The Turnaround

by Mark Timlin

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘All right. Now what about the house?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘What have you done with it?’

  ‘It’s locked up.’

  ‘Empty?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Who does it belong to?’

  ‘Me. Everything passed to me by default. There was no other family. I was going to put the house up for sale but the estate agent said we should leave it until people began to forget. It’s not exactly a selling point, and a bunch of ghouls would pretend to be interested just to get a look inside.’

  ‘Was it paid for?’

  ‘No. But there was insurance. You know, linked to the mortgage. That paid off the building society.’

  ‘No other insurance?’

  ‘No. David cashed those in.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not long before. When the business was first in trouble.’

  ‘And you didn’t need the proceeds from selling the house to pay off the bank loan on the business?’

  ‘I’m not short, I told you that.’

  Obviously, I thought. ‘So you just left it?’

  He nodded. ‘And then someone broke in.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About two months after the murders.’

  ‘What did they get?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. I didn’t, but maybe it was important, or maybe it was some of Webb’s ghouls looking for kicks.

  ‘What did they do?’

  ‘Turned the place over. Made a mess. I had to go and clear it up myself. My wife won’t go there.’

  I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to going myself. But I knew I’d have to. ‘Have you got a spare set of keys?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can I borrow them?’

  ‘You want to go there?’

  I nodded. ‘Visit the scene of the crime. Get some atmosphere.’

  He didn’t look too happy about that.

  ‘I’m not going for fun,’ I said.

  ‘All right,’ he said. He took a large bunch of keys out of the pocket of his coat, split off a ring with four keys on it, and passed them to me. ‘The gates are padlocked. The front door’s got a Yale and a Chubb lock.’

  ‘Are the alarms on?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Chubb.’

  ‘Were they on when the place got done?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The police were in and out for weeks. I never bothered.’

  ‘But you do now?’

  He nodded again. ‘Not that there’s anything worth stealing.’

  ‘But just in case.’

  ‘Yes. If the police want to go in now, they have to make an appointment. Not that they ever do,’ he added bitterly.

  ‘How do the alarms work?’

  ‘Simple. From the moment you turn the main key in the front door – the Chubb – a buzzer sounds. Then you’ve got thirty seconds to punch the number code on the key pad just inside the door. On the right,’ he added. ‘On the way out you push the “set” button, the buzzer sounds again and you’ve got thirty seconds to turn the key and lock the door.’

  ‘I’ll sort it out,’ I said. ‘Give me the numbers.’

  ‘I’ll come with you if you like.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’d rather go alone. I work better that way.’

  He nodded and took a notebook out of his pocket and wrote down a series of numbers, tore out the page and gave it to me. I glanced at it and put it in my pocket. ‘I’ll go in the morning,’ I said.

  ‘Why not today?’

  ‘There’s one more condition to taking the case,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I do it my way or not at all.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry, it’s just…’

  ‘I need to talk to people first,’ I said. ‘Get some idea of what’s happened in the past fourteen months, and if possible before. Besides, what’s another day matter?’

  ‘You’re right. Do you want another drink?’

  I nodded and he went to the bar. When he got back I said, ‘What do you do, Jim?’

  ‘It says company director on my passport.’

  ‘What kind of company?’

  ‘Companies. All sorts. Import-export, buying and selling. Anything that’ll turn a profit. I’ve been successful. I was a boxer.’ He touched his nose self-consciously. ‘Not a very good one, but I had a good manager. He taught me to hold on to my money. It was him started me off. Sports gear. Then skateboards about fifteen years ago. We made a killing and got out before the bottom dropped out of the market. But I kept importing the clothes. I was one of the very first people to bring American trainers into this country. They became fashionable, I coined it.’

  ‘Nice,’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘Like I told you, it don’t mean nothing to me now.’

  We sipped at our drinks for something to do apart from talk about death again. ‘What now?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m going to think. You get back to your life. Leave this to me, all right?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Give me your number before you go,’ I said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  He gave me a pasteboard card with phone number and an address in Crystal Palace printed on it in discreet gold lettering. ‘I mostly work from home now,’ he said. ‘You’ll usually get me there.’

