by Mark Timlin
QUICK BEFORE THEY CATCH US
Family trouble! Growing old quietly was never really an option for Nick Sharman. When he takes on a job for a prosperous Manchester businessman looking for his runaway teenage daughter, Meena, he should, perhaps, have known better. He finds himself in a race against time to save the girl from the kind of trouble that gives families a bad name. Trying to do the right thing, Nick swaps sides and ends up starring in his own version of a Straw Dogs shoot out with family and friends, where nobody comes out the winner.
About the Author
Mark Timlin has written some thirty novels under many different names, including best-selling books as Lee Martin, innumerable short stories, an anthology and numerous articles for various newspapers and magazines. His serial hero, Nick Sharman, who appears in Take the A-Train, has featured in a Carlton TV series, starring Clive Owen, before he went on to become a Hollywood superstar. Mark lives in Newport, Wales.
‘The king of the British hard-boiled thriller’ – Times
‘Grips like a pair of regulation handcuffs’ – Guardian
‘Reverberates like a gunshot’ – Irish Times
‘Definitely one of the best’ – Time Out
‘The mean streets of South London need their heroes tough. Private eye Nick Sharman fits the bill’ – Telegraph
‘Full of cars, girls, guns, strung out along the high sierras of Brixton and Battersea, the Elephant and the North Peckham Estate, all those jewels in the crown they call Sarf London’ – Arena
To my friend Judith and to
Peter Walker, for his invaluable input
1
In an ever changing world, it’s good to know that some things are constant. So, when I’m not hanging around some low life dive looking for an even lower life individual who’s run out on his child support maintenance or defaulted on a county court order or something similar, then Friday night is ruby night. A good medium to hot curry with some saffron rice and a few pints of lager before a large water ice followed by a couple of Irish coffees made with real cream, not something out of a spray can.
You can always judge a restaurant by its Irish coffee, and as I’ve mentioned before, by some strange quirk, Indian restaurants make the best. I’ve never been able to figure out why. The coffee’s got to be boiling hot, strong and dark, the cream cool and fresh, with lots of sugar stirred into the coffee, not left at the bottom of the glass, and it’s got to be a double measure of spirit. Nothing less will do, and that’s all she wrote.
And lately, the place to go for those thick and sticky treats has been Luigi’s. Not that it’s called Luigi’s any more, but it was a first-rate purveyor of pizza and pasta for so many years before Luigi took himself and his wife and all the little Luigis and Luigiettes back to Italy to live the full and prosperous lives they all deserved, that I can’t bring myself to call it anything else. Even though nowadays it’s been renamed Curry Nights and the white walls have been painted a gentle peach to match the new tablecloths and napkins and succulent plants strong and thick enough to hide a family of monkeys entwine themselves between the tables like you were in some exotic jungle on the Indian sub-continent. Real high class, I’m sure you’ll agree.
But that’s not the reason I still go there regularly and can call the waiters by name and always get a good table. No. The reason I go there is because, at half-nine or so when I’m slumped back in my chair and the Irish whiskey is beginning to kick in, the owner comes on in a tight white suit with a high collar and extravagantly flared trousers spattered with rhinestones, his hair slicked back in a greasy quiff, the karaoke machine spits out the backing track for American Trilogy, and the one, the only, bhangra Elvis in south London karate kicks himself back to Las Vegas circa 1969 when the King had made a triumphant comeback with a top five record and a TV show that had broken all viewing records. At least that’s what the owner had told me, and who was I to argue with an expert? And he was an expert. On Elvis’ life and death and everything in between.
I’ve never told him, in fact I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone, but I remember exactly what I was doing the night Elvis died. The 16th of August 1977, as clear as if it were yesterday. I was with a whore in west London. Not that I can remember precisely where she lived, I was too pissed for that. But roughly it must’ve been Chiswick or Hammersmith. That’s the only thing I don’t remember, the rest’s as clear as day.
