Guns Of Brixton

by Mark Timlin

  'I see what you're saying, Nick. You're very careful.'

  'I try to be. That's what keeps me in the job, and I'm no use to you out of it.'

  'Too true. But who said anything about offing him?'

  'What? You're going to send him flowers and a note asking him to change his evidence?'

  'Hardly.'

  'Exactly.'

  'So?'

  'So what?'

  'Are you going to go in easy?'

  'We will.'

  'Good.'

  For all his flash ways, which didn't endear him to his male colleagues at Kennington nick but set the hearts of the female officers aflutter, Nick Sharman knew how to keep a low profile. At work he wore a Timex, and had swapped the fake Rolex for it after seeing Lawson and his clients at the pub after their first meeting. And he knew that by accepting their money that day, and supplying the address of the safe house to Lawson a few days later, he was walking on thin ice. But needs must when the Devil drives, and his new missus, Laura, was used to the best. He'd already forked out a deposit he couldn't afford on their little two up two down in Camberwell, and she'd demanded the most expensive furnishings she could find in the Fulham Road boutiques she favoured. And now she was talking about babies, and Sharman knew that Peter Jones was going to be favourite for all the bits and pieces that that entailed. And the two young women he saw on a casual basis didn't come cheap either. Trouble was, he just couldn't leave skirt alone. As it happened, he wouldn't have minded having a pop at Hazel Jenner. But even he wasn't that big a fool. Pity though.

  Shit, he thought as he tubed back south of the river for the afternoon shift. I hope this one doesn't go up the pictures.

  It was three days later that he got the news, sitting in an ancient Ford keeping obbo on a suspected car ringing firm in darkest Waterloo. The passenger door opened with a bang and he narrowly missed spoiling his sharply creased khakis with drops of coffee from a Styrofoam cup in his hand. 'What the…?' he yelled.

  'Sorry, Nick,' said his new companion. 'Didn't mean to make you jump.'

  'Jesus, Sarge,' said Sharman. 'Where did you spring from?'

  'I thought you were supposed to be keeping a keen eye out.''

  'I am. Over there.' Sharman pointed at the undistinguished front of a garage built into an old railway shed round the back of Waterloo station.

  'I could've been a bad boy creeping up on you to deliver a killing blow,' said Detective Sergeant Jack Robber with a leer, as he helped himself to one of Sharman's cigarettes from the packet on the dash. 'Got a light?'

  'Forgotten to buy fags again, Sarge?' said Sharman.

  'Why bother, when you've always got loads?' said Robber.

  Sharman sighed, lit his superior's cigarette and cracked the window on his side another inch.

  'Heard about what happened at Canonbury?' asked Robber when his cigarette was burning to his satisfaction.

  'What?' said Sharman and felt his stomach clench.

  'A grass got blown away by a sniper whilst he's taking a constitutional in the garden.'

  'Do what?'

  'Yeah. Just having a wander, smelling the daisies, when some shooter on a tower block puts one in his head. Nasty business, from what I can gather. Not enough left of his loaf for his mum to recognise, by all accounts.'

  'Christ.'

  'Christ is right. It's gone right off over there. He was the main witness in the case against John Jenner, and now it's gone all to cock.'

  'Who did it?'

  'Nick, sometimes you can be very naive. Who do you think?'

  'Jenner?'

  'Course. But not in person. That fucker never gets his own hands dirty these days. As it happens, he was on the golf course all afternoon. A bloody QC as his partner.'

  'So, an airtight alibi.'

  'Exactly. $o that's a lot of the tax payers' money wasted.'

  'I'm sorry to hear it.'

  'Not as sorry as the prosecution team. But that's life.'

  'Case dismissed.'

  'Got it in one. Bad day for the Met.'

  'Anybody else hurt?' asked Sharman casually.

  'No. His minder hit the dirt. Messed up his suit by all accounts. Blood and grass stains are buggers to get out. Grass stains. Geddit?'

  'Very funny. But at least there's that.'

  'At least. Now, what about this bloody ringing team? Anything happening?'

  'Not a sausage, Sarge,' said Sharman, and lit a cigarette of his own. He noticed that his hand was as steady as a rock.