  I had a feeling he didn’t do much but sit around the house all day thinking about his sister and her family. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll remember that.’

  We drank up and left. He was driving a dark blue Daimler with a current registration. Not bad. He sounded the horn as he drove off. I went back to the office and made some more tea.

  3

  I put on the TV again. Then shook my head, switched it off and telephoned Gipsy Hill police station. ‘Police,’ said a voice.

  ‘Is Inspector Robber there?’

  ‘Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Nick Sharman.’

  ‘Concerning?’

  ‘Personal,’ I said.

  I was put through. ‘Robber,’ said a gruff voice.

  ‘My name’s Sharman,’ I said. ‘Nick Sharman.’

  ‘The Nick Sharman?’

  ‘The only one I know.’

  ‘I am honoured,’ he said. ‘What’s up? Do you want a couple of tickets to the policeman’s ball?’ And he laughed an ugly laugh.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘James Webb has hired me to look into the murder of his brother-in-law and his family.’

  There was a long pause. He obviously wished I had. ‘You’re wasting your bloody time,’ said Robber. ‘And mine.’

  ‘Maybe so. But I wonder if we could meet?’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve, Sharman. I’ll say that for you.’ He paused again. ‘Well, maybe. I’ve always wanted to meet someone who can kill a copper and get away with it.’

  I said nothing in reply.

  ‘Do you know The Three Hens at Crystal Palace?’ he asked.

  ‘The Bucket of Blood, you mean,’ I said.

  ‘You do know it. I’ll be in the back bar at eight.’

  ‘I’ll see you then,’ I said and put down the phone.

  Oh Christ, I thought, The Three Hens. It was famous for being about the most horrible pub in an area where horrible pubs were the norm. A heavy metal and strippers pub that had closed down, changed hands, been refurbished and made more come-backs than Frank Sinatra.

  I parked my car about three streets away from the pub at 7.45. I didn’t want the Jag anywhere near the place. Some of the punters at The Hens would have had it stripped down and in the Middle East by breakfast time.

  I wore old jeans, an older leather jacket, a denim shirt and running shoes in case I had to beat a quick retreat. I took no wallet or ID, just a few fivers in the watch pocket of my jeans, a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. I zipped my car
keys into one of the pockets of my jacket and I was ready. The pub was at the end of a narrow street and the car park looked down Anerley Hill. Not that anyone used the car park. Not for parking cars anyway. The street was deserted and deathly quiet, and the sodium lamps sizzled audibly in the damp air. There were half a dozen big motor bikes lined up at the kerb outside the boozer like guards.

  I went through the first door I came to, pushed aside a set of heavy velvet curtains and got hit over the head with a blast of Bohemian Rhapsody at top volume. The place was packed with leather jackets, jeans, Spandex leggings, boots and hair. Lots of hair. Flat tops, long curls, ponytails and bouffants. There was a drum kit with enough cymbals to ring in the second coming on a high stage in one corner. In front of the stage was a smaller one and on it was a hard-faced momma dressed in high-heeled red shoes, stockings, suspenders and half a basque. The rest of the basque was hanging down exposing spectacular, if rather droopy, breasts with big brown nipples. I imagined she was about the age of most of the average punters’ mothers. I felt sorry for her parading that tired old flesh for the umpteenth time. I knew how I’d feel.

  There was a geezer with more barnet than enough in a leather suit spinning records to one side of the larger stage. He segued from Queen to Metallica with a flick of his wrist. The stripper threatened to expose more cellulite and I made for a sign that read BACK BAR followed by an arrow. It was a bit quieter in there, but not much. The bar contained a CD jukebox and Jon Bon Jovi was giving it plenty through speakers the size of small packing cases. I pushed through the crowd to where there was a clear gap of four feet or more in front of a round table and two chairs. One of the chairs was occupied by a big, grey-haired geezer in a dirty tan mac. He was drinking a pint and chewing on a pork pie as if he was alone in the snug of a quiet country pub and Bon Jovi was just a dream. I went over to him. ‘Mr Robber?’ I said.

