The Turnaround

by Mark Timlin

‘It’s a crime, isn’t it?’ he said. Witty too. Razor sharp. ‘What would it be worth?’

  I knew we’d get round to that subject again sooner or later. He wasn’t backward in coming forward, our Stanley. Did you really expect I’d get anything out of him for the price of a couple of gins? ‘The geezer’s not short,’ I said. ‘And he’s prepared to pay. But not for anything snide.’

  ‘As if!’

  ‘Stan, don’t mug me off again.’

  ‘No, straight, Nick. I’ll ask around. But it has to be worth a monkey.’

  ‘For you to ask around? Do me a favour. I don’t get paid that sort of money.’

  ‘For hard information?’

  ‘Now that is possible.’

  ‘Something out front?’

  ‘A tenner?’

  ‘A tenner doesn’t buy a round in here these days.’

  ‘Maybe you should stick to lemonade.’

  ‘What, with my image to keep up?’

  I really didn’t want to get on to the subject of his image at that point. ‘Fifty,’ I said.

  ‘That’ll do nicely.’

  I took out five tens in a little bundle I’d prepared earlier. I knew to the penny what Stan thought he was worth. And that included inflation. He palmed the notes without interrupting his conversational flow. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you dropped by today.’

  ‘I just bet you are. How long will this asking around take?’

  ‘A day or two.’

  ‘Make it tomorrow.’

  ‘That might be a bit soonish.’

  ‘And what else are you doing that’s so urgent?’ I enquired.

  ‘This and that. I’ve got a living to earn, you know.’

  ‘Drawing the dole and spending it in Joe Coral’s. Do me a favour, Stan. Get off your tuckus and earn the dough.’

  ‘I’m a busy man, Nick. Honest.’

  ‘That’s two porky pies in one breath, son. Tomorrow.’

  ‘All right. Just for you I’ll put everything else on the back burner.’

  The only thing on his back burner was his old woman’s chip pan, but I let it go. ‘I’m obliged, Stan,’ I said. And finished my beer. He looked sadly into his empty glass but I wasn’t going to stay and buy him drinks all afternoon. ‘Same time tomorrow, then.’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  I knew that I could count on that. The only problem was getting him to leave the place in the meantime. ‘See you then,’ I said.

  ‘See you.’

  I slipped off my stool and left. I went back to my car and drove towards Dulwich. There was a little boozer on the other side of the village I wanted to visit. The red Montego was nowhere to be seen. I guessed that they’d gone off duty or got a call about something really important. I got to the second pub just after two. This one had recently been converted into a 1930s speakeasy or somesuch. Personally I’d rather have an ordinary drinker and cheaper beer. But what do I know? As I hadn’t eaten earlier I risked a cheese and pickle sandwich with my Corona and slice of lime.

  I’d hardly taken two bites when the landlord came over. ‘I thought I recognised that beast parked outside,’ he said, and stuck out his hand. I put down the remains of my sandwich, wiped my hand on my jeans and took it. ‘Terry,’ I said.

  ‘How are you, Nick?’

  ‘Not as good as you are by the looks of it.’

  Terry Mayhew had been a copper too. A straight one. One of the few I’d got on with. God knows why, we couldn’t have been more different. But they do say that opposites attract. He’d done twenty-five years’ service, the last eight as a uniformed sergeant. Then retirement and a nice pension. He was something big in the Masons, and he’d been taken on by a brewery to sort out a couple of hard pubs that were spoiling their image. No problem there. Terry was six foot four and fifteen stone. An ex-player for the Metropolitan Police rugby team who didn’t know the meaning of the word fear. He’d sorted out both difficult boozers within six months, then a few more over the years, and as a reward had been given this place.

  He was looking good as it happened. His blue worsted suit was tailor made – it needed to be with the size of his chest – and if I wasn’t mistaken his cream shirt was pure silk. I’d’ve laid even money it was monogrammed.

  ‘It’s been a while,’ he said. ‘I read about you in the papers.’

