by Mark Timlin
As the small altercation continued, I watched the rest of the press crew. One nondescript forty-something, with long thin blond hair, a leather jacket and jeans, who was standing slightly apart from the rest of the gang with a camera slung round his neck and a cheap-looking canvass holdall hanging from one shoulder, was looking very closely at the policeman and the journalist arguing. He shuffled from one foot to the other then caught me looking at him.
Our eyes met for a moment, then he broke the contact and began to walk away from the rest of the group. I went down the steps, through the gap in the wall and followed him.
He glanced over his shoulder and began to walk faster. I did the same. He began to run. Now, as you might have gathered, running is not my strong suit. The old wound in my foot, and the metal plates and screws that hold the bones together, don’t make me a natural contestant in the London Marathon. But I broke into a run too. I glanced behind me and the young copper was standing looking at my retreating back in amazement.
The blond man turned the corner. There was a motor bike parked twenty yards or so down the road and he was mounting it, ignition key in hand, as I turned the corner after him. I speeded up as best I could but I knew that I’d blown it. I should have waited for Harper and reinforcements instead of enlisting the aid of the constable. I shouted something at the man. God knows what, or what good I thought it would do. He ignored my shout and hit the starter, pushed the bike off its stand and, with a roar from the engine, headed in my direction. I ran into the road, as if that would do anything but get me killed, and he aimed the bike straight at me. I moved closer to the kerb, out of the way, but he pushed the machine into a sideways skid, and I had to jump to avoid being hit.
As I dodged the back wheel of the bike, which if it had made contact could have broken most of the bones in my legs, I stumbled, lost my balance, and fell on to my knee. I put out my hands to save myself, but kept falling, and my head hit the kerbstone with a crack that knocked me dizzy. I sat up, shaking my head to clear my vision, and blood filled my eyes. I tried to clear it away so that I could see the number plate of the bike. But as I scrabbled at my face with fingers that felt like lead, the rider expertly straightened the machine out of its skid and accelerated away with a crackle from the exhaust in a cloud of blue, noxious smoke. All I could see through the red veil that clouded my vision was a blur of yellow and black, and he was turning the corner out of my sight.
35
As I sat there with blood dripping down my face and the front of my shirt, and the motor bike turned left down a side street, the young copper pounded round the corner. He looked at the bike as it vanished, then at me, and ran towards me.
‘Was that him?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Jesus! They’ll have my bollocks for breakfast for this back at the station,’ he said, helping me to my feet.
‘Did you get the number?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Did you?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Oh, fuck.’ Which was exactly how I felt about it too.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked me.
‘I’ll survive,’ I said. ‘Have you radioed in?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Harper is already on his way. He got a call from inside the flat a few minutes ago.’
‘You’d better tell them about him,’ I said, gesturing at the corner the motor cycle had turned.
The young copper did as he was told. He operated his radio and said, ‘Alpha 231 to Sierra Bravo. Alert all units. Be on the look out for a black motor cycle being ridden by a male IC1. Blond. Early forties. No crash helmet. Wearing a leather jacket and jeans and carrying a tan bag. No registration number of the cycle. Last seen turning into Marshall Street, SW9. Heading south. He’s a suspect in a murder case.’
He got an affirmative back in a crash of static.
Fat chance, I thought. I’d’ve bet serious money he had his crash helmet in the bag, and by now he was street legal.
‘You’re a bit of a mess,’ said the young copper. ‘That cut on your head looks bad.’
He reached into the pocket of his tunic and pulled out a snowy white handkerchief, neatly folded into a square. He gave the handkerchief to me, and I put it against the wound on my forehead. That gesture, giving me his handkerchief when he needn’t have bothered, a little bit of common humanity amongst all the cruelty and wickedness I’d seen and heard about over the last few days, affected me more than I would have thought possible. The knife of pain turned in my stomach so hard I almost doubled up. I felt terribly weak all of a sudden, and the copper must have seen something of it because he gripped my arm in his strong hand, and led me over to a low wall nearby.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Before you fall down. You took a nasty knock there.’
I did as I was told. I felt a right mess. I was covered in blood, and when I looked down at my trousers, there was a rip in the knee and I could feel more blood running down my leg, and the palms of both my hands were cut and rubbed raw. That bastard John. This was another one I owed him.
From the distance I heard the whoop of sirens.
Against the copper’s advice I stood up and we walked back to the corner of Day’s street, and as we turned into it two police cars came in from the opposite end.
They skidded to a halt, their doors opened and a bunch of police got out, uniformed from one car and plainclothes from another. I saw Harper straight away, and he saw me. He broke away from the rest and headed in our direction.
‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘What happened to you? And what was that message we just got over the radio all about?’
I looked at the uniformed constable, and he looked at me. So many questions. Where did we start?
‘I think we had him,’ I said. ‘But he got away.’
‘Who?’ said Harper, as if he knew but needed to hear it confirmed.
‘John from Stockwell,’ I said.
