by Mark Timlin
‘Man,’ he said. ‘I don‘t believe this. How are Rita’s kids?’
‘Jacey and Little Gloria? Doing well. Learning their ABC’s and being polite. They’re in the nativity play this year.’
‘Well fuck me,’ said Arnold. ‘Buy this man a drink. What can we do for you?’
‘Well, as it goes,’ I said. ‘I need a gun.’
12
Now, that was a conversation stopper if ever I heard one. ‘Do what?’ said the biggest bloke.
‘A gun,’ I repeated.
‘What you want a piece for?’ asked Arnold.
‘Personal protection. Someone in my family has problems.’
‘What kind of problems?’ The big bloke again.
‘Bad ones. She’s in big trouble.’
‘She?’ said Arnold.
‘My daughter. She’s a copper. I used to be.’
‘Told ya,’ said the other bloke who hadn’t spoken so far.
‘And why us?’ asked the big bloke. ‘We look like we’ve got guns?’
‘I took a chance.’
‘You sure did. We nearly caned you.’
‘My lucky day.’
‘You can say that again,’ said Arnold. ‘But if you’re setting us up... .’ He didn’t finish.
‘If I set you up, I set myself up.’
‘And why should we help five-oh?’
‘I’d help Gloria, or Rita, or two dozen other people on the island. They took me in and didn’t ask questions.’
‘Constable Yapp still there?’ asked Arnold.
‘Inspector Yapp,’ I corrected him. ‘He’s coming up for retirement. I have a drink with him now and then.’
‘Jesus. I went to visit once and he chased me for stealing pineapples.’
‘Did he catch you?’ I asked.
‘The hell he did. I was fast in them days. But he got me later.’
‘It’s a small place. What did he do?’
‘Boxed my ears.’
‘Sounds about right.’
We all laughed, even the silent one.
‘So what’s your name man?’ asked the big bloke.
‘Jim,’ I replied, and stuck out my hand.
He took it after a moment. ‘Skin,’ he said. ‘Latimer.’ He nodded at the silent one. ‘What do you reckon boys?’
‘How much dough you got?’ said Arnold, and I figured I was in. Or else they were going to rob me, kill me, and dump me in the River Lea.
13
After that, we took more drinks over to a quiet table and got down to business. ‘What kind of gun do you
want?’ asked Skin.
‘Not some east Europe knockoff. A forty five’s my favourite. A real frightener.’
‘Glock?’
‘Or Colt. 1911. I’m used to them.’
‘Seven shots man,’ he said with a sneer.
‘I like ’em. Anyway, I don’t intend to kill more than seven people at once.’
‘You sure of yourself,’ said Arnold. ‘You ever killed anyone?’
I didn’t answer.
‘Reckon he has,’ said Latimer. ‘Why else he hiding out in that little place?’
‘Who said I was in hiding?’ I said.
He shrugged. He didn’t say much, but I knew he’d sussed me out.
‘OK, OK,’ said Skin. ‘Who cares. You want a 1911, we get you one. Not something I’d use, but it’s your arse.’
‘Plus ammo?’
‘Not much good without. A box of fifty do you?’
‘For now.’
‘Man’s ambitious,’ said Arnold, and we all laughed like old mates.
‘How much?’ I asked. This was going to be the tricky part. Maybe they had access to weapons, and maybe not. Three against one. Bad odds, and I wasn’t getting any younger.
‘A monkey,’ said Skin.
‘That’s a lot,’ I replied. Maybe, maybe not. I was out of touch.
‘It’s not fucking Tesco,’ he said. ‘Take it or leave it. We’ve got places to be, ladies to see.’
‘When?’
‘Right now. You give us the cash, we go and get the goods.’
‘And I sit here and wait?’
‘The man don’t trust us,’ said Skin.
‘Sure I do,’ I said. ‘But you know...’
‘Let him be,’ said Arnold. ‘I’ll stick around. He can tell me all about Granny Gloria and Auntie Rita.’
‘And the bloke who bitch slapped you,’ said Latimer with a big grin.
‘Yeah. And him too,’ said Arnold. ‘But it was years ago man.’
So that was it. Job done.