  ‘You don’t believe everything you read in them, do you?’

  He laughed and got me a vodka and orange juice. ‘On the house, mate,’ he said. ‘What does bring you here?’

  ‘To see how the other half lives,’ I said.

  ‘I was lucky, Nick.’

  ‘That’s not what I heard. You keeping up with the local gossip?’

  ‘Depends.’

  ‘Come on, Terry,’ I said. ‘This is the tidiest bar in the area. I’ve heard all about it. The villains love drinking in here. No trouble.’

  ‘I try and keep it clean.’

  ‘Which is exactly why you might hear things. They trust you, Terry.’

  ‘So you’re working?’

  ‘Sure. For a bloke called Webb.’ I went through the story again. Terry knew what I was talking about. He obviously kept up. It’s a habit you get into.

  ‘I’ve never heard a word about it in here,’ he said. ‘It sounds like a rough one.’

  ‘When did that ever bother you?’

  ‘I’m slowing down, Nick. I’ll be fifty next year.’

  ‘On you it looks good.’

  ‘Clean living.’

  I laughed. ‘How is the wife?’ Her name was Annie. A real smasher. She worshipped the ground he walked on, and the feeling was mutual.

  ‘Out spending the profits. Come by and see her soon. She always had a soft spot for you.’

  ‘It’s my magical charm,’ I said. ‘Course I will.’ I should have long ago, but it was difficult. They both reminded me of a different time. A different place. When anything seemed possible.

  ‘Anytime. She’ll be sorry she missed you. And I’m sorry I can’t help with the other thing.’

  ‘Well, if you do hear of anything, Terry.’

  ‘You’ll be the first to know. But it’s well out of date.’

  ‘That’s what everybody says,’ I replied. ‘But someone, somewhere, knows something.’

  He looked into the distance thoughtfully. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do… there’s a couple of people I could, you know, discreetly enquire of.’

  ‘I’d be grateful,’ I said. ‘Here’s my home number.’ I scribbled it down on the back of one of my business cards. Terry tucked it away in his wallet.

  ‘Want to stay for a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘With you? Are you kidding. I’ve been caught like that before. Anyway, I’m driving. Another time.’

  ‘Make it soon. Don’t be such a stranger.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. ‘Give my best to Annie.’ I finished the vodka and drove home. Once again no one followed.

  8

  I kicked my heels around at my flat until it was time to go and visit the accountant.

  Andrew Cunningham had a pleasant office in an unpleasant glass block looking over the motorway that cuts Croydon in half. I used the car park underneath and paid for the privilege. They’ll tow you away in a second down there.

  Cunningham’s secretary showed me in. He stood up behind his desk to shake hands and waved me to the client’s chair. He was of average height, slim, with brown hair neatly combed, wearing an anonymous grey suit, white shirt and a striped tie. He looked like exactly what he was.

  I explained again why I was there. By that time I was after the sympathy vote.

  He made a steeple of his hands as he listened. His fingernails were clean and clipped very short. I guessed he was thirty-five or six going on sixty. After he’d listened, he said: ‘Although Mr Kellerman is dead, any business dealings he had with us are still confidential.’

  ‘His brother-in-law has hired me to look into the matter of his death,’ I told him for the third
time.

  ‘Mr Webb found it convenient not to use our services after Mr Kellerman’s unfortunate demise,’ said Cunningham. ‘Demise’. He really said that. I wished I’d brought the photos to show him. They’d give him ‘demise’. ‘So I can’t speculate on any financial matters after that date.’

  So that was it, professional jealousy.

  ‘The business was going bust,’ I said.

  He nodded.

  ‘Did you expect that to happen?’

  ‘It shouldn’t have. Not so quickly. But, of course, when the founder and chief executive dies under such appalling circumstances, the accounts will obviously come under close scrutiny. Large financial organisations, or even for that matter small, are apt to be rather jittery. Especially these days.’ He said it as if he expected the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to come round the one-way system at any moment. ‘I’m afraid it was inevitable. I understand Mr Webb put it into receivership almost immediately.’