I was in the job then, a detective-constable, keen as mustard, married to Laura, and living in Kennington, but Judith was yet to be conceived. Still a twinkle as they used to say. I’d been on at the Bailey for a long firm trial and we’d had a result. I had a few drinks after with my colleagues to celebrate, then headed further into town on my own, and as the pubs shut at three in those days I’d found a drinker in Goodge Street that stunk of piss where the barman, a heavy individual, entertained the punters with close-up conjuring tricks.
It said members only on the door, but there was no question of membership. I guess being able to find it was the requisite.
The girl was at the bar drinking gin and tonics and putting the lemon slices in the ashtray in front of her. I asked her why. She told me that then she knew how many she’d had, which was fair enough I suppose. When I started talking to her it was seven, when we left at five-thirty it was fifteen. We went straight into a pub over the road and I almost fell down the stairs when I went for a piss, I was so drunk.
We stayed there till eight and she told me she was on the game then invited me home with her. She was a big girl in a red dress, and underneath she was wearing red French knickers over her tights. I found that out when I put my hand up under her skirt and into her crotch.
I’d forgotten about Laura and the supper that was cooking by then and the girl and I left the pub and hailed a cab and it cost me a fortune. I think there was some trouble with the cabbie on the Westway but fuck knows what.
We got to her flat and it had started raining and inside there was another tart and a young boy of dubious sexuality, and the woman was cooking chicken curry and I had some. Then we got stuck into a bottle of Scotch and the evening vanished.
The girl and I finally got into bed around one and I couldn’t get it up. Not a flicker. Not a glimmer. The bird was well pissed off, and I wasn’t too happy myself. ‘Some nights you can’t even give it away,’ she said bitterly. I’ll always remember that.
I fell asleep for a bit and when I woke up Riders on the Storm by the Doors was playing on the radio. It was Radio Luxembourg, remember that?
There was something weird about the whole vibe and I had a horrible feeling the girl was going to come in with a kitchen knife and do me serious injury.
Then on the hour there was a news bulletin. Elvis had been found dead, it said, and after that it was nothing but his old records.
I got up and got dressed and left without saying goodbye. It was pissing down outside, thunder and lightning and all sorts and I didn’t have a coat. I took shelter under a tree in someone’s front garden. Then I saw a cab with its light on and stood in the middle of the road so it had to stop.
The cabbie was pissed off too. Said he lived about a minute away and was on his way home. I told him he should’ve turned off his light and showed him my warrant card and threatened to report him to the carriage office if he didn’t take me. I was in the cab by then and he took me as far as the Houses of Parliament and no further, so I had to walk the last bit.
It was almost four by the time I got home and Laura wasn’t best pleased. I told her Elvis was dead, and fell into bed beside her and slept till noon.
She never asked me where I’d been and I n
ever told her.
She’s dead too now, but our marriage was over long before. I’m sorry for the way I treated her, but being sorry doesn’t cut it. Not in my book. Not any more.
That particular Friday, over twenty years since Elvis had overdosed on prescription medicine and junk food, I was planning to take my new chum Melanie Wiltse out to dine and drink and sing along to In the Ghetto, Blue Moon of Kentucky and other Elvis favourites. I’d met Melanie on my case: I’d been hired to find her best friend by her best friend’s husband and we’d become close. I liked her and we were becoming something of an item. She still had her flat in Walthamstow, but because she worked in Blackfriars and the Thameslink station was only a short stroll down to the bottom of my road and would deposit her at her desk in less than thirty minutes, she seemed to have become a kind of room mate.
I knew that when I found my shaving gear consigned to the tiny window ledge in my minuscule shower room and her make-up victoriously claiming the shelf above the sink.
I read somewhere that we are all just nine meals away from the breakdown of society. Three days from total anarchy and murder in the street. I reckon that when you find half a dozen pairs of clean women’s knickers in an M&S bag on the sideboard next to your bed you’re only nine meals and three days away from total female domination.