‘Cash,’ said Skin.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I said, getting up and heading for the gents. If they followed me and gave me a kicking, they’d be a grand richer. Which was exactly how much I had down my Calvins.
But they didn’t. I found a noxious stall without a lock, pulled out my wallet, separated five hundred quid from my stash and went back to the table. I slipped the money into Skin’s hand, and he and Latimer left.
I bought Arnold a drink and regaled him with tales of the island. What a pleasant evening it was turning out to be.
It would be the last for quite a while.
14
Skin and Latimer were back within half an hour. Skin was carrying a heavy looking Sainsbury’s carrier bag. Well, he had said it wasn’t Tesco. He handed it over and I peered inside. There was a box of .45 calibre full metal jackets and a battered looking Colt 1911A. ‘I’ll have to have a squint,’ I said.
He shrugged, and once again I headed for the gents. I stood in the stall with my back against the door and hauled out the pistol. I worked the action that seemed smooth, peered down the barrel that was dusty but clear, dropped out the empty magazine and tested the spring, which was good and firm, fiddled with the safeties until I was satisfied. The blueing was worn off the barrel and the grips were discoloured, but it wasn’t in a beauty contest, so I put it back in the bag and returned to the bar. ‘Looks OK,’ I said. ‘History?’
‘Don’t worry man,’ said Skin. ‘If you get nicked with that you’ll go down, history or no history.’
He was right about that for sure, but I didn’t intend to be nicked with or without the gun. ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Listen, I’m going to split. Things to do, ladies to see.’
‘Pleasure,’ said Skin. ‘Anytime. They know us here. If you need anything, just come by.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ I said, and with a tip to an imaginary hat, and a Merry Christmas all round, I left.
I walked away fast, then saw a cab by the station, hailed it and asked for Marble Arch. The ride was swift and I walked down to the hotel, went to my room, field stripped the gun, cleaned it as best I could and loaded the magazine. The gun was old but someone had cared for it pretty well. It was oiled and the action worked nicely. I stored it in my leather bag under the stiffener at the bottom, emptied the ammo box into the plastic bag, which went next to the gun, tore the box into tiny pieces and went for an evening stroll, discarding the bits in drains and skips as I went. I returned to the hotel for an expensive tot of Glenfiddich in the almost deserted bar and went to bed, well satisfied.
15
At six am, my phone went off, lighting up the ceiling like a UFO ready for take off. I scrambled for the instrument on top of the cupboard next to my bed and said, ‘Yes?’
‘Dad it’s me,’ said Judith.
Just as well I thought, as she was the only person with the number. ‘I’ve been arrested.’
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘Where are you?’
‘They bailed me. I’m in Aldgate.’
‘What charge?’
‘So far, perversion of the course of justice.’
‘Not murder?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Bugger Oxford,’ I said. ‘We have to meet. Now.’
‘OK. Where?’
I switched on a light and looked at my watch. Like I said, six in the morning. ‘Go to Canary Wharf,’ I said. ‘You’re close. Early risers there, or they used to be. There’ll be some cafés open at this time. Find one, get some coffee and bell me. I’ll be in a cab. Give me an hour.’
‘OK Dad, and thanks.’
I rushed a wash, got dressed in my leather jacket and jeans and headed out. There were cabs on the rank outside, but I turned round and headed up Park Lane. At Marble Arch I hailed a blackie and we shot off east. I had my loaded Colt in my trousers – you never know who you’re going to meet on a Monday morning.
Halfway there I got a call and Judith told me where she was. A little coffee shop close to Marks & Sparks. I told her I’d be there directly.
I found the place with a bit of trouble. As I’d seen from the window of the plane, the place had expanded fast since I’d skipped town, with a tube station that hadn’t existed when I’d left. Nor had the branch of Marks & Spencers for that matter. At close to seven in the morning the place was already buzzing and I felt anonymous as I battled the early morning crowds, even though I was hardly dressed for business. At least, the kind of business these faceless suits understood.
Judith was sitting in the back of the café, staring into an empty coffee cup. I got one for myself. Large cappuccino. ‘How you doing?’ I asked when I sat down. Stupid question.