  Chapter 25

  When Tubbs parked on a double yellow outside the old church opposite the Town Hall, Mark let the Range Rover drift past, took a right through the one way system and stopped in a side street next to the library. He stepped out of the truck and crossed the road heading south, squinting through the railings at the red BMW. Tubbs was standing next to it when he was approached by a man in a long leather jacket and hooded sweatshirt with the hood up. They spoke for a moment and then both climbed into the car. Mark sprinted back to his own vehicle, did a hasty U-turn and rejoined the one way system.

  As he'd surmised, the BMW was just in front of him, heading back towards Streatham and the Yardies' estate of flats. Just as well they like to keep things on their own patch, Mark thought, otherwise he could easily have lost his friend in the maze of south London streets.

  The BMW turned left just opposite the Telegraph pub, where he'd drunk with Chas just a few days before, then turned again into the estate.

  Mark dumped the Range Rover on the corner, set the alarm and hoped it would still be there when he returned. He pulled up his coat collar, jumped over the low wall that acted as boundary for the estate and strolled through to the block that Beretta called home.

  Just as he'd surmised, the red car was parked outside, empty.

  Mark stood in the shadows beside a ripe rubbish chute that rustled with vermin, and mentally crossed his fingers that his old friend would be OK.

  Inside the flats, Tubbs had been taken up to the top floor in a lift that creaked with age and neglect and which smelled all right provided he didn't breathe through his nose. Then he was led down a windowless corridor lined with doors reinforced with metal, to flat number 80. Moses, the man who'd met him down in Brixton, had checked the money on the short ride back to the estate and had almost cracked a smile at the amount, but said little.

  Tubbs was getting nervous. He didn't know if Mark had managed to follow him, and even if he had, what could he do if things kicked off?

  Moses rapped on the door of the flat, gave the thumbs up to the spyhole in the metal and, after a moment, with a rattle of chains and the : clicking of at least three locks, it swung open. Moses held up the plastic bag of money and said 'Result,' to Karl, who was standing in the hallway with a machete in his fist.

  Charming, thought Tubbs, who could feel the reassuring weight of the Browning down the back of his strides. He wondered how often Karl had used his weapon.

  Tubbs was hustled in to the flat and to the living room, which was surprisingly neat and tidy. He'd expected a crack den at least, but in fact it was more like his old Aunty Hilda's place in Peckham, where he'd been raised. The carpet was thick and red, a three piece suite in front of a widescreen TV that came with satellite, video and DVD hookups. A huge music centre sat on a dark wood sideboard, and vinyl albums and CDs were stacked on each side. Aunty Hilda wouldn't have had all the high tech equipment but she would have approved of the picture of Jesus nailed to the cross on one wall. Very religious was Aunty Hilda, and he hoped she was with the Lord right now looking down on her favourite nephew and keeping him from harm.

  Curtains were drawn across what looked like balcony windows. Beretta was sitting in one of the armchairs, watching football. He was dressed in black suit pants, an unbuttoned black waistcoat and a gleaming white dress shirt, open at the throat. He looked a bit like a preacher on his day off, thought Tubbs, and, aside from the greyish tinge to his face, he appeared as healthy as a horse. A young b
lack woman looking just too thin and scrawny in her short skirt and top was stretched out on the sofa. This must be the crack whore Mark had told him shared the accommodation. Between Beretta's chair and the TV set was a large glass coffee table, upon which sat a couple of crack pipes, a bag each of rock and powder, and the makings of spliff. A large ashtray in the centre was full of roaches and cigarette ends and the air was filled with the aroma of marijuana. Next to the ashtray was a foot-square mirror upon which half a dozen chunky lines of powder had been neatly cut.

  Beretta stood as the three men entered the room. 'Lulu,' he said to the girl. 'Get lost baby. We got business.'

  'Oh honey,' she said, looking round at Tubbs with lowered eyelashes. 'Do I have to? The Simpsons is on in a minute.'

  'The Simpsons is always on in a minute,' said Beretta. 'Go watch it in the bedroom. Take a rock. Have fun.'

  She made a disgusted sound with her tongue, but seeing Beretta's expression change, she got up, took a yellowish piece of crack from the bag, a cheap plastic lighter and one of the pipes and flounced out, slamming the door behind her.

  'Stupid bitch,' said Beretta. 'But she gives good head. Maybe you'd like to try her out, Tubbs.'

  'Another time maybe,' said Tubbs. 'We're here for business, ain't we?'