‘What!’ exploded Harper.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘Sorry?’ said Harper. ‘You stupid fucker!’ Then he turned to the constable. ‘What do you know about this?’
‘Just what this gentleman told me,’ he replied. Meaning me. ‘And then what I saw. He chased someone. He got away on a motor bike.’
Harper turned back to me. ‘So tell me.’
I gave him a precis of the day’s events so far. When he heard about the tapes I thought he was going to have a heart attack. When he heard how John had got away, I was almost sure he would.
‘And neither of you got the number of the bike?’ he demanded. We both agreed sheepishly.
‘Two trained observers,’ he said apoplectically. ‘And neither of you can get a simple number down!’
‘He was turning the corner of Marshall Street when I got there,’ said the uniformed constable. ‘I only saw him for a split second.’
‘I was being dumped on my head,’ I said. ‘The sod was trying to maim me for life.’
Right then, I think, Harper wouldn’t have been the least upset if the attempt had been successful.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s try and salvage something from this mess.’ He beckoned a plainclothes copper over. ‘You,’ he said, ‘take him,’ he pointed his thumb at the constable, ‘in the back of the car. Get a statement. Everything he remembers. Then you,’ this time he spoke directly to the constable, ‘back to the station. I want a full report of this fiasco on my desk when I get back. You – ’ he pointed at one of the uniforms who had arrived by car – ‘get on the door of the flats. No one in or out without my say so. The rest of you, each grab a gentleman of the press. I want to know what they know about our friend who got away. Anything. And no excuses.’
They all got busy. The press boys were already asking questions and firing off cameras in all directions. I wondered how they were going to feel when it was their turn to be interrogate
d.
‘And as for you.’ Harper looked directly at me, and I could see specks of foam on his lips and the blood vessels of his face like road maps under the skin. ‘Inside. Up to Day’s flat. I want your statement while I listen to these tapes.’ He grabbed another uniformed officer. ‘Come with us and write it up.’
The officer nodded, then added ‘Yes, sir’ smartly when he saw Harper’s face redden in anger again, and we all did as we were told.
Harper, the uniform and I went up to Day’s flat in the lift. As it trundled upwards, Harper said to me, ‘Do you want the surgeon to have a look at that cut on your head?’
I shook it, and winced.
Harper gave me an unsympathetic look. ‘I suppose Ms Brody,’ he accented the prefix heavily, ‘is still sitting at the back of the building?’ he said to the uniformed officer who was with us.
The uniform nodded.
‘Is she on her own?’
‘No. I think Bob Davies is with her.’
‘Then get her upstairs with the first-aid box and see what she can do with this man’s head.’
When the lift doors opened and Harper rang Day’s flat doorbell, the uniform got on his radio.
Day opened the door to us.
The uniform took me into the kitchen where the remains of the smashed drinking glass still lay in the sink, and Harper took Day into the living room where the tape machine was, and closed the door firmly behind them.
There was a ring at the front doorbell and the uniform answered. The policewoman who had allowed me entry at the back door stood in the doorway holding a white metal box with a red cross on top. She came into the kitchen and looked at me.
‘Hello again,’ I said.
She barely nodded a reply then said, ‘Looks like you’ve been in the wars.’
‘Looks like it.’
She put the box on the kitchen table, opened it, took a fresh pair of thin latex gloves out of their cellophane packet and put them on.
‘Nothing personal,’ she said. ‘Body fluids. You know.’
I nodded, and the uniformed male officer sniggered nastily.
She gave him a dirty look.
‘Let me see,’ she said, referring to my face.
I took the handkerchief away from the cut and she examined it closely.
‘Why is it always me that has to do the patching up?’ she asked nobody in particular.
‘The feminine touch,’ said the other copper. ‘And you can touch me any time.’
The policewoman gave him another dirty look. She was tall and heavily built, with blond hair pinned up under her hat. She had a round face, blue eyes, and as she worked on the cut she caught her tongue between her teeth. She deftly cleaned the wound, applied antiseptic that stung like hell, pulled the skin tight, and applied a couple of butterfly plasters. Then she covered the whole thing with gauze and taped it down.
‘You should see a doctor,’ she said. ‘You could use some stitches.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ I replied.
‘Please yourself. That’s all I can do for now. But I warn you, you’re going to have a lovely pair of shiners.’
The male uniform sniggered again. Obviously any reference to pairs, with a woman present, was his cue for a good laugh.
The policewoman shook her head at him sadly. ‘I’d better get back downstairs. Bob’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’
‘Go on then,’ said the male uniform with a leer. ‘And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do in the back of that motor.’
‘It’s what you would do that bothers me,’ she said, and left.
‘I would too,’ the uniform said when she’d left. ‘I can think of lots of dirty things I’d like to do to her. I bet she wears black knickers.’
I didn’t bother to reply, and he looked rather hurt that we weren’t going to discuss the policewoman’s choice of underwear.
