A Good Year for the Roses (1988)

by Timlin, Mark

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

  ‘Get to the bottom of this mess. I hope,’ I said.

  ‘I'd rather you came back to bed and get to the bottom of me.’

  I could tell she was beginning to wake up properly.

  ‘There's nothing I'd rather do.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But you've got to get out on the streets and right all the wrongs and be a man.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You're a fool, Nick.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘There's no maybe about it.’

  I shrugged and pulled a face. What could I do about it?

  ‘You'd better take care,’ she went on.

  ‘I will, and I'll see you soon, at Emerald's place.’

  ‘I'll be waiting.’

  ‘Make sure you are.’

  Then I left.

  The morning was already warm, moving towards hot, but huge storm clouds were banked on the horizon. They sat high and still and threatening. In a way they reminded me of the way my life was going.

  I walked down to Stockwell tube and caught a deserted train through to Balham. The storm clouds were closer when I came out into the street. I picked up a cab at the rank outside the station and took a short ride up to Clapham Junction. The Trans-Am was still parked at the back of Arding & Hobbs on the yellow line. It had been ticketed. I took the plastic bag from under the windscreen wiper and dropped it into a bin down by the Wimpey. Keep Britain Tidy.

  No-one seemed interested in the car as I drove it back to my office. No-one seemed interested in the office either, or me for that matter. I kicked the chairs around the room in temper. Then picked them up and sat on one. I sat for a long time waiting for something to happen. Then it did. The ‘phone rang.

  When I answered it I found myself speaking to a man with a cultured voice that contained just a trace of a foreign accent that I couldn't identify. The voice asked to speak to Nick Sharman.

  ‘This is he,’ I said. All those years of schooling hadn't been wasted. ‘I believe you are looking for a Miss Patricia Bright,’ the voice said.

  ‘Nearly everyone who calls me believes that,’ I replied.

  ‘Is it true?’

  I agreed that it was.

  ‘May I ask, in what connection?’

  ‘On behalf of her father.’

  ‘Alas, she has no father.’ I had to admit he was very polite. I wasn't.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Don't fuck me around, I'm not in the mood today.’

  ‘I'm perfectly serious,’ the voice said.

  I paused for a moment. He sounded as if he meant it. ‘Who are you?’ I asked. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘My name is of no importance now, but I think we should meet and I can introduce you to Miss Bright,’ he replied.

  ‘The last time someone told me that I ended up with severe scalp abrasions, and almost got nicked for manslaughter or worse, and she wasn't even there. So why should I believe you?’

  ‘It is of little concern to me, what happened to you previously.’

  The voice said again, ‘But I can certainly produce the girl. If you do not want to take up my offer of a meeting, so be it. If you wish to stumble around like a blind man in a maze, that is your prerogative. I am an honourable man. When I say something will happen, it will. I promise you will come to no harm with me, if you conduct yourself in a civilised way.’

  I decided I had no choice. ‘Where and when?’ I asked, all businesslike. He interrupted me. ‘We will come to you. I will call you again within the hour with full instructions.’ The ‘phone went dead in my hand as he cut me off.

  I sat and waited, and did all the things private detectives are supposed to do when they think a case is about to break. I thought about what the man with no name had said about Patsy not having a father. What the fuck was all that about? I quickly dialled George Bright's numbers. The answerphone was on at the warehouse again and there was no answer at his home. I didn't dare make any more calls in case my line was busy when the stranger called back with his instructions. If he called of course. I sat and worried about my ex-wife and child. I looked at the people outside in the street going about their business. I decided that maybe being normal wouldn't be so bad after all, and wished I'd gone into insurance. I felt the metal of the .38 boring into my back and fought off the temptation to check the load again. I wondered what had gone wrong with my life. Forty five minutes after his first call the man without a name called again. ‘I am using a car-phone,’ he said. ‘We are waiting for you at Norwood Cemetery. We are parked next to the rose garden, beside the crematorium. Park your car at the bottom of the hill and proceed on foot. Come alone.’