  I nodded. ‘But it would have happened eventually?’

  He looked at me across his empty, polished desk. ‘Mr Sharman,’ he said, ‘I liked David Kellerman. I was sorry–’ He grimaced and seemed more human and younger. ‘Sorry is hardly the word. I was devastated at what happened. I knew the family. Sandra was a wonderful woman. But – and I shouldn’t be telling you this, and will deny it if anyone ever asks – there was too much money in the business for a long time, and then there was too little.’

  ‘When was there too little?’

  ‘About three months before he died. Around Christmas the previous year. That’s when it began to show.’

  ‘Did he do the books or did you?’

  ‘He did. He was very particular about that. David was something of a genius with figures.’

  I just bet he was, I thought. ‘Then why employ you?’

  ‘It’s the law. The Companies Act, you know.’ I didn’t. ‘But I just acted as an overseer. I checked that everything was all right at audit time. I wasn’t just employed for my accountancy skills – David and I were friends. Any halfway decent firm could have done the job. We went out for drinks. Lunch. I think a lot of the time I was someone to talk to.’

  I looked at my watch. My fifteen minutes was nearly up, so I jumped in at the deep end. ‘Was he laundering money?’ I asked.

  Cunningham was silent for a moment. He looked at me closely. ‘I told you, he was a friend,’ he said. ‘Now he’s dead I don’t intend to slander his name. If he was doing anything illegal, he didn’t confide in me. This is an honest firm, Mr Sharman. Honestly run. Perhaps I should have dug a little deeper. But as I said, we were friends. I hope that by not doing so I didn’t encourage any act that put David and his family in danger. I’d find that very difficult to live with. I hope you find the people who did it. Now I’m afraid I have another appointment,’ he said. He buzzed for his secretary and she showed me out.

  I went home and tried Natalie Hooper’s number again. Again the machine. Again the message.

  I didn’t fancy going out. I cooked a meal out of tins and sat and watched TV without seeing a thing. Cat sidled up and sat on me.

  I drank a couple of bottles of beer and smoked another joint and went to bed when the late film finished around twelve-fifteen.

  9

  That night I dreamt of my old friend Wanda. Wanda the Cat Woman, I called her. We’ve been friends for years. She’s looked after my cat several times when I’ve been otherwise engaged: on a case, in hospital or in the nick. I hadn’t seen her for months, not since I got Cat back the last time.

  It had been a bad dream. A real doozy. Not one after which you could just turn over in your warm bed and go back to sleep and be grateful it was only a dream.

  No, this was a classic, a black, fearful nightmare, and I woke, sitting up with a scream in my throat and the sheets tangled and wet with sweat around my legs. I was shaking from head to toe. I scrambled for cigarettes and matches. The smoke tasted foul in my mouth.

  There’s nothing more tedious than other people’s dreams, I know, but this one – boy, it freaked me right out.

  I was in Wanda’s house, but of course it wasn’t hers, only in the dream it was. She hated me, in the dream. Detested me. And told me so. She listed every lousy thing I was and that I’d done. Even things she couldn’t possibly have known about. I tried to justify myself, but it was no good. I knew she was right, see.

  The dream seemed to last for ever, and she kept on and on. I told her all about the honourable and decent things I’d done in my life, and she turned them round until they seemed like nothing.

  The next morning I still remembered the dream, and feeling guilty about not having been in touch for so long, I phoned her.

  ‘Hello, Nick,’ she said when she answered the phone and I identified myself. She sounded tired. ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I suppose you want something?’

  I remembered the dream and winced. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I just wondered how you were.’

  She laughed, and the laugh turned into a cough. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, but the way she said it I knew she wasn’t, and I went cold and sweaty all over again.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Wanda,’ I said, ‘what is it? Tell me.’

  ‘You just caught me actually. I’m going into hospital.’

  I knew by her voice, but I asked anyway. ‘Bad?’