  'Business and pleasure can always be mixed,' said Beretta with a wolfish grin. 'My Lulu is a good earner when she's in the mood.'

  'Fine,' said Tubbs. 'But what about the powder?'

  'No problem. You searched this boy?' he said to Moses who shook his head.

  'Do it.'

  Fuck it, thought Tubbs as Moses gave him another shakedown, this time coming up with his mobile and the niner.

  'You don't trust us, man,' said Beretta when Moses passed the gun to him and tossed the telephone on to the floor. Beretta pressed the button on the butt of the pistol to release the magazine, put it on the coffee table then slid back the action and caught the shell which popped out and dropped it into his waistcoat pocket. 'Souvenir,' he said.

  'Nothing personal,' said Tubbs. 'But I was carrying a lot of cash.'

  'You're safe with us,' said Beretta. 'No one messes with our bidness.'

  'I'm glad to hear it,' said Tubbs.

  'Sit down, man,' said Beretta, all at once the perfect host. 'Take the weight off your feet. And you sure got some weight there.'

  Karl laughed as Tubbs sat in the seat that Lulu had vacated, Karl next to him, Moses standing by the sideboard counting out the money from the plastic bag.

  'Drink, smoke, coke?' said Beretta also sitting again.

  Tubbs shook his head. 'Where's the stuff?' he asked.

  'Patience, man,' said Beretta. 'Moses?'

  'All there, boss,' said Moses. 'Nice dirty notes.'

  'That's good,' said Beretta, swooping down on the mirror and snarfing up one of the lines. 'I like a man who's exact.'

  Although he was being friendly, Tubbs felt the tension in the atmosphere like water running down the walls and wondered if he'd walk out of the flat alive, or be carried out dead and dumped in some obscure and deserted part of the city.

  Moses brought the money to Beretta who sat up and wiped his nose on his sleeve. He tossed it on the table and some slipped on to the carpet which he ignored. 'Two thousand quid this morning, ten tonight,' said Beretta lighting a cigarette. 'You've got access to lots of bread, Mr Tubbs.'

  'I told you, I got backers.'

  'Anyone we know?'

  'I doubt it. City folks. More money than sense and a big liking for cocaine.'

  'How'd you meet these city folks, you just out of the slammer and all?'

  'I made contacts inside.'

  'Yeah?'

  'Yeah.'

  'But you was in there for weed, am I right? It's a big jump from weed to powder. You talking serious Class A here.'

  'Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb,' replied Tubbs. 'If I ever get nicked again I go away for a long time. I mean to make some money and go back home.'

  'Where's home?' 'JA.'

  'You ever been there?'

  Tubbs shook his head. 'But I think about it all the time.'

  'We all do, man,' said Beretta, looking at the wall as if he could see though it and picture white sands and blue sea. 'But not many make it.'

  The atmosphere had lightened as the men talked, but suddenly Beretta was all business again. 'Karl,' he said. 'Fetch the gear.'

  Karl stood and left the room. A minute later he returned with another supermarket bag, this one weighed heavily down. He gave it to Beretta who reached inside and brought out two plastic bags full of white powder that Mark might have recognised as being part of the consignment he'd delivered to the warehouse at Loughborough Junction. 'I'm giving you a good deal here, Tubbs,' said Beretta. 'Two K for ten K.'

  Tubbs pulled an approving face.

  'See, we kinda got this through the back door,' Beretta went on. 'A bargain.'

  Not for the three poor bastards you gunned down in cold blood, thought Tubbs, but only said: 'Cheers.'

  'But I expect more business from you, big man,' said Beretta. 'This won't last an hour in the city. They got Hoovers for noses, those bastard suits.'

  'You can say that again,' said Tubbs. 'May I?' And he reached out his hand.

  'What a polite boy,' said Beretta, 'Sure, Mr Tubbs. Have a sample.'

  Tubbs picked up a single-sided razor blade from the table and made a small slit in the plastic. He dipped in one sausage-like finger and licked the powder off it. He made a sour face as his mouth numbed out, and Beretta laughed. 'Good or what?' he said.

  'Better than good,' replied Tubbs as he made saliva to try and get some feeling back into his dead lips and tongue. 'Man, that's prime.'

  'I told you, didn't I?' said Beretta, hardly able to keep the pride out of his voice. 'When I say my product's good I mean it. Now, you want a beer, man?'