  ‘I hope you're not kidding me,’ I said. I could hear the exasperation in my voice.

  ‘Mr. Sharman,’ the disembodied voice said. ‘Please do not force me to constantly repeat myself. I am not in the habit of kidding anyone. We will wait for precisely twenty minutes. Do not waste time.’

  The call was abruptly terminated. I did exactly as he had told me. I locked up the office and drove the Pontiac up to the cemetery. It was only five minutes from my office. I passed through the massive gates and drove slowly up the road that meandered between the gravestones. It is a beautiful place, although not one I'd choose to spend my leisure hours. I used to walk through it as a child holding my grandma's hand to visit the graves of my family who are buried there. The place always filled me with fear and awe. That morning was no exception. I parked the car next to a signpost that pointed to the crematorium and walked up the hill towards the single storey, red brick building. There were several cars parked outside, and I guessed that a service was taking place. The morning was cool again and a light breeze tugged at the coats of a mourning party attending a burial at the foot of the hill. Other people carrying flowers were visiting the graves of their late loved ones. I wondered briefly if anyone would ever bother to visit my last resting place, then realised self pity was a stupid emotion.

  I walked up the gradient towards the old part of the cemetery. At the top of the hill, just past the crematorium building was parked a car. Not just any old car at that. It was a black Rolls-Royce stretched limousine. The bodywork shone like a mirror and the thin sunlight picked out the chrome trim and reflected back into my eyes. When I got closer, I saw that the side windows were tinted nearly as dark as the bodywork itself. The car sat square on the road, as big and silent as the tombs that surrounded it.

  When I reached the vehicle, the driver's door opened and a heavyset man with a face set like concrete, wearing a grey chauffeur's uniform stepped out. From where I was standing the uniform fitted him well. In his right hand was a Colt .45 US Army issue automatic. In retrospect, I realised that the gun fitted him better. The driver pointed the gun in my general direction and opened the offside passenger door. A tall dark skinned man emerged. The chauffeur closed the door before I had had a chance to look inside. The tall man was dressed in a navy blue, double breasted suit, that I estimated wouldn't have left him a lot of change out of a thousand pounds. I would have been willing to bet he was the toast of South Molton Street. His shirt was blindingly white, with a tabbed collar, at which was knotted a slim black tie. His feet were shod in polished black boots, fastened with discreet gold buckles. He wore a snap-brim black trilby and wrap-around shades. His outfit was tailor-made for the bone orchard in which he stood. In his left hand he held a lightweight machine pistol. It was a small, snub nosed weapon, not much longer than the driver's automatic, but with massive fire power. From the grip a short magazine protruded like a thick, obscene metal tongue. I recognised the make and model. It was an Ingram MAC M10 9mm sub-machine gun. It was finished in matt-black. Instead of the usual webbing belt, which was used to hold the gun steady when firing, a custom made leather strap was attached to the gun. Any urban terrorist worth his salt would love to find one in his Christmas stocking. The magazine held 32 rounds that the gun could spew out in less than two seconds when
on full automatic. It was a very, very sexy designer death all wrapped up like a pretty toy. It would never have surprised me to see a diamond cluster on the safety catch.

  I could feel the tall man watching me through the black lenses of his glasses. After a moment he spoke.

  ‘We meet at last, Mr. Sharman. I have been observing you for the last few days with great interest. You appear to be a very inquisitive man.’ As he spoke he leant against the car, the machine pistol drooping lethargically in his grasp.

  ‘That's my job,’ I replied.

  ‘Not when it interferes with mine.’

  ‘Which is?’ I enquired politely.

  You can take my word that when the business end of a MAC 10 is less than three feet from your belly-button, everything you do is polite.

  ‘Commerce, buying and selling. Finding a demand and filling it. The very stuff of life, you must agree.’

  ‘If you say so,’ I said.

