by Mark Timlin
All the time I’d worn a pair of black leather gloves I’d borrowed from Diane. They were far too small, almost cutting off the circulation, and made my hands sweat bullets. But I didn’t want to leave any prints and they sort of made me feel like Robert Vaughn in The Magnificent Seven. Then I remembered that he was the first one to get killed, which spoiled my mood a little.
I got to Denmark Hill around seven, seven-fifteen, and put the motor in the car park of the Fox on the Hill and went inside for a drink. It was on the other side of the area from the nick and as far as I remembered not a favourite for the coppers who worked there to drink in.
At least I didn’t recognise anyone.
On the way I peeled off the gloves. I didn’t want anyone to remember anything eccentric about me.
I’d bought a paper from a boy risking his life in the traffic on the journey down, and I sat in the pub all evening filling myself with Dutch courage.
A drunken driving charge was the least of my worries right then.
About half an hour before closing time I rescued the motor and drove round to the nick. If young Graham was about, there was a chance he’d go out in time for last orders.
I was in luck. As I sat opposite the station where I could see both the back and front entrances, he came out with an older geezer I didn’t recognise. Probably his DI, unless Graham had gone bent and was in a serious homosexual relationship with a father figure.
Hey, listen. In this life, I’ve found anything is possible.
They got into a Ford Sierra, Graham Jackson taking the wheel, and drove away. I followed. They didn’t go far. Just about a quarter of a mile to a pub called the Standing Man. Graham put the car in the small car park at the rear and they vanished inside. I parked opposite where once again I could see all the bar entrances and waited.
At eleven a battered Vauxhall with a radio aerial arrived and collected the older man. At twenty past the last few punters were ejected and the lights inside were dimmed, but there was no sign of my quarry.
A bit of afters, I thought. You coppers. You’ll be the death of me.
I sat there till sodding 2 a.m. rubbing life into my hands through the thin gloves before the back door opened and Graham Jackson weaved his way across the car park to his motor.
He was alone.
I was close behind. It must’ve been my day for car-jacking. I left the keys in the BMW. Either for the coppers, or so that no one would have to damage the motor if they lifted it.
Jackson found his keys and bent down to locate the door lock.
I moved in behind him and as he opened the driver’s door I clocked him one hard with the butt of the Browning just behind his left ear.
I caught him as he fell and just managed to hold him up long enough to flick up the lock on the back door, open it, and push him inside.
‘There you go, Graham,’ I said to his prone body as I shoved his feet inside and closed the door quietly before taking the keys out of the door where he’d left them. ‘Welcome to your worst-case scenario.’
There’s one good thing about that part of London. You’re never very far from somewhere dark and quiet. I found just the place at the back of a burnt-out row of shops. Maybe the leaseholder couldn’t make the mortgage and did a bit of do-it-yourself remodelling with a petrol can to get the insurance.
And maybe I’m getting cynical in my old age.
I swung the car round, killed the engine, got out of the front, opened the back door and checked Graham Jackson out. He was still in the land of nod and snoring gently. Of course, I was so unprepared I had nothing to tie him up with. So I opened the hatchback of the car and in the splash of light from the high beams I found a piece of what looked like speaker wire and fastened his hands together tightly behind his back. I’d hoped to find some handcuffs, but there’s never a copper about when you need one, so I had to improvise. In the front well of the car was an unopened can of Coke. I sprung the tab and poured the liquid over Graham Jackson’s face. He came awake spluttering and coughing as he almost drowned in the Real Thing.
‘Hello, Graham,’ I said, leaning over from the front seat where I was sitting, the automatic in my hand. ‘How’s the head?’
‘Are you mad?’ he said, shaking sticky stuff off his face. ‘You’re fucking dead.’
‘Oh, please, Graham,’ I replied, poking him on the top lip with the muzzle of the pistol. ‘No threats. I thought we were all friends here. Ex-colleagues exchanging notes. You know the sort of thing.’