‘Crap.’
‘Now you’ve been nicked they can search your place,’ I said.
‘Already in hand. Probably finished by now.’
‘Anything worth finding?’
‘Like what?’ There was fire in her eyes. That was good.
‘Weapons, stolen property. Soft porn. Christ, I don’t know.’
‘No Dad. I’m not you. But you can bet my knicker drawers had a good going over. Always nice to know what the boss might be wearing underneath.’
‘But you’re not the boss at the moment.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Right. Tell me more about the geezer who died.’
‘You know his name. Tommy Campbell. Little Scrote. Nicked him for receiving. He’d been at it for years. Recruited him as an informant. Simple.’
‘A pro,’ I said.
‘Career criminal.’
‘Right. Where’d he live?’
She gave me an address in Holloway.
‘Time for a visit, I think,’ I said.
‘The place has been searched Dad. He was killed there.’
I shrugged and drank some coffee. ‘There’s always room for a fresh pair of eyes. And I’m starving. Fancy a bacon sandwich?’
16
Judith wanted to drive me to Holloway, but I said no. ‘The less we’re together the better,’ I said. Anyway, there were things I needed.
On the way out of Canary Wharf I found an upmarket gent’s outfitter catering to the business set. It had just exactly what I wanted. A leather hat, sheepskin-lined, with ear flaps that fastened under the chin – I was fed up with the biting London wind. I caught the tube, and changed once to get to Holloway Road. In a newsagent next to the station I bought an A-Z to find the address of the flat, and on the way I struck lucky again. On the main drag there was an old fashioned ironmongers. Just the job. Maybe the gods were looking down on me and smiling. I purchased four items in the shop. A short crowbar painted black with a red tip, a length of thin metal that would work as a slim jim, a heavy screwdriver with a flat blade and one other thing. I didn’t know if I’d need it – but it’s better to be safe than sorry I’ve discovered.
It was raining when I left the shop, which was also a good sign. Keep the streets clear and keep me anonymous. I pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt over the hat and followed the directions I found in the map book.
The address was a small block of what once had been council flats, but now had a couple of For Sale notices outside. The building sat back behind a short tarmac drive with a low brick wall in front. The street itself was lined with trees, and the pedestrian traffic was light. Schools were on holiday, and by the time I got there most people had left for work, with some kids playing on the scrubby bit of grass outside the flats. The front door had been fitted with locks and a key pad, so I lit a cigarette, stood under a tree opposite and waited for someone to enter or leave. Fifteen minutes later a young mum appeared on the other side of the door with a buggy and started to struggle to get it and herself out. I was over the road smartish and held the door for her. ‘Bit of work for Thompson’s,’ I said holding up the bag of tools. Thompson’s was the name of one of the agents on the boards. I just hoped it wasn’t her flat they were selling.
Obviously not, as she smiled distractedly as junior let out a howl. I slipped through the open door and watched as she walked down the drive without a backward glance. Campbell’s flat was on the first floor of three. There was yellow crime scene tape covering the door. I tried my slim jim, but the door had been double locked. Shit, I thought. Here goes nothing, and I slammed the heel of my right shoe between the keyholes at the door’s weakest point. The sound echoed down the corridor, but the door gave a little. One more kick and it burst open. I listened, but no one seemed interested in what I was doing so in I went, door closed behind me.
It was a small flat. One bedroom, bath/toilet, kitchen and living room. Every surface was covered with fingerprint powder and there was a nasty, dark brown stain on the living room carpet with blood splatter up one wall. Shot in the head just like Judith had told me. There was a rotten smell in the dead, cold air and I shivered involuntarily.
The place had certainly been turned over, but even experts missed things, as I knew very well. Like Judith had intimated, I’d always had something to hide in the old days and knew my business. I pulled up the edge of the carpet. Concrete floors, so no floorboards to tear up. The stereo had been pulled apart, same for the TV. The radiator in the room was solidly attached to the wall with no give. I went into the bedroom. The bed had been tipped over and the mattress was bare. On the floor was a pile of magazines. I flicked through them. All contained pictures of young men in provocative poses. Campbell was gay. Interesting. Judith hadn’t mentioned that.