But then – who gives a shit?
Of course recently, she’s been getting on my case to make things more permanent. But then that’s what women do when they get into a relationship with a man. God made them that way.
So there I was that afternoon, safe and warm in my little flat watching TV without a care in the world, looking forward to an evening of hedonistic pleasure with my new girlfriend, just kicking back without a care in the world except whether to watch Jerry Springer or The Rockford Files, not knowing what fate had in store for me before I got as far as ordering the chicken korma and the Kingfisher lager.
2
Melanie came in around six-thirty that particular evening, all fresh paint job, flowery perfume and cold autumn air from the street outside, clutching four Tesco Metro shopping bags and a black leather shoulder bag, shucked off her coat and came over and gave me a kiss. I think I forgot to say she had a spare key. Female domination. Remember?
She smelt good, she felt good, so like I said, who the fuck cared if she’d moved in on me?
‘Hello duck,’ she said. ‘Had a good day?’ I knew she was in a good mood when she called me duck.
‘Are You Being Served? from the 1970s, The New Avengers from the 1980s and Between the Lines from the 1990s,’ I replied. Jesus, but I love satellite television.
‘You watch too much TV. You should get out into the world and earn some money.’
‘I’ve got some money. When that’s gone I’ll earn some more. And I’m not that fond of the world. It’s all too real out there.’
‘You could do with a dose of reality.’
‘I’ve had plenty, remember? The last dose of reality I had left me in hospital for a couple of weeks. I’m just happy to sit here and chill out with a bottle of beer and the TV.’
‘Ever heard the story of the ant and the grasshopper? GRASSHOPPER.’ She pulled her eyes slitty and pronounced it like the priest from Kung Fu.
‘And you say I watch too much TV,’ I said and gave her another hug. ‘How was your day?’
‘Not bad. Made my bosses a few thousand quid, had lunch with some mates from the office, talked about who’s going to bed with who they shouldn’t be. Filed my nails, bought some Tampax. Girly things, you know.’
‘Tampax. Does that mean PMT’s about to strike?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Hey, Mel. What’s the difference between a terrorist and a woman with PMT?’ I said.
‘Oh good Nick. More public bar jokes.’
‘No. Come on, what’s the difference?’ I pressed. I love to get her at it. I know it’s juvenile, but there you go.
‘I don’t know,’ she said patiently and with a thin smile.
‘You can negotiate with a terrorist.’
‘Cutting edge humour, Nick. You should watch it. You might hurt yourself, you’re so sharp.’
‘Just a boyfriend joke, Mel. I’ve got a thousand of them.’
‘I just bet you have,’ and she pulled off one of her high heeled shoes and threw it. I caught it one-handed.
‘You going to stay the weekend?’ I asked as she kicked off the other. See, I was glad she was there really. I just thought that sometimes I should put up a token resistance.
‘If that’s OK with you, and you promise not to tell any more boyfriend jokes.’
‘Scout’s honour,’ I said, giving her a salute with three fingers against my forehead.
‘OK, then, I’ll stay.’
‘Perfect.’
‘I brought food.’
‘We’ll eat that another day. I fancy an Indian tonight.’
‘Big surprise. Don’t you ever get tired of that bloke and his Elvis impersonations?’
‘No. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Course not. I wouldn’t be here if I did.’
‘I’d better take a shower and change before we go then,’ I said and got up from the sofa.
‘Good idea, you’re beginning to smell a bit ripe.’
‘Charming,’ I said and pulled off the sweatshirt and jeans that I must admit were a few days past their wash-by date and tossed them somewhere close to the laundry basket. I hadn’t seen Melanie for a couple of days and had been a bit lax in my personal hygiene. When you’ve got nothing to do, why bother? On the way through the kitchen dressed just in my shorts I grabbed Mel from behind and gave her a proper cuddle and rubbed my face into her neck.