‘You’re crazy, man,’ said Graham. ‘Everyone’s looking for you for attempted murder and—’
‘And you found me,’ I interrupted, not really wanting to hear a list of other charges that might be taken into consideration. I didn’t have all night. ‘Or should I say I found you. And from what I’ve been hearing, Graham baby, there might be a few charges with your name attached. What do you say to that?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘The angels are listening, Graham. And if you tell porkies you’ll never get to heaven. How about conspiracy to rob 4F Security?’
That shut him up.
‘Gotcha,’ I said.
‘Bollocks,’ he rasped. ‘You don’t know what you’re on about.’ ‘Pull the other one, Graham, it’s got a bell on it. Philip Bell probably.’
‘You’re full of shit.’
‘Is that any way for you to talk?’ I said. ‘It’s you and me from here on in, pal. The Lone Ranger and Tonto. Mel Gibson and Danny Glover. It’s like Lethal Weapon, The Next Generation. And this here is my lethal weapon.’ I pushed the snub of the automatic up one of his nostrils. ‘And it’s fucking loaded, Graham. And no one knows we’re here. It’s shit or get off the pot time, my old friend. So tell me about that big robbery a while back. And Harry Stonehouse and Tony Lambretta and Uncle Tom Sodding Cobley and all. Because until you do we’re joined at the hip, my old son. And I tell you what, it’s going to be a whole lot more comfortable for me than it is for you. Take my word. Because my word is my bond.’
He looked at me and sneered. ‘Fuck right off,’ was all he said.
‘OK, Graham, I can see we’re going to have to do this the hard way. You still living in that dump in East Dulwich?’
No answer.
‘’Course you are,’ I went on. ‘And still on your own, yeah? No woman’ll have you, will they? Still. You can’t blame them with your personal habits, can you? I think we’ll pop round yours and have a cuppa. What do you say?’
The reply was still silence.
I turned round, started the car and drove the short distance to where Graham Jackson had lived as long as I’d known him. ‘You might as well tell me,’ I said, when I stopped the car outside the small terraced house I remembered from the days when I used to call coppers my mates.
Another blank.
‘No,’ I said. ‘OK. Have it your way.’ And I took the automatic and popped Jackson another one on the noggin. Not hard. Just enough to keep him quiet and occupied whilst I checked.
I took the keys out of the ignition and tried the front door with the Chubb key that was on the ring. It worked. I walked down the short corridor and used the Yale that was also on the fob. That worked too. I crept inside, switching on lights as I went. The place was a tip, smelled a bit like a mouse’s cage and was empty with no signs of more than one occupant. I checked the living room, single bedroom, K & B, and all was serene. Then I went back for Jackson.
The street was empty and he was moaning gently as I wrestled him out of the car and into the house. ‘No noise now, Graham,’ I whispered as we went. ‘Let’s keep this party private.’
I hustled him into the flat and dropped him on the sofa in the living room on top of a pile of newspapers and dirty clothes. ‘Cleaning lady not been in this week?’ I said. But all I got in reply was a particularly nasty word.
I went into the kitchen, damped down a grubby tea towel and took it back to him. I slapped him round the face with it to wake
him up properly, then went through his pockets. Warrant card. Wallet, with a few quid inside, but not enough to even bother nicking it. Cigarettes. Zippo lighter. A few bob in change and a packet of gum. I dropped his stuff on the seat next to him, then perched on the arm of the chair opposite where he was sitting, and said, ‘Come on now, Graham. I haven’t got all night. Tell me all about it.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Graham,’ I said, feigning weariness, which in fact I felt, ‘we’re not writing a book here. We don’t need to pad out the plot for a few more pages. I want the truth, and I want it within the foreseeable future.’
He shook his head.
I changed the subject then. ‘Got any drugs, Graham? It’s getting late and I want to be alert.’
Silence.
‘If I remember rightly you used to always keep a little stash behind your dear old mum’s Bible.’
