was a target.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I swear.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Up until about a month before he disappeared.’

  ‘Target for what?’

  ‘The blag. The big 4F blag.’