  ‘Sharman?’

  I nodded.

  He pointed at his glass. ‘Pint of John Smith’s.’

  I pushed back through the crowd to the bar. ‘A pint of Smith’s and what bottled beer you got?’ I’d seen the state of the pots in the pub before, but if you asked for a clean glass they thought you were a cissy.

  ‘Becks, Heineken,’ said the barman.

  ‘Becks,’ I said. ‘No glass.’

  ‘No glass, no beer, mate,’ he said with a sneer.

  ‘All right,’ I said, and watched him pour the liquid from the bottle into a cloudy glass. I took Robber’s and my drink back to the table. He’d finished his pie. There were crumbs and a cellophane wrapper on the table. He swept them to the floor with his hand and finished the drink in front of him with one swallow.

  I sat down and lit a cigarette and he snapped his fingers at me until I offered him one. Endearing trait, that.

  ‘Your local?’ I asked.

  ‘What do you think?’

  I looked at the backs of the people in the bar. ‘Friendly,’ I said.

  ‘They don’t want to come too close in case some of the policeman rubs off.’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ I said.

  ‘Do you fuck,’ he said back and pointed a dirty, fat finger at me. ‘Don’t talk about the job to me. You’ve given up the right.’ He was well pissed off and I could hardly blame him.

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Can we talk about the Kellerman case then?’

  ‘I told you, you’re wasting your time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, you stupid sod, if we couldn’t find out who killed the poor bastards, how the hell do you think you can?’

  I shrugged. The collar on his shirt was rimed with black, and his tie was stringy and worn through to the lining where it had been tied too many times. I wondered what he did with his money. He was on a good screw as a DI. Booze, fags and pork pies, I supposed. He probably had to pay for sex though. I don’t know why that suddenly occurred to me.

  ‘I could use some help,’ I said.

  It’s at that point, on TV, that the kind copper hands the handsome PI the police files and tells him, with a wink, not to get caught looking at them. Smiles are exchanged and you just know that it will all work out in the end. Some fat chance, I thought. He never said a word.

  ‘Listen, Mr Robber,’ I said, ‘I just want to know what happened.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  I sighed and sipped at my glass at the opposite side to a smear of pale pink lipstick. It wasn’t my shade. The jukebox began to churn out Poison doing some ripped off twelve-bar blues. I tried again. ‘Why do you think they were killed?’ I asked.

  He drank more beer, took another of my cigarettes and decided to relent a little. ‘Same reasons as always,’ he said. ‘Sex or money, or both.’

  ‘And in this case?’

  He shook his head. ‘We couldn’t find a thing.’

  ‘He was going broke, wasn’t he?’

  Robber nodded.

  ‘Was he into a shark?’

  ‘He didn’t need to be. He had good credit.’

  ‘He was paying a lot of interest.’

  ‘Him and a million other businessmen. It’s a hard world out there. He was making do. Maybe he wouldn’t have lasted a lot longer, who knows? But there didn’t seem to be any other debts. Not that we could find. And we’re pretty thorough as you know.’

  ‘So if not money,’ I said, ‘sex then? Was he having it off? Or her?’ I added.

  ‘If one of them was, he or she was doing a good job of keeping it dark.’

  ‘How about at work? His secretary? I imagine he had one.’

  ‘He did, but not her. She’s a raspberry ripple. Funny little thing, all twisted up and in a wheelchair. Stupid too. Fucking spastics.’

  Jesus, but Robber was a depressing sod. Spastics, cripples, poofs, wogs, wops, women… I knew his sort. Anyone to insult and look down on. Iranians, Albanians, niggers, Pakis… just so he could feel good in his own bloody misery. What he didn’t realise was that we’re all shit in the same gutter. Ah, but some of us are looking at the stars.

  ‘What was her name?’ I asked.

  ‘Natalie, Natalie Hooper. But I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time there.’

  I was beginning to get a headache. ‘Why didn’t one of them use the panic button they had in the room?’