I checked the built-in wardrobe. Clothes on the floor, and when I tapped the back it was solid.
Next, the kitchen. The fridge was empty, doors open and pulled out from the wall. Freezer drawer as well. Too obvious. Every cop show in the world had stuff in the freezer. The oven and grill were empty too, and solid at the back. Next I went under the sink. The usual clutter, then I saw the stop cock for the water. It was black with corrosion, but when I tried it, it turned smoothly. Gotcha, I thought. Even with concrete floors you wouldn’t want to flood the place. I turned it tight, then ran the water in the sink until it slowed to a few drips and headed for the bathroom. The painted plywood panel round the bath had been tugged off, and when I got down there was nothing underneath. The lid of the cistern had been removed and left on top of the toilet bowl, but when I put the crowbar behind the cistern it popped out smoothly about ten inches supported by the pipe. At the back were a couple of loose bricks, and behind them a neat little hidey hole. Inside were four plastic bags being used to keep the contents from the damp. I pulled them out. Bag one contained a little .22 revolver fully loaded. Bag two, six more bullets. Bag three, a pile of bank notes. A couple of grand I reckoned. Bag four, a little silver piece of plastic with some kind of electrical fitting at one end. It was a mystery to me, but I was sure Judith would know what it was.
I put the stuff in the carrier bag I’d got from the hardware shop, replaced the bricks and pushed the cistern back and made to leave, until I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. A flash of colour against the wall. I went to the living room window and peered out, just in time to see a police squad car pul
l up on the drive, blues going but no siren, and two coppers visible behind the windscreen wipers. Shit, I thought. Someone had heard me. I wasn’t really surprised. I had made myself pretty much at home after all. I went into the bedroom and looked over the back of the flats. There was a small car park with a couple of motors on the hard standing. No sign of life though. Not even a pussy cat looking for love in the drizzle.
I pushed open the hinged window and stuck my head out. There was a drainpipe a couple of feet away, so I hung the bag of swag on my wrist, and swung myself over. With what I had bought from the hardware shop I was certainly going prepared. And what with everything else, going prepared for a long prison sentence I reckoned. Christ, I was getting too old for this lark.
I pulled myself over and hung for a second. The paint was thick and old and dried to sharp edges and I was glad I was wearing gloves, otherwise I’d have taken the skin off my hands. Then as the pipe took my full weight, I heard as much as saw the bolts attaching it to the wall start to pull free. Thank Christ it wasn’t a tower block. I shimmied down as fast as I could manage, and dropped the last few feet, brushed myself off and headed for the front of the flats. I peered round the corner of the building just in time to see the front door slam behind the cops. Someone had let them in. I walked close to the wall and away, strolling back towards the main road in the rain to try and find a cab, with what Tommy Campbell had needed to keep secret even after his death. I wondered who he’d been and why someone had wanted him dead.
PART TWO
17
Tommy Campbell had never been a big man. A bit of a runt really, which had upset his father – who had been a big man. A big, violent man, who liked to get a bit fisty with Tommy’s mum and Tommy himself. Tommy had never been a brave man either. But he’d been slippery all his life. Had to have been with a father like his. Learnt early when to keep out of sight. Vanish into the crowd. Not to be noticed. It had saved him a lot of grief, and had been invaluable in his career as a D-List criminal. The bravest thing he’d ever done was to have come out to his mother and father when he was eighteen. Stupidest too, as his father had gone into one and chucked Tommy out of their flat, and chucked his possessions after him. Tommy didn‘t bother to pick them up. He’d never gone back. Didn’t know if his mum and dad were still living there, or indeed if they were living or dead. Didn’t care either. Waste of space, both of them. In fact he’d enjoyed the looks on their faces when he told them he was gay. Gay, that was a laugh for a teenager on a tough estate in Leytonstone in the nineteen eighties. But, like everywhere else he’d lived since, there was a gay underground. Nods and winks. Music, clothes, pubs. Not that it was so necessary in the new millennium, but there was still prejudice, even though half the people he read about in the red-tops were as gay as tangerines these days. And those that weren’t, wanted to look like they were.