by Mark Timlin
‘And what did you think you’d be doing? Lying on your back and counting spiders’ webs on the ceiling?’
‘Nancy, you’re far too thorough a housekeeper to allow any spiders’ webs in the place and you know it.’
‘A figure of speech.’
‘OK. But you know what I mean.’
‘And you know what I mean.’ Which took the conversation almost full circle.
And then my portable phone rang.
For a quarter of a minute I didn’t know what the hell this strange warbling that came from my chest area was.
‘I didn’t know you had one of those,’ said Nancy
‘Shit, telephone,’ I said, not knowing I had one myself for a moment. And I pulled it out of my inside coat pocket, flipped down the cover and said, ‘Hello.’
‘Robber,’ said Robber. ‘Where are you?’
‘At Mrs Stonehouse’s house.’
‘You’re so formal. Get dressed and get back over here. I’ll meet you in the pub.’ And he cut me off.
I looked at Nancy sadly. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Duty calls.’
‘Another time, then,’ she said, looking disappointed.
‘We’ll see.’ And I put away the phone, picked up the Filofax, pecked Nancy on the cheek and left, feeling half-relieved and half-disappointed.
But that’s human nature.
I assumed Robber meant the pub opposite my office, so I pointed the car back over the river and aimed it down the South Circular. It took me about thirty minutes to get there and I’d been right. Robber was waiting with his nose in a pint and a meat pie smeared with tomato ketchup and mustard half-eaten on a plate in front of him.
‘Didn’t you have enough breakfast?’ I said as I joined him.
‘Lunch,’ he said. ‘Want some? Or have you eaten?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning you know what. What’s between the lovely Nancy’s thighs. Hair pie.’
‘You’re such a gent, Jack,’ I said. ‘But you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m going to get a drink.’
‘Mine’s a best bitter,’ he said.
I got a bitter for him and a lager for myself and went back to the table. ‘So what’s up?’ I asked.
‘I put a few feelers out. The old pal’s act. A name came up. One I know.’
‘Who?’
‘A snout. Not one of mine. Name of Norbert Green. Funny little bugger. Nervous Norbert, they used to call him.’
‘What about him?’
‘Well, apparently, according to this contact of mine—’
‘Inside the force?’ I interrupted.
‘Correct. According to this contact of mine inside the force, Nervous Norbert has been putting it about that he knew something about Harry Stonehouse’s demise.’
‘And your contact has done nothing.’
‘On the contrary. My contact pulled Nervous Norbert in for a chat.’
‘And?’
‘And Norbert denied all knowledge. But my contact is adamant that Norbert was telling another little shit who happens to be my contact’s snout that he did know something.’
‘So?’
‘So Norbert was equally adamant that he doesn’t.’
‘Where did the original conversation take place between these two fine upstanding citizens? Nervous Norbert and this unnamed snout.’
‘In a boozer. Late. A bit of afters.’
‘And all the snouts were having a convention, were they? What’s the pub called? The Green Green Grass of Home?’
Robber gave me a dirty look.
‘So this is the big news,’ I said. ‘This is what you dragged me back here for?’
‘Missing her, are you? And what have you got? Anything?’
‘This,’ I said, taking the Filofax from where it was dragging down the pocket of my jacket and dropping it on the table in front of him. ‘It’s Harry Stonehouse’s.’
‘And there’s me thinking you’d gone all yuppified again. What with the portable phone first and now that.’
I ignored his snide comments. ‘I thought we’d go through it,’ I said. ‘See if there’s any names we recognised.’
‘Good idea. But first I want a little chat with Norbert.’
‘So chat to him.’
‘I want you there too.’
‘Why? I don’t know the geezer.’
‘Because as you so rightly said, I can’t hide behind my warrant any more. And you have a certain look about you, Sharman.’
‘What kind of look?’
‘Something not nice. Something that says you’ll hurt anyone who doesn’t come across with what you want.’
‘And there’s me thinking I had a kind face.’
‘Think again.’