  ‘I do say so. And I can meet your demand to see a certain young lady. You seem determined to locate Patricia Bright. However, you appear to have met with little success in your search. I must confess that your powers as a detective do not fill me with particular admiration. But your meagre talents seemed to have set a few cats amongst certain pigeons, as it were.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Some of the demi-monde have become quite agitated about your interest in the girl. I must admit a certain puzzlement as to why. Now you're bumbling appears to be encroaching on my interests. So I intend to put you more into the picture regarding the Bright family. This, I hope will lead you to cease meddling in my affairs.’

  I was frankly puzzled and I told him so. ‘I hate to say this,’ I said, ‘but I have no idea who you are, or what you do. And I might add, I rarely, if ever meddle with people who carry sub-machine guns.’

  ‘I do not intend to tell you who I am,’ he said. ‘I have many names, you may call me David. It is of no importance. It can be another mystery for you to solve. After all, you are the detective. Find out for yourself if you can. Many people better than you have tried and failed. But you are looking for Patricia. I have certain interests in her. Ergo, you interfere with me.’

  I loved his vocabulary. ‘Ergo', Demi-monde'. David must have had a classical education, or pretended that he had. So had I, so I wasn't impressed, but I must admit a certain fondness for his suit.

  ‘Can I see her?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. That's why I invited you here,’ he replied.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now, I think,’ he said, and with that he opened the rear door of the Rolls again. That time I had a clear view into the car. On the back seat sat Patsy Bright.

  I could hardly believe I was seeing her at last.

  ‘Patricia,’ said the tall man. ‘Come out and say hello to Mr. Sharman.’

  She climbed out of the car and into the daylight. Her face was even more beautiful in real life than the photo which I had looked at so often, led me to believe. But when I looked closely I noticed that her skin was slightly puffy and there were dark shadows forming under her eyes. And when I looked into her eyes, there was something that belied her beauty. A knowledge of life that no girl her age should have. The eyes that looked back at me were a million years old.

  She was taller than I had expected, although by then I knew her measurements better than my own. She was wearing a blue mini-dress, white tights and flat heeled blue pumps that matched her dress exactly. On her left arm she wore a dozen or more plastic bangles in rainbow shades that rattled slightly when she moved. In her left hand she held a single long-stemmed rose. It was hardly more than a bud. I tried to recognise the type. I was sure that I'd once grown similar myself. I felt it was very important for some reason to identify it. But I couldn't.

  Patsy wore pale make-up and bright pink lipstick, which contrasted with the sooty mascara that coated her eyes. Her hair was longer than it had been when the photo was taken, and hung down to her shoulders like two golden wings framing her face. She looked as though she had just stepped off the set of ‘Blow up'. In her left hand she carried a pair of red framed Ray-Ban sunglasses.

  I was relieved when she put them on.

  I wondered what to say to someone I had never met, yet who had dominated my life for more than a week that seemed to have lasted a lifetime. Someone I was in love with for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘Hello, Patsy,’ I said after a moment.

  ‘Hello,’ she replied dutifully.

  ‘I've been looking for you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Your father asked me to, he's worried about you.’

  ‘My father died fifteen years ago,’ she said.

  I looked from her to David, as I was supposed to call him, then back again.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked in a confused way.

  ‘What I say. My father is dead,’ she replied. Although her accent was good, South London was teetering on the edge of it.

  ‘Who's George Bright then?’ I asked no-one in particular.

  ‘Perhaps, I can explain,’ said David. ‘George Bright is Patsy's adoptive father. He is also the man who managed her career as a prostitute.’

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

  ‘He started fucking me when I was twelve,’ interrupted Patsy, a bitter edge to her voice. ‘Then when I was broken in, he started selling me around.’