  All that Tubbs wanted was to leave in one piece and find Mark, but he could feel that to make too swift an exit might set Beretta off. Besides, he reckoned that the Yardie wanted to talk, and any information would be useful. He only hoped that Mark would be patient.

  'Sure,' said Tubbs. 'A beer would taste good.'

  'Karl,' said Beretta, and Karl went out of the room again. He was obviously low man on the totem. The gopher. Messenger boy.

  He returned with four bottles of Red Stripe, moisture condensing on the glass. He passed them round. 'To business,' said Beretta, and he tapped Tubbs's bottle with his own.

  'And pleasure,' replied Tubbs, remembering the start of their conversation.

  'Sure, pleasure,' said Beretta. 'You want to go see Lulu, make her forget about the fucking Simpsons'

  Tubbs was just about to make another excuse when his mobile rang. The room went silent except for the electronic trilling.

  He reached for it but Beretta was too quick for him. He snatched it off the floor, pressed the answer button and said: 'Mr Tubbs's phone. How can I be of assistance?'

  He listened for a moment. 'I'm afraid he's in conference at the moment. Can I ask who's calling?' He was as polite as a secretary, and Tubbs could see that Beretta was not one to be underestimated.

  'I'll see if he can come to the phone,' he said. Then to Tubbs. 'A Mr Marks for you.'

  'Cheers,' said Tubbs, taking the instrument and feeling the sweat on his palm. 'Hello,' he said.

  'It's me,' said Mark. 'You OK?'

  'Never better,' said Tubbs.

  'Thank Christ for that. I thought you were dead. I'm outside.'

  'No problem,' said Tubbs, smiling at Beretta as he said it. 'Everything's just dandy here.'

  'Good. You going to get out all right?'

  'A perfect meeting,' said Tubbs. 'I'm just having a beer.' 'I wish I was,' said Mark. 'I'm freezing. This place stinks and I'm starting to get some funny looks from the residents.'

  'Then just chill, my friend,' said Tubbs. 'I should be free and clear within the hour.'

  'I'm already chilled to the fucking bone,
thanks very much,' said Mark. 'Get back to mine, and make sure you're not followed.'

  'Sweet,' said Tubbs, and clicked off the connection.

  'You got friends waiting?' said Beretta. 'Checking you out?'

  'They worry,' said Tubbs taking another swig from his bottle. 'You know how it is.'

  'City boys,' said Beretta. 'Don't trust anyone an inch.'

  'That's life these days,' said Tubbs. 'And I'd better be moving. Things to do, people to see. Money to make.'

  'Sure,' said Beretta and Tubbs knew that this was going to be the toughest part. 'Karl. See Mr Tubbs to his car. Make sure he walks unmolested through our brethren. He's carrying a serious and valuable cargo.'

  'Sure, boss,' said Karl, sliding the machete up the sleeve of his jacket.

  Tubbs shook hands with Beretta and Moses, picked up the carrier bag and made to leave.

  'Ain't you forgotten something, Mr Tubbs?' said Beretta and Tubbs felt sweat break out all over him. Was this the sting? The bit where they took him down and ended up with money and drugs?

  Beretta pointed to the table where the Browning lay. 'You may need that,' he said. 'Those City boys take no prisoners, I hear.'

  Tubbs breathed a sigh of relief and picked up the gun and the clip and stowed them in separate pockets. 'Nearly forgot,' he said. 'Glad my head's screwed on or I'd forget that.'

  'Keep it screwed tight, my man,' said Beretta. 'And keep in touch. I'm only a phone call away.'

  'Will do,' said Tubbs. 'Thanks.' And with that, he and Karl left the room. Karl opened the fortified door to the flat and they went down to the car. Many eyes followed their progress, but no one made a move. Tubbs drove the Beemer off the estate and down the first side street he came to. He stopped at a gap by the kerb and sat shaking for fully five minutes before he headed back to John Jenner's house.

  Eventually he was calm enough to drive and made the short journey in minutes, calling Mark on the way to open the gates. When he'd parked the car he went to the front door where Mark hugged him hard. 'You did well, son,' he said.

  'Nearly needed new underwear,' replied Tubbs as he followed Mark into the living room. 'Thought for sure I'd go caca when they found my gun.'