  ‘Because they must have known the people who killed them.’

  ‘But they bust the door down to get in.’

  ‘Did they?’

  ‘So maybe they didn’t?’ I said.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So you think they actually let them in through the front door?’

  ‘They might have.’

  He wasn’t giving much away and my headache was getting worse. But at least he was talking. So I kept on, ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘No footprints in the garden. It was damp weather, though not actually raining. No mud on the carpet. Then they went out the front way. One set of gates to the drive were wide open. We found two or three sets of tyre tracks on the drive that didn’t match the Kellerman cars or any cars that belong to regular visitors. The Kellermans didn’t use the panic button, nor did the kids. But we know they knew how. In fact, it’s possible they killed the kids first. I reckon they wanted something from the Kellermans they didn’t get. Someone came back later and spun the drum. It all adds up.’

  ‘Yeah, but you don’t know…’

  Then he remembered who he was and who I was. ‘I don’t know much, Sharman,’ he said. ‘But I do know I’ve had it up to here with you. I’ve already told you more than I should and I’m tired. I’ve had enough of being a policeman today.’

  The beat from the jukebox was relentless and thumped around the inside of my head like a hammer. ‘I’m not surprised,’ I said. ‘Why do you come in here?’

  He grinned evilly. ‘To spoil their fucking fun,’ he said, gesturing at the crowd. ‘This place used to be rotten with dope. Now it’s not.’

  In your dreams, I thought. But if it gives you pleasure. ‘
Sort of a hobby?’ I said.

  ‘Beats stamp collecting.’

  We sat in as much silence as we could muster, which wasn’t much, for a minute. ‘I’ll tell you one thing for nothing, Sharman,’ he said. ‘Then you can go.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Webb and Kellerman, they’re both dirty. I fucking know it.’

  ‘How dirty?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. We dug and dug and found nothing. But they are, believe me.’

  I looked at him hard. ‘Do you think Webb did it?’

  Robber shrugged. ‘He inherited.’

  ‘Not much, from what I can gather. Besides, he didn’t strike me as a mass murderer.’

  ‘There’s people around who are. For the right incentive.’

  ‘And then he hires me fourteen months later, when the case is almost forgotten and the enquiry all but wound up?’

  He interrupted me furiously. ‘Murder’s never forgotten. Never. And the case will never be closed.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. But I knew, and he knew I knew. And all the denying in the world wouldn’t make it any different. ‘But why hire me now? He knows it’s going to stir up a load of shit.’

  He shrugged again.

  ‘But you’re convinced he knows more than he’s telling?’

  ‘That’s about it,’ he said. ‘And you’re right about shit. There’s someone out there, probably two or more, who’ve tasted blood. It can be addictive. If you get close they might decide to see you off too. You wouldn’t be missed much from what I can gather. So I’d check out of it if I were you, Sharman, before you bite off more than you can chew.’

  He shook his head, as if I was mentally defective. ‘Now fuck off and leave me alone. And take these with you.’ He reached into the poacher’s pocket of his mac, took out a brown envelope and passed it to me.

  The files, I thought. Christ! But it wasn’t. It was a slippery pile of 10 x 8, monochrome, scene-of-crime photos.

  ‘Look at them,’ he said, in such a way I couldn’t refuse.

  They were photos of horror caught in the harsh white light of a flash bulb. Highlights heightened. Shadows darkened. Faces turned into masks by death and the camera. Blood made black like spilt ink. Photo 1: Two bodies tumbled like dead insects. Heads half gone. Limbs shredded. Photo 2: Same scene from a different angle. A man and a woman lying together, him half on top of her. Pornography of a different kind. Photo 3: A hallway. A boy of about ten in pyjamas sprawled untidily on the floor. His eyes open and a gaping wound where his chest used to be. Photo 4: A bedroom. Half on and half off the bed, another dead boy. Maybe six years old this time. A strong resemblance to the other child. The bedclothes dark with blood and on the pillow next to the boy’s head, a teddy bear. I flipped through the rest. Variations of the same horror. Not much like the happy family holiday snap Webb had given me.