  After her brief outburst, she went back to admiring her rose. ‘It was soon after George Bright's wife died that it started,’ David explained. ‘Like George, a lot of men like young children. He was happy to furnish Patsy's services to them. Then he discovered that at the places he sent her to work, there was a great demand for expensive drugs. So he started to cater to that need also. It turned into a most lucrative business, and quite a safe one. Apart from the fact that some of the clients were highly placed in the establishment of this country and thus well protected. In order to fulfil precise functions of the fantasy, Patsy was expected to wear her school uniform whilst engaged in certain sordid practices. So she was free to travel around London with a satchel full of merchandise. Who would bother to stop and search an angelic child like her?’ David smiled again. ‘I must admit it has a certain diabolical humour about it.’

  ‘If you think that's funny,’ I said ‘I feel sorry for you. Anyway, where do you come in? What does your taste run to, little boys?’

  The Ingram twitched in his hand. ‘My taste is not your concern,’ he said evilly. ‘Do not set yourself up as a moral arbiter. Just listen.’

  I shut up and listened.

  ‘Bright was basically small time,’ he continued. ‘To increase his turnover, and ultimately his profits, he had to take on certain partners.’ He made a moue of distaste with his lips. ‘They had little or no imagination. No flair. Patricia was beginning to outgrow the particular market she was in. The partners were only interested in the drug side of things. However, I learnt that when she visited her clientele she often picked up certain items of, how can I put it, a sensitive nature. These items were eminently saleable. I approached Patricia with a view to marketing her for the nineteen nineties. She has, believe it or not, an unusually keen memory for names, faces and places. She is also an accomplished thief. There are men, powerful men, in this city who are prepared to pay dearly for their particular pleasures. Some of them are still paying.’

  ‘Blackmail?’

  ‘An unpleasant word, Mr. Sharman. But use it if you must. Do you realise that you are out of your depth in shark-infested waters?’

  ‘Why did George Bright pick me, I wonder?’ I asked without expecting an answer,

  David looked at me strangely for a moment. ‘Who knows?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps for more reasons than either of us can guess.’

  I ignored him and turned back to the girl. She couldn't even see me. She was on her own private trip. I knew the feeling well. I'd been there often enough myself.

  I looked back at David. ‘What about the Brixton connection?’ I asked. ‘The punks and the s
quatters, where do they come in?’

  ‘Patsy is still a child,’ he replied. ‘She needed friends of her own age. She wanted to see her beloved musical groups. We all crave peer acceptance. She did not choose her friends wisely. She gravitated towards an unfortunate social set. She could and did supply them with drugs, without George Bright's knowledge. It was an easy way to obtain popularity. Unfortunately it brought tragedy in its wake, and notoriety. She has now been weaned away from that particular episode in her life.’

  ‘So she did supply Jane Lewis with the pure heroin that killed her?’

  ‘No, Mr. Sharman. How could she? She'd been away from George Bright and his drug sources for over two months when the Lewis girl died.’

  ‘Patsy could've got them from you. You told me that she's an accomplished thief. She's obviously high right now. You must be involved in drug trafficking too. You didn't get this motor with Co-op stamps.’

  ‘I must disappoint you again. Patricia has absolutely no access to drugs at all. Any that she receives from me are in carefully controlled doses and administered in a clinical way.’

  He really was a cold hearted bastard. If I hadn't had two guns pointed at me, I'd have administered him a clinical broken arm.

  ‘So what was the tragedy then?’ I asked.

  ‘Why. Your friend Southall of course,’ he replied.

  ‘You killed Terry?’

  ‘No again. I can see I must let some more light into your life. Let us go back to the afternoon you were lured to the house in Brixton.’

  My head was spinning. David seemed to know everything that had happened to me recently. ‘How the hell do you know about that?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘May I continue?’ he asked.

  ‘Go ahead,’ I replied.

  ‘The three men you met there worked for George Bright's partners. They pose as staff at Bright Leisure. I believe you missed them when you paid a visit to the warehouse earlier today.’

  I felt like a burke. I'd believed George Bright when he told me there were only two of them. I'd believed the descriptions he had given to me. I'd believed far too much without substantiation. It was going to get worse before it got better.