I stood up, stuck the Browning in my waistband and went to the bookcase. Sure enough, hidden away behind a massive old-fashioned Bible printed in Welsh, was a lacquered box. Inside was some hash and grass, papers and a round black 35mm film canister. ‘Holiday snaps, is it?’ I asked as I twisted the top off the small container. Inside was a quantity of white powder. I licked up a few grains. ‘I thought so,’ I said, pouring some of the stuff into the web of my thumb and hoovering it up. ‘Good gear, Graham,’ I commented as I got a rush. ‘Very good.’
I put the canister down, took the gun out again and sat back on the arm of the chair. ‘Now let’s get serious,’ I said.
‘They’ll miss me at the nick if I don’t turn in,’ Jackson said after a moment or two.
‘You’re on lates, aren’t you?’ I said. ‘And this won’t take that long. I learned a really good game off a mutual friend of ours the other day. I think we should have a go.’
‘What game?’ He looked a little queasy as he said it, and for the first time I think he realised what a spot he was in.
‘It’s called Russian Roulette,’ I said, put the automatic into one pocket and took the Colt out of the other. I popped out the cylinder, removed the four remaining bullets and showed them to Jackson. ‘They’re real,’ I said. Then I lined them up on the sideboard next to me in a row, took one, dropped it into one of the chambers, closed the gun, held back the hammer and spun the cylinder. Then let the hammer back down.
‘You’re fucking mad,’ said Jackson, the words catching in his throat.
‘True,’ I said. ‘Now some people, Graham, would be most scared if I aimed this at their head. But you – no.’ And I pointed the gun at his groin and pulled the trigger.
Graham Jackson pissed his pants as the hammer clicked down on an empty chamber. Just like Larry. He threw himself forward, protecting his private parts as I half cocked the gun again and spun the cylinder, then pulled the hammer all the way back. ‘Want another go?’ I asked.
Jesus, but I was glad the gun hadn’t gone off. But then, not half as glad as Jackson was. Count on it.
‘You bastard,’ he croaked. ‘I’ll get you for this. You’ll go down for ten years by the time I’m finished with you.’
I had to smile. ‘No, Graham,’ I said. ‘Because the way you’re going your bollocks will be bolognaise before I’m finished with you. And I’ll fucking kill you if I have to. No fingerprints. No witnesses, and this gun is untraceable. Think about it.’
And I pulled the trigger again.
That was when he started to cry.
I flipped out the cylinder and put in a second bullet, closed it, spun it, and pulled back the hammer again. ‘Odds are shortening,’ I said.
‘All right. All right,’ he sobbed. ‘I’ll tell you.’
‘That’s better,’ I said.
‘Will you untie me?’
‘No chance.’
‘Look, this is embarrassing.’
‘The more embarrassed you are the better, Graham,’ I said, picking up the tea towel and wiping the snot off his face. ‘And the sooner you get all this off your chest the quicker you can get a pair of clean strides on.’
I pushed him upright and pulled the chair I was sitting on closer. ‘Now come on, son,’ I said. ‘Tell me all.’
‘Philip Bell was after Stonehouse from the day the robbery went down,’ he explained. ‘He knew that Stonehouse had used the information from 4F to set up the blag. He just knew. You know what I mean?’
I nodded. Sure I knew. Call it hunch or intuition or whatever you want. Good coppers always have it. Bad coppers don’t even know it exists. They call it luck. Bollocks to luck, I say. You make your own luck in this life.
‘We were mates,’ Graham went on. ‘I wasn’t working on the case officially, but me and Phil would meet up for a drink and talk about it. Know what I mean?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I know exactly what you mean.’
‘Then one night Philip says, “What would you do if we got hold of that money and no one knew?” Me, I says keep it, and that was that really. After that we worked together on breaking Harry Stonehouse down.’
‘And you succeeded.’
‘In the end. We got him to grass on the players that he knew about.’
‘But not the bosses. The planners.’
‘Not the real boss.’
‘Tony Lambretta.’
