“Bromley.”
“Kent or By Bow?”
“Kent. It’s more Bickley, St George’s Church.”
“By?”
“Wedding’s at 2 o’clock.”
“So panic over, you’ve got hours. Get yer stuff, I’ll call you a sherbert. You’ll be home, or wherever you want to be, in half an hour. Plenty of time for a fresh coat of spray-paint or whatever else you need to do. You’ll look lovely. You do already.”
Johnny spoke with such easy authority that he seemed to suck the alarm straight out of her.
Carly and the near-mute Tracey were gone in under fifteen minutes, and remarkably Rosie slept right through it.
She was a good-looking sort; nicely curvy with an old-fashioned swallow tattooed above her left breast. Now I thought about it, an old-fashioned swallow had featured in our fun and games last night, too.
Slowly the memories returned – Rosie behind the jump, in the fifties style polka dot red and black swing prom pin-up dress that currently decorated the TV set. She caught my eye as effortlessly as Collingwood dismissing Matthew Hayden in 2005. Rosie was generously busty, a pretty brunette in her mid-20s with heavy shaped eyebrows and heavier roulette red lipstick. She looked like someone out of a time machine: old-fashioned, pure and untouched...which had made fucking her so much more fun.
Johnny yawned theatrically as he closed the door on his conquests, looked at me and said “Breakfast?”
“Don’t mind if I do. Rosie? Rose?” I nudged her gently.
The barmaid’s eyelids flicked. Her double wing eye make-up was heavily smudged; the lipstick had been completely worn off. She smiled and stroked my cheek. I kissed hers.
“You two!” she grinned in a voice from the North West – not quite Manchester or Chester, maybe Runcorn. I’d have to ask. “You were steaming! If I’d written down your conversation last night it would have looked like someone had cut up a Tarantino script and turned it into a ransom note...”
“Ha! When was this?” asked Johnny.
“It was after we’d all been to bed once, and then you and Harry got up and started drinking the Buckfast.”
“Buckfast?!” we said as one.
“That Tracey girl had it in her bag.”
Rosie modestly pulled the duvet around her ample form and retreated to the khazi. I covered my modesty with a pillow.
“How was it?” Johnny asked reasonably quietly.
I gave him the thumbs up. “Yorn?”
“My first vajazzle,” he laughed. “At first I thought it was her price list in Braille.”
“Ha. In my day a cunt covered in jewellery was called Jimmy Savile.”
“Boom boom!” John smiled contentedly, he looked as happy as a louse in a hobo’s chest hair. “She took my number. She reckoned she’d never come like she did last night, or as often. I think I might have taken the shine off the honeymoon, bruv. Not to mention the marriage.”
“You mean...”
“She was happy to assume I’d had the snip. But my troops have never been sent on a suicide mission, know what I mean? The world needs more Johnny Toos... Her mate was on the pill, but she weren’t much cop. Normally if you wanted sex that dull you’d have to get married.”
I smiled. “They do reckon that the most frequent position for married couples is doggie style – the husband sits up and begs, the missus rolls over and plays dead...one of the reasons I won’t be walking up any aisles again in a hurry.”
My iPhone bleeped. Knockers. I’d had four texts and three missed calls from her since last night. No drama, she knew I was “away on business”. She’d wait.
“My old woman divorced me while I was inside,” Johnny said, matter of factly, with barely a trace of sadness. “Sold the Chislehurst gaff, changed her name and fucked off to Portugal with some time sleazy share salesman. Dale Bishop. So him and me will be having a nice friendly chat when this is all done and dusted. Though to be honest he’s done me a favour. I’m well shot of the old joy vacuum.” He paused for a beat. “They’ve got a villa in Martinhal, near Sagres. Easy enough for me to find out exactly where, ’cos Slobberin’ Ron does her mum’s plumbing.” He paused and looked almost sympathetic. “I heard all about your ex-wives, H – the Filth filled me in. Sorry about Dawn. And was it Kara?”
“Yeah, she still thinks I’m brown bread. I’ve no idea where she and the kids are, or who she’s with. Probably some 9-5 office sap. She always wanted to be ‘normal’. I guess I’ll find out when this is over, too.”