‘So where do we find Norbert?’
‘He used to hang out in a pub called the Angel of Mercy.’
‘Down Peckham Rye.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Delightful. I’ve been there. A right cosy little place. They’d nick a blind man’s guide dog in there for sandwich filling.’
‘Then you should feel right at home. Drink up and we’ll be going.’
We took Robber’s motor down to the Rye. Or should I say his landlady’s. It was a geriatric Sierra that smelled of cat’s piss. ‘Did Tiddles have an accident?’ I said as we pulled away.
‘She hasn’t used it for a bit. It was in the garage with the window open. Some bleeding cat’s been sleeping in it. Keep the window open and it doesn’t notice.’
But even with all the windows down it did, and I lit a cigarette to mask the smell.
‘She doesn’t like smoking in the car.’
‘I don’t like cat’s peeing in the car. Put up some notices.’
We parked in a supermarket car park opposite the boozer twenty minutes later and dodged through the traffic to the door of the saloon bar.
Inside it was dark and smoky with maybe half a dozen fruit machines on the go, the jukebox playing some techno crap and both pool tables in use at the back. There were about thirty people inside getting on the outside of pints. They were all men, and most looked to be just an inch from punching someone out. ‘Great,’ I said to Robber. ‘It’s just like I remembered it.’
We went to the bar and the geezer served us two pints. ‘Norbert been in?’ said Robber.
‘Norbert who?’
‘Norbert Green.’
‘Who wants him?’
‘An old friend.’
‘Don’t know him.’
‘OK,’ said Robber and we went to a vacant table littered with dirty glasses and a full ashtray and sat down.
‘Discreet,’ I said.
‘He’ll be here.’
An hour and two drinks later the door opened and a little geezer who looked like a bookie’s runner came in. The barman brushed imaginary fluff off his shirt sleeve and the runner turned and left.
‘That’s him,’ said Robber. ‘Come on.’
We left our drinks and hit the street. I saw the back of the geezer turning into Woolworth’s and Robber dived down a side street and I went into the shop after Green.
He cut through to the back entrance where Robber was waiting just slightly out of breath. ‘Norbert,’ he was saying as I went through the door after Green. ‘What’s the hurry?’
‘You’ve got the wrong man,’ said Norbert.
‘Sure,’ said Robber. ‘And I’m the queen of the fairies.’
Norbert turned and I caught him by the arm. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Norbert,’ I said. ‘Let’s get a drink.’
The bookie’s runner looked petrified and Robber said, ‘There’s another boozer over there. Come on, I’ll buy you a pint, Norbert.’
This I had to see, and flanking the little guy we went over the road into a pub called the Pit Pony, although in that area it would’ve been better called the Pit Bull.
As a matter of fact, inside it wasn’t too bad, and Robber actually sprung for three drinks, and we took Norbert to a quiet table in a co
rner close to a dead open fire.
‘You must remember me, Norbert,’ said Robber when we were seated and all smoking my fags.
Norbert shook his head.
‘I was afraid of that,’ said Robber. ‘I used to be a copper. Detective Inspector at Gypsy Hill.’
‘Used to be,’ said Norbert.
‘I’m retired now.’
‘So what do you want?’ Norbert again.
‘Harry Stonehouse. Name ring a bell?’
Norbert looked sick and went the colour of yesterday’s rice pudding. He shook his head again.
‘Don’t piss about, son. Me and my pal here don’t appreciate it.’
Norbert looked at me for the first time. I kept my gob zipped.
‘I’m freelance now,’ Robber went on. ‘Me and him work together. He’s an animal.’
I tried to adopt an animal persona, but I didn’t know which one. A squirrel? A lion? An elephant?
Norbert’s hand was trembling as he picked up his glass.
‘See, Norbert,’ said Robber. ‘We have no rules now. No PACE. No tape recorders. We’ll hurt you and enjoy doing it. You do believe me, don’t you?’
Norbert nodded, and I knew we had him.
‘So tell me about Harry Stonehouse. You were going on about him before, weren’t you? Boasting, like.’