‘Did I say ripe?’ she asked. ‘I meant rotten. And have a shave, will you? Your beard’s like iron filings.’
‘But am I still your sex god?’ I asked.
‘I’ll tell you later.’
I went into the bathroom, showered, shaved, rubbed my hair dry, then with a towel round my waist I went to find clean clothes.
‘That’s better,’ she said when I emerged. ‘Sex god is a possibility.’
‘Thank you so much.’
I dressed in fresh underwear and socks, a laundered shirt, pressed chinos and boots and had to admit to myself that it did feel good to be clean again.
‘Are we going to drive?’ asked Mel whilst I was combing gel into my hair.
‘I fancy a walk,’ I replied. ‘I haven’t been out all day, except to get the paper this morning.’
‘What a bloody life you do lead,’ she said, and found a pair of low-heeled pumps under the sofa and shoved her nyloned feet into them. ‘Are you fit then?’ she asked.
‘Not as fit as you are, darling,’ I replied with a leer.
‘Don’t you ever come up with any new lines?’
‘Not when the old ones work so well.’
I pulled on my old Schott leather, put cigarettes, lighter and wallet into the pockets, strapped on my watch and I was ready. Melanie put her coat back on and we left the flat.
3
It was Only about a ten minute walk up to Streatham High Road and we got to the restaurant about half-seven, quarter to eight. It was mostly empty that early and a familiar waiter came trotting over and wished us a very good evening before leading us to our usual table in the corner with a good view of the stage.
We ordered a couple of beers whilst we looked over the menu, but it wasn’t the waiter who brought them. Instead it was the boss, the surrogate Hillbilly Cat, Suri Agashe, dressed in the black dinner jacket and bow tie which was his uniform when he wasn’t strutting his Elvis stuff, who arrived a few moments later with the bottles and glasses on a tray.
‘Good evening Mr Sharman, good evening madam,’ he said in his peculiar accent that was somewhere between Bombay and Bradf
ord, as he poured the drinks. Maybe I forgot to mention it. Suri’s family had settled up north somewhere when they came to this country, which, to me at least, made his obsession with a fat junkie from Memphis, Tennessee even more peculiar. But to each his own. ‘I am so glad you are in this evening,’ he continued. ‘Mr Sharman, can I see you a moment in private?’
‘What for?’ I asked. ‘Panic in the kitchen? Sorry Suri, my expertise with Indian food stops at Marks and Sparks meals for one in the microwave.’
‘No, Mr Sharman. I need a word. I won’t keep you for longer than a minute.’
I looked at Mel. She shrugged. ‘OK Suri,’ I said. ‘Where?’
‘In the back,’ he said, and I pulled a puzzled face at Melanie, excused myself, got up and followed him through the doors that lead to the kitchen area. Inside it smelt warm and spicy. Suri dragged me out into the tiny service area at the back of the restaurant which housed the rubbish bins for the place and believe me didn’t smell half as good.
‘What’s the story, Suri?’ I asked when the door to the kitchen was closed and we were alone.
‘There is someone coming to the restaurant tonight who wants to see you,’ he said.
‘Do I owe him money?’ I asked only half jokingly. I’ve got a history.
‘No, no, no. Quite the contrary. In fact it is me who owes him. He is my benefactor. His name is Mr Rajesh Khan.’ He said the name almost reverentially. ‘It is he who gave me the wherewithal to open this establishment. I worked for him for many years since leaving school. He is down here from Manchester at the moment, and when I told him about you he was most eager to make your acquaintance.’
‘What did you tell him about me?’
‘What you do for a living. A private detective.’
‘Semi-retired, Suri. Semi-retired.’
‘Oh Mr Sharman.’ Suri wrung his hands and for one horrible moment I thought he was going to get down on his knees. ‘Please see Mr Khan, I beg you. I have told him so much of your exploits and he says you are just the man for the job.’