‘I think you want a statement, don’t you?’ I said instead, and he took out his notebook and I told him everything that had happened since Day’s phone call.
As we sat together, and I talked, and he wrote what I said down, I smoked and picked pieces of road out of the palms of my hands, and flicked them into the sink with the broken glass.
Half an hour passed, and Harper came out of the living room alone. If anything he seemed to be in a worse mood than when he’d gone in. He looked into the kitchen, said nothing, then went out of the flat. He was gone for another fifteen minutes before there was a ring on the front doorbell. The uniformed officer answered it, and Harper came back and joined us. Day still hadn’t emerged. Whilst Harper had been gone, the uniform had made us both a cup of tea. He offered one to Harper who refused.
‘So?’ I said to him, without expecting much of a reply.
‘His name was Steve, or so he said,’ said Harper. ‘He told the rest of the press contingent he was a photo stringer for a group of free newspapers in the area. He’d been out there, off and on, since Friday. He seemed to know what he was doing. Everyone took him at face value.’
I nodded.
‘You’re a prat, Sharman,’ Harper went on. ‘If you suspected something, why didn’t you wait? We could have come down mob handed and pulled him easily. Who do you think you are? Enlisting the aid of some wet behind the ears woodentop.’
The uniformed officer didn’t seem too pleased at the description of his colleague.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Sorry? You will be.’
‘What can I say?’ I said.
‘Not much.’
‘What’s going to happen to Peter Day?’
‘We’ll think of something.’
Harper roamed round the kitchen, picking things up and putting them down.
‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I don’t feel too great. Can I go home?’
‘Go? I’ll say you can go,’ said Harper. ‘Has he made a complete statement?’ he asked the uniform.
‘Yes, Sarge,’ came the reply.
‘Then get out of my sight, Sharman. And don’t let me see you anywhere round me again until I want you. Understand?’
I understood.
36
I was back home by four. I took off my ruined trousers, jacket and shirt and threw them in the corner. My knee was cut and grazed, and two lines of dried blood ran down to the top of my sock. I took the socks off too, and tossed them on top of the rest.
I went into the bathroom and cleaned the wound and my leg and the cuts on my hands. They weren’t serious. Then I applied disinfectant, found fresh socks, a clean shirt and a pair of old, soft jeans to put on.
I went into the bathroom to look at my face. The policewoman had been right. My eyes were puffed and swollen and two perfect black rings surrounded them. Luckily the tape hid most of the damage to my forehead. But I still looked like I’d gone a couple of rounds with Bruno and come off second best. I shrugged at my reflection and went back into the living room.
I looked at the kettle, and then at the depleted bottle of vodka, and decided to take a walk to the off licence. I couldn’t be bothered with a pub. I didn’t need the company.
I walked down the road and into Thresher’s. The geezer behind the counter said, ‘What’s the other bloke look like, then?’
Like you in twenty seconds if I come over the jump, I thought, but said nothing. It was my local offie after all, and it wouldn’t do to commit ABH on the owner, even if he was asking for it. Besides, he stocked a good line in exotic beers that I like to try from time to time.
So I just smiled a smile I didn’t feel and asked for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, paid for it and left.
I went back home and did serious damage to the bottle. It didn’t help much, but at least it didn’t talk to me. I fell asleep in front of the TV about one in the morning and dreamt about Sophia.
Not pleasant
dreams.
37
The phone woke me again. It was always doing that lately. The curtains were drawn, but not properly, and I could see that it was full daylight outside.
I found the thing under a cushion and answered it.
‘What?’ I said, through the most vicious hangover I could remember for, oh, at least a fortnight.
‘Nick?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Piers.’
‘Who?’
‘Piers. The photographer. Friend of Chas’s.’
‘Sure. Sorry, Piers. You woke me up.’
‘It’s ten o’clock.’
‘Did I order an early morning call?’
He sounded confused, like he’d got the wrong number. ‘Is this Nick Sharman?’ he asked.
‘Yeah. Whoa! Wait a minute.’
I put down the receiver, went over to the sink, put on the cold tap and stuck my mouth, then my whole head into the flow. Too late I remembered the bandage on my face, but by then it was soaked.
Shit, I thought, grabbed a tea towel, dried what I could and went back to the call.
‘Piers,’ I said, when I picked up the phone again. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I know him.’
‘Who?’
‘The bloke the police are looking for.’
I squeezed my eyes shut which hurt even more than having them open. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked.
‘Course I am.’
‘How?’
‘My girlfriend. She’s a photographer too. The year before last, things were getting a bit tight money-wise. She taught a course for Lambeth Council. Night school, you know.’
I knew. ‘What kind of course?’ I asked.
Bit by bit I was coming awake. I saw the nine-tenths empty bottle of JD standing on the carpet and shuddered.
‘Darkroom work mostly. Processing and printing. I used to meet her for a drink sometimes afterwards. That’s when I saw him.’
‘Where did the course take place?’
‘South Bank Poly.’
‘And you’re sure it’s the same bloke?’