I wondered for a moment what had become of his old barmaid, Lesley Gore. The moment passed.
“But first we’re going to flush out the vigilante...” he said.
“Yep. You’re the prize John, and I’m your minder. Like you fuckin’ need one. But we’ll flush him out all right. The story of your release is gonna be front page news in all the Sunday papers this weekend, and this prick Broadwick will be primed by his editor to lead his Tuesday column on the big scandal, setting you up nicely as the trophy at your high-profile release party next Friday.”
“At Stringfellow’s?”
“If that’s where you want it. The location will be revealed on Monday in a tabloid exclusive, the controversy will start to rage, with your chums at the Guardian trumpeting your early release as a triumph for British justice. And all week there will be a drip-drip of names of celebrities coming to your liberation knees-up. Our vigilante nutter will be incandescent with rage. There’s no way on earth he’ll be able to resist. But of course half the people at the do will be undercover Old Bill, just waiting for him to make his move.” I slipped into my best Mr T voice to add: “I pity the foo’.”
“Ha,” John said, mimicking the accent. “I love it when a plan comes together...”
“Well I’ve got one of me own, mate. ’Scuse me, John, I will have breakfast, but first I’m going have what you can’t. A little morning glory...”
And I sauntered off to the shower with the pillow still covering the evidence, cheerfully singing “Everything’s coming up Rosie’s...”
***
We emerged 40, 45 minutes later after I’d shown her a new use for a shower attachment. Johnny Too was dressed and beaming. “Breakfast is served,” he announced grandly, indicating three bottles of full-fat Coca Cola, a percolator full of hot coffee, three lines of Charlie and three glasses of bourbon.
I passed on everything except the Black Doctor, Coca Cola is always the best hangover cure and I had a lot on today. I had to get to Scotland Yard for a briefing. I had to meet a trustworthy brief. I had to call Knockers. But first and foremost I had to find an emergency dentist.
44
Monday 3rd December. Lower Thames Street, London EC3
The Daily Express Editor Paul Lloyd got straight onto William Broadwick as soon as he got into the office. He’d been expecting the big story to break of course, and he played his part in the plan exactly as the Chief Inspector had suggested. The premature release of South London crime lord John Baker was a scandal by any reckoning, but by the time he’d finished ranting about it to his now equally irate star writer there was no doubt about how tomorrow’s column would read.
“Batton down the hatches,” he laughed to his PA. “Ten tons of horse shit is about to hit the wind turbine.”
45
Tuesday. 4th December. Tonbridge, Kent. 9am
Gary Shaw settled down at his desk with a copy of the Daily Express, as usual. Only one thing was different. Today he was actually looking forward to the William Broadwick column, and he didn’t disappoint. Willie had led a spectacularly ill-tempered page with a savage assault on Johnny Too’s release, with additional thoughts on the uselessness of modern courts and the glorification of criminal scum by contemporary lads’ culture. His targets included Great Train Robbers – “dribbling failures”, David Courtney – “the wannabe villain with a head like a circumcised manhood”, Frankie Fraser – “a psychopathic rat-bag with no conscience and no remorse”, and the publisher Jo
hn Blake, whom he blamed for launching the “ghoulish” criminal autobiography “racket” with his big-selling ghost written books on Lenny McLean and Roy Shaw. The bulk of his vitriol was of course reserved for John Baker (he refused to use his ‘Johnny Too’ nickname) who was described as “a swaggering, cocksure slime-ball” and “the ugly face of Sarf Lunden black market capitalism repulsively elevated to the status of guru by the wet, liberal voyeurs of the Guardian and trendy Channel 4 wannabes.”Shaw smiled. It had gone exactly as planned.
The second lead was devoted to attacking Elf & Safety zealots (a joke he never tired of) for cancelling a Battle Of Turnham Green reunion event. There was a short piece lambasting the public for “pig-ignorant” punctuation howlers – he singled out a greengrocer’s sign advertising ‘asparagu’s’ and a hitchhiker who had spelt Hastings ‘Hasting’s’. Across the bottom of the column was a 150-word rant calling on David Cameron to “put a bomb under the EU” by vetoing the forthcoming European Union budget. Nothing to worry about there, thought Shaw. All he had to do now was lay in wait for Land Rover Man to attempt to gatecrash Johnny Too’s release party on Friday night.