  ‘Is going into hospital ever good?’

  ‘There are degrees.’

  ‘Yes, there are,’ she said, and left me to ask again.

  ‘Come on, Wanda,’ I said. ‘Tell me. On a scale of one to ten.’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yes, it is, Nick, but really I’m tired of talking about it. I’ve got to go now, there’s a taxi coming.’ And she hung up.

  I called back but the answerphone was on. She hadn’t even told me what hospital she was going into. There aren’t that many around any more and I could have telephoned around the few that were left, but it was obvious she didn’t want me to.

  I fed Cat and made myself a brew of coffee. Black and bitter, just the way I felt myself. I knew my premonition had been right. I knew that something terrible was going to happen. I felt like Cunningham in his steel and glass tower waiting for the Four Horsemen to come.

  Right then I didn’t know the half of it.

  10

  I was back in the pub at Sydenham for lunchtime. The missus didn’t look so hot that day. Or so friendly. I went up to the bar to order a drink, and she was pointing at me before I could get a word out. I turned and two men were standing behind me and sticking their warrant cards in my face.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Williams,’ said the taller of the two. He was blond, wearing a trench coat like Dick Tracy’s. ‘And this is my colleague, Detective Constable Hackett.’ I looked at the other one. He was shorter, dark, wearing a bomber jacket, jeans and trainers.

  I knew something bad was up, but I decided to brazen it out. ‘Nice,’ I said. ‘Can I get a beer now?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Hackett. ‘Were you in here yesterday?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said.

  ‘In the company of Stanley McKilkenney?’

  ‘Right again. I’m supposed to be meeting him in here again today.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Williams.

  ‘Why? Have you nicked him again?’ I asked.

  ‘Not quite.’ Williams again.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘You haven’t been listening to the news this morning.’

  Then I knew that something big and bad was up. ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘Stanley McKilkenny was found early this morning in the boot of a car – dead,’ said Williams. ‘Someone had put a double-barrelled shotgun in his mouth and pulled both triggers. His head had gone. He was only identified by his fingerprints.’

  ‘And his suit,’ said Hacket
t, who seemed to be enjoying the whole thing immensely. The missus heard the last bit and ran out of the bar holding a handkerchief to her eyes. ‘So you can’t get a beer, but you can come with us down to the station to answer a few questions.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t shoot him.’ But I had a bloody good idea who did. Poor old Stan, he never hurt a fly in his life. The poor sod didn’t deserve that kind of death. Nobody did.

  ‘To help us with our enquiries. You were one of the last people to see him alive,’ said Hackett.

  ‘But not the last.’

  ‘That’s for us to discover,’ said Williams.

  I shook my head sadly. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree here, officers,’ I said. ‘But if you insist.’

  ‘We do,’ said Williams.

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  We went outside to a regulation navy blue Vauxhall Cavalier that smelt of stale cigarettes and carry-out food. It quite took me back. We drove to Sydenham police station where I was taken down to an interview room by Williams. It was real nice. No windows. A twin deck cassette recorder. A metal table bolted to the floor, and three plastic chairs. A panic strip ran round all four walls. A uniformed constable came with us. I was in the chair opposite the door. Hackett came in a few minutes later with two sealed C90 cassettes. It looked like they were expecting a long afternoon. Williams told the uniform to wait outside.

  ‘May I smoke?’ I asked, after he’d gone.

  ‘If you must.’ Williams.

  ‘Do you want to call your solicitor?’ Hackett.

  ‘I haven’t done anything. I’ll be out before he gets here,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t you believe it.’ Hackett again. He really didn’t like me. And it hurt.

  I lit a Silk Cut. I only had four left.

  ‘You know all about this, don’t you?’ said Williams, holding up the two cassettes Hackett had given him.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘He knows about everything,’ said Hackett spitefully. ‘And we know all about him.’

  ‘Is that right?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Hackett. ‘And you’re going to go down.’

  ‘And you’re going to take me down, are you?’