‘I don’t know nothing, Mr Robber,’ said Norbert, and now he was shaking all over. Johnny Kidd and the Pirates. Shit. That was oldie but goodie.
‘Bollocks, Norbert,’ said Robber. ‘We’re getting tired of all this shit.’ He nodded in my direction. ‘You want him to take you out to the toilets and chop your balls off or what?’
Me, I thought. I’d no more touch Norbert’s balls than walk barefoot through a vipers’ nest, but I suppose he wasn’t to know that. At least by the look of fear he gave me he didn’t.
‘No, Mr Robber.’
‘So tell us.’
Norbert licked his lips. ‘I know this bloke, he’s a biker. A right nutter. Crazy Larry, they call him.’
Fuck, I thought. Do all these wankers have nicknames?
‘He’s in a gang. Street Shit they call themselves. SS for short. Anyway, he drinks in a boozer over in Croydon. The Deliverance.’
My heart sank. Street Shit. SS. Deliverance. Nightmare time, and I was awake.
‘What about him?’ said Robber.
‘Listen,’ said Norbert pleadingly. ‘I’ll be straight with you. I deal a little blow sometimes. Just as a sideline. I sell it to the gang amongst others. Christ, but they love coke, specially Larry. He’s always trying to find out where my wholesaler is so that the gang can hit him. Anyway, one night we’re all round his place having a little party, and we’ve done about five grams and he gets carried away and starts talking. He told me about this job him and the gang got. Getting rid of this bloke’s body. They were supposed to take it out into the country and burn it. They got paid in coke. But what happened, see, was that they dipped into the product and got blitzed, so in the end all they did was chop him into bits and put him into garbage sacks and dump him wherever they could.’
‘Harry Stonehouse,’ interrupted Robber.
‘It had to be. It was in the papers.’
‘And who paid them?’
Norbert shrugged. ‘Christ, I don’t know. Before he got that far the others shut him up and that was that.’
‘Good Norbert,’ said Robber. ‘Good boy.’
Norbert was as grateful as a whipped dog getting a pat on the head. ‘Is that all?’ he asked.
‘Not quite. Where’s this flat of his at?’
‘On the New Addington estate. In a tower block. They took me there. I was pissed. I don’t know the address.’
‘That’s not so good,’ said Robber.
‘But he’s always in the pub Fridays.’ Today was Thursday.
‘Good,’ said Robber. ‘Excellent, in fact.’
‘How will we recognise this geezer?’ I asked, speaking for the first time since we’d come into the pub.
‘You’ll recognise him all right,’ replied Norbert. ‘They call him Crazy Larry because he said he could jump Tower Bridge on his bike when it was opening.’
I looked at Robber who said, ‘Did he?’
Norbert nodded. ‘But he came a right cropper. His bike hit the lip of the far side of the bridge and he came off. He lost his left hand, so now he wears a false one. It’s painted red. So you’ll know him right away.’
Fucking hell, I thought. Can this get any worse?
‘Terrific,’ I said.
‘You won’t mention my name, will you?’ said Norbert.
‘’Course not,’ said Robber. ‘But, Norbert, I don’t think you’d better tell anyone about this conversation. Especially Crazy Larry.’
‘What conversation?’ Norbert might not be the brightest individual in south London, but he’d been around the block enough times to know a serious threat when one was made, however obliquely. But he had to spoil it. ‘Is it worth something?’ he asked.
Robber smiled. ‘Sure, Norbert,’ he said. ‘It’s worth us not kicking your arse from here to Christmas. Now fuck off before we change our minds.’
Norbert got up and prepared to flee. ‘And lay off the coke, son,’ I said. ‘Too much coke’ll make you even more nervous.’
Norbert nodded and almost ran out of the pub.
Robber and I stayed in the pub with the remains of our drinks. ‘I told you it would start to come together,’ he said as he nicked another of my cigarettes.
‘Mainly down to you, Jack,’ I admitted. ‘I’d never’ve come up with Norbert in a million years.’