46
Thursday 6th December
Toad Rock had attracted some strange people since the murder: ghouls, morbid sightseers, and tonight, a pro-Broadwick gathering. Gary Shaw had started dropping in to the Retreat for inspiration and cask beer. He wasn’t happy to find the pub busy and the solitary barmaid didn’t look too chuffed either.
Thelma had been watching an argument between two men get out of hand. One, with wingnut ears, had voiced his objection to what he called “the cult of vigilante thickoes”. A pro-Broadwick campaigner with glasses and a round face had questioned his parenthood and they were now circling each other, arms wide, in a traditional pre-fight ritual. It started quickly and ended quicker, with Wingnut pulling a ju-jitsu move on his opponent and putting him on his back. Gary Shaw stepped in to finish it there, only for another beefy pro-Broadwick brawler to come flying at Wingnut and crown him with a heavy wooden chair. He went down like a poleaxed ox.
“Enough!” snapped Shaw. For a moment the authority in his voice brought the aggro to a halt, but only for a moment. Suddenly, the guy with the round face was back on his feet and tearing into the DI with a flurry of kidney punches. Mick Neale walked in to see Gary Shaw hit the deck. Thelma screamed, Mick got angry.
“Time to go, ladies,” he said firmly.
“Who died and made you Sheriff, Mick?” Beefy asked sarcastically.
Mick could have talked to him, reasoned with him, calmed him down. But the truth was he’d had a long hard day and seeing the tears in Thelma’s eyes had done little to alleviate his mood. He drew a police-issue expandable baton from the inside of his coat and whacked the guy straight round the canister. Bosh. Beefy went down like the Belgrano.
“Anyone else want any?” Mick said loudly. “You?” he asked the kidney puncher. “No? Well I suggest you fuck off now and let decent people drink in peace.”
Nobody argued. It was worth it, thought Mick, for Thelma’s grateful kiss and cuddle, not to mention the free pints.
The off-duty cop was picking himself off the floor.
“You okay?” Mick asked.
“I’ll live.” He held out a hand.“Detective Inspector Gary Shaw. We have met, Michael, a long time ago. I won’t ask about the baton...”
They sat at a corner table and demolished a bottle of Glenfiddich Special Reserve, the ex-cop and the serving DI just shooting the breeze. Shaw brought up ‘Farmer Giles’.
“I know you work on a few farms now, Mick,” he said. “Can you think of anyone around her dumb or crazy enough to be pulling these stunts?”
Mick took a sip of single malt and savoured the sniff of pear, and the mix of pine, peat and rich fruit on his tongue.
“If you asked me that last month, I’d have said yes, Gary. I would have taken you straight round to Gulliver Stevens. But I saw him the other day and he’s lost it. The old man has got bats in his head. We’re talking proper loony tunes. No, there’s no one like that around here. Maybe old man Ashbee. But no one else.”
“Tell me about Ashbee.”
“Medium height, hard as a tray of nails, stocky, late fifties, maybe early sixties. Outspoken, a loner, doesn’t suffer fools. I don’t think this is his style though.”
“Does he drive a Land Rover?”
“Most of them do.”
At 11.15pm Thelma shut up shop and asked Mick to walk her home as she was shaken up by the fight. He shook hands with Gary Shaw and did his chivalrous duty. On the way she pulled herself into him, enjoying the wiry hardness of his body. They went inside for “a nightcap” and she found him on the settee five minutes later, dead to the world. He was still there snoring at half past nine the next morning.
47
Friday 7th December.Central London. 1am
The explosion that rocked Europe House in London’s Smith Square was a home-made device, a fertiliser bomb activated by a crude timer. It had been designed to simply blow out the windows. Unfortunately, a young clubber called Dom Wilson had been walking past at the time. He caught the full blast.
48
Peckham, South London, one hour later.