‘That’s the one. Bastard.’
‘But you got the money out of Harry.’
‘Yeah. We got the money. Or most of it.’
‘How much?’
‘About fifteen million in cash. The rest had already been sorted out between them.’
‘And where is it now?’
He hesitated, and I could see conflicting emotions racing across his face.
‘Graham,’ I said, hefting the pistol.
‘All right, all right. It’s in a container at a storage place in Croydon. Purley Way. Know it?’
‘I know it. What’s the deal there?’
‘It’s open twenty-four hours. It’s got security. The usual.’
‘Cheers, Graham. That wasn’t all that hard, was it?’
‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked.
‘Take a share, Graham. That’s all,’ I lied. ‘Just a share for me and Robber and Nancy Stonehouse.’
‘That fucking bike.’
‘You been there too, Graham?’ I said. ‘How nice. That makes all of us, doesn’t it?’
‘You’re not going to take it all?’
I shook my head. ‘But tell me, Graham,’ I said. ‘How come Harry ended up like he did?’
‘Don’t ask me. He was stuck into a witness protection scheme. New identity, the lot. He ended up down in Bristol. He had a decent place, money. Everything. Then the silly fucker blew it somehow and ended up dead.’
‘Was he due a cut of the profits you and Bell were going to share?’
‘’Course he was. Philip was going to take an early retirement next year. Start up his own security firm which he could use to launder the dough. Then he was going to offer me a job and I’d leave the force.’
‘That’s nice,’ I said. ‘A security firm run on bent money. Talk about setting thieves to catch thieves. Or murderers as it turns out.’
‘You don’t think we done for Harry, do you?’ said Jackson, so full of injured innocence it almost made me puke.
‘No, I don’t as a matter of fact, Graham. I know exactly who done for Harry and who dumped him all over London town.’
‘Lambretta,’ said Jackson.
‘It doesn’t take a genius to work it out. The only thing I want to know is who sold Harry out to him? Now that could’ve been you. Or Philip. Or both of you.’
‘Why should we bother?’ he said. ‘Everything was sweet. Why spoil it?’
‘How the fuck should I know? Why do people like you do anything? Maybe one of you just fancied a bigger share. But that’s irrelevant. Let me tell you what’s going to happen now.’
‘What?’
‘You say you’ve got access to the storage place where the money is twenty
-four hours.’
‘Yeah.’
‘But not much goes on at night?’
‘Not a lot’
‘Right, then,’ I said. ‘Tonight.’ I looked at my watch. It was nearly half-three. ‘In exactly twenty-four hours’ time, three-thirty tomorrow morning, you, me and Philip Bell are going to meet down in Purley. We go in. I take my share and leave. Simple as that.’
I could see his devious little mind working behind his blue eyes.
‘But before you get any bright ideas, I’m going to make sure enough people know about the meet, so that if anything happens to me – like f’r’instance I just vanish into thin air – someone will come looking. Get me?’
‘But—’
‘No buts,’ I interrupted. ‘The people I tell will have no idea what’s really happening. Just some names and a place. But I will make sure that if I don’t show up again, full details of what’s been happening will end up on the Commissioner’s desk. Do I make myself clear?’
Jackson nodded.
‘It makes sense, Graham. I’m not greedy. I just want something to make the last few days worthwhile. You’ll have plenty left to start up your security firm, or retire to Montserrat if that’s your pleasure. I ain’t gonna grass you up. It wouldn’t make sense. So get hold of Bell and I’ll see you down the storage place tomorrow morning.’
I could still see his evil little mind working.
‘And Graham,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Don’t even think about moving the gear and being here all safely tucked up in bed while I’m standing outside the storage place like a lemon. Because I’ll come and find you. That’s a promise. And I bet you’ve read everything there is to read about me. You know I mean it, don’t you?’
He nodded.
‘Because I’m like a bad dream to you, Graham. See, I don’t give a flying fuck about anything these days. Not a thing.’