‘Perseverance, boy. But it makes me wonder why no one else has.’
‘Bothered, you mean?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Funny, that.’
‘We’ll find out. How do you fancy a noggin in Croydon tomorrow night?’
‘At the Deliverance?’
He nodded.
‘With Crazy Larry with one red hand?’
Another nod.
‘Wonderful. It’ll make my weekend. Did you ever see that film?’ I asked.
‘What film?’
‘Deliverance.’
‘One of my favourites.’
‘In-breeding. It’s kind of like that in some parts of Croydon too.’
‘But can anyone play the banjo?’
I laughed at that.
‘Reckon they’ll try and make us squeal like little piggies?’ he asked after a moment.
‘While they’re giving it to us up the arse, you mean?’
He nodded again.
‘They could try.’
‘Got any handguns, Nick?’
I smiled. ‘A couple.’
‘Ammunition?’
‘Gun’s no good without bullets.’
‘They legal?’
‘Now what do you think?’
‘Untraceable?’
‘Hope so.’
‘Maybe we’d better take one each. We might need some firepower to separate this Crazy Larry joker from the pack.’
‘Suits me. I hate to go drinking unarmed.’
He grinned. ‘You’re a soppy fucker, Nick, you know that?’
‘I try my best.’
‘Let’s go, then. I’ll drop you off.’
‘Cheers. If anyone needs me I’ll be home cleaning my guns.’
When Robber dropped me off at the flat I went upstairs and opened up the little door I’d built into the crawl space under the roof and dug out the two handguns I kept there. One was a Browning 9mm BDA with a fourteen-shot magazine, and the other a six-shot Colt Detective Special revolver with rubber grips. The Colt used to belong to my wife before she was murdered and has great sentimental value. The niner I couldn’t really care less about.
I took them, spare ammunition and extra magazines for the Browning down into my flat. My special bubbah, a Uzi carbine, neatly wrapped in clear plastic, I left behind. That one was for special occasions only.
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I cleaned both weapons, loaded them and two of the extra Browning clips and stashed them away in the springs under the bed. Not the perfect place, but it would do unless an expert spun the place and knew what he or she was looking for.
That evening I had a date with Diane and I drove the Beemer up to town. We’d discovered a pub in Docklands a bit off the beaten track that wasn’t too bad, and just down the road was a decent Thai restaurant.
I was on time and she was late. Pretty much par for the course. When she arrived I was about half-way through a pint and watching a boat chugging down the river that lapped at the outside wall of the pub. Broken cloud filled the sky and the rays of the setting sun splashed through it like the light was solid gold bars.
‘Am I late?’ she asked.
‘No later than usual.’
‘Want a drink?’
‘Another pint, please.’
She went to the bar, and like ninety per cent of the other geezers in the bar I admired the way her body filled the light woollen, navy blue dress she was wearing. As I watched her I felt something slip through my fingers like quicksilver that I’d never be able to collect together again. It wasn’t the first time I’d had that feeling, but I suspected that the times I’d feel it again were strictly numbered.
‘How’s the case going?’ she asked when she sat down.
‘Not bad.’
‘And how’s the lady?’
I felt we were heading into uncharted waters. Or maybe they were being charted as I sat there. ‘Not bad,’ I said again.
‘Fucked her yet?’
‘No,’ I lied.
‘Liar.’
‘No,’ I lied again.
‘Liar.’
‘Is it going to be one of those evenings?’ I asked.
‘What evenings?’
‘When you ask me questions, I answer, you call me a liar and I deny it.’
‘Could be.’
‘Then there’s no point.’
‘To what?’
‘To us being together.’
‘Is that what you think?’
I looked at her, and thought how beautiful she was, and young, and I felt old and hopeless and the dying sun cut into my eyes and I knew that it was my whole life that was slipping away and I could do nothing about it.
Before I could answer, her face softened. ‘Sorry, Nick,’ she said. ‘It’s not a good time of the month for me.’