Bisho’s was the sort of club where they have to know you on the door before you come in, one where if you play up you’re likely to leave through the back door in a bin-liner. The run-down streets outside were in stark contrast to the Mark Powell suits and discreet but pricey Tom on show in side. If the double-breasted whistle said ’67, the face said 10-12. Naturally, Johnny knew everybody, every broken nose and ugly Mars bar in the joint. I recognised a few faces, but mercifully there didn't appear to be anyone here who I'd turned over.
The place was crawling with crooks, conmen, fences, gamblers and their groupies. How many hours of my life had I whiled away in the company of preening, wannabe goodfellas like these, every one of them as delusional as they were undesirable, all in the noble pursuit of law and order? The brotherhood of crime? Bollocks. They were all in it for themselves. A brotherhood of rats.
Bisho's erupted in bear hugs, hoots, handshakes, pecked cheeks and, for Johnny at least, palmed gifts of high-quality cocaine in one gram wraps. He declined the offer of a couple of escorts “on the ahse”.
“Maybe later,” said John. Ever gracious, ever the gent.
The feel of the club was as schizophrenic as Mad Jean Slater from EastEnders in blob week. The dance area doubled as a restaurant and was reasonably stylish, but the bar itself was like some 1970s nightmare of a pub, all dark wood, horse brasses and snapshot photographs of old faces – a celebration of a lost London, when the crime lords were home-grown and not imported from the wilder shores of Eastern Europe. It was a throwback that screamed out for spit and sawdust, and one which felt totally out of sync with the rest of the place.
It was a club where deals and fates alike were sealed, and here was I with my own personal devil, waiting for Lady Luck to blow on my dice or piss in my pocket.
We’d come “just for one” – one last late pint before the big night, instead we were now threatening to drink the joint dry. We sat at a corner table, next to the antique one-armed bandits, drinking bottled Stella with large whiskey chasers. No ice. It was going to get messy.
"This was a derelict lock-up until about eighteen months ago," said John.
"The bar's a bit..." I hesitated.
"Naff? Yeah, Bisho re-created the bar from his old pub."
"From the 70s?"
“No! 1996 – he never did have any taste.”
“What are you going to do, John?”
“Drink, eat, fuck...”
“I mean long-term. After this is all done and dusted...”
"Play golf, do a bit of carp fishing...”
“What are you going to do for money?”
Baker grinned broadly. “You’ll love this. They’re going to turn my story into a movie. Stevie, my nephew, has had all the meetings alre
ady, the film has been priced up – £3mill – the money’s in place, the director's signed up, we own the co-production company. I fancy Craig Fairbrass or Jason Statham playing me, but I’ll make sure you’re played by Danny Dyer so everyone will know from the start that you’re the wrongun.”
I looked at him. He was fucking serious. This had to be the cherry on top of the Heston Blumenthal supersized Bakewell tart of piss-taking that Baker was renowned for. And yet it made some kind of twisted sense, I suppose. The British public seem to have an endless appetite for gangster movies. We’ve already had The Krays, Charlie, Sexy Beast, Layer Cake, Gangster Number One and three movies made about Tucker and Tate, the Essex Boys...none as good as Get Carter. There were probably scores more, and at least the Baker brothers had been a bit more substantial than the made-up anti-heroes of any Guy Ritchie film you could mention.
British crime had long been overstuffed with two-bob wannabe Al Capones, parochial bully-boys, sadists and short-sighted psychopaths. John Baker was genuinely different. He was smart, at least as smart as Charlie Richardson, maybe smarter. Maybe history would see him the way he saw himself – as merely the blue-eyed poster boy for aggressive capitalism. A buccaneer, a prince of pirate enterprise...giving the people what they wanted, even if the law told them they couldn’t have it. Breaking the rules, because the rules were wrong...
Where there was a demand, the Bakers had provided the supply. Everyone was happy – except the Law. And the little guys who got leaned on and hurt along the way.
All I said was, “So, finally you'll get your chance to go legit.”
Johnny's big plan had always been to siphon the dirty money from the black market ops into legal earners and put serious distance between the core of the firm and what was going down at the street end; to make himself untouchable. He had been on the verge of pulling that off when I took him down.
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