by Mark Timlin
I reached into my pocket and fished out three bundles of five twenty pound notes and slid them under my plate. Ricky grinned and helped himself to the other half of my sandwich and the cash vanished with the food. ‘Got just the thing,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ and he left me alone with the lovely Veronica.
She said nothing, just drank her drink and read last Sunday’s property section of the Times until Ricky came back. She was probably looking for a little pied-à-terre off Portobello Road. ‘It’s outside,’ he said.
‘That was quick,’ I remarked.
‘You were in luck. I found a nice Mondeo just last night.’
‘Before it was lost?’
‘Course. It was being MOT’d down the road.’
‘Plates?’
‘Good as gold. It’ll be safe for at least a week.’
‘That’s plenty.’
‘Come on then,’ said Ricky, and I followed him out leaving a tenner for the tab and wishing Veronica good-bye, to which she just grunted in reply. Kids. What are they like?
33
Outside as promised was a dark blue automatic Mondeo just old enough to be ready for its first MOT. Ricky held out his hand, keys swinging on a silver key ring. ‘Very good,’ I said. ‘You’re better than Hertz.’
‘And you get to keep it as long as you want.’
‘Well, until it gets too hot anyway.’
He grinned. ‘Drive her in good health, Mr S,’ he said. ‘Anything else you need?’
‘Got any speed?’ I asked. ‘I might need to stay up past my bedtime.’
‘Ever known me without?’ he asked, and slid a prescription bottle out of the top pocket of his shirt and tossed it to me. ‘Ten of the best,’ he said.
‘How much?’
He put on a pained expression. ‘Gratis,’ he said. ‘I feel bad enough taking your money as it is. This one was too easy. In fact –’ he reached again into his pocket and came out with a little silver paper wrap, ‘– there’s something else for you.’
‘What?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘Something from mother nature’s larder.’
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Yeah. Just stick it in your pipe and smoke it. Guaranteed satisfaction every time.’
‘Cheers, Ricky,’ I said, taking it from him and stashing it in the pocket of my jeans. ‘You’re alright.’
‘Anything for a good customer. Now take it easy and I’ll see you soon.’
‘You will. Give my love to Veronica.’
‘Sure. I think she liked you.’
‘You could’ve fooled me,’ I said, and slid into the leather interior of the motor, switched on and listened as the engine purred into life. They must’ve given it a pre-MOT service at the garage I thought, and waved goodbye to Ricky. He went back inside to his inamorata as I put the gear stick into DRIVE and pulled away from the kerb.
I steered the car carefully through the throng, being careful not to run over any of the punters on the street as I didn’t want to be explaining myself and where the car had come from to the local boys in blue, and drove back home with only one spot of bother. As I went through Clapham a police car with headlamps and blue lights flashing and siren screaming came up fast behind me. Damn you, Ricky, I thought as I wondered whether to take off fast, you’ve done me up you little bastard. But it wasn’t to be. The police car swerved round me and was next seen pulled up in front of a new VW Golf driven by a young black man. Things never change, and I’d’ve been willing to bet his driving licence, insurance and tax were in perfect order. I slid past the two vehicles and made the rest of the journey without a mishap.
Once back I hid the Mondeo in my garage, went inside the house and warmed up a ready-made chop suey in the microwave, but couldn’t finish it – I was too on edge.
The last thing I did was phone Finbarr at home. ‘How’s it going?’ I asked when he answered.
‘OK. What’s the problem?’
‘No problem. I was just wondering what you were doing this weekend.’
‘Why?’
‘No reason. Thought we might get together.’
‘No. I’m busy. Sorry.’
‘Going away?’
‘No. Just staying here.’
‘How’s Betty?’
‘She’s good.’
‘Why don’t we all meet for lunch? Her and the family.’
‘No can do. She’s off with the kids to her mother’s down by the seaside.’
‘You didn’t fancy going?’
‘Listen, Nick. What’s all this about? You don’t usually worry about my domestic arrangements.’ He sounded a bit on edge, and with his holiday plans I wasn’t a bit surprised. So it seemed like it was all still on.
‘Nothing,’ I replied. ‘Fancy a drink tomorrow then, if you’re on your own?’
‘No. I can’t. I’ve got things to do.’
I was gripping the receiver so hard my fist was going white and I couldn’t resist saying. ‘A little bit of business?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well I hope it goes well for you, Fin.’
‘Thanks, Nick, me too. Listen, catch up with me after the holiday, yeah? We’ll have that drink then.’
‘OK, mate,’ I said. ‘I’ll do that.’
And on that friendly note we hung up.
34
The next morning dawned brightly, like a firework bursting in the east, the sun climbing across the pale blue, almost white sky around six a.m. I was awake long before that, staring through the window into a night that had hardly seemed to get dark, just dimmed the previous boiling summer’s day to give us some respite from the heat.
I hadn’t got to sleep until late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. When I’d almost given up, I remembered Ricky’s parting gift and dug into my jeans and found the wrap. Inside was a nugget of black, oily opium. Shit, I thought, it’s been years. I dug out my old hash pipe and dropped in the dope, lit it with my lighter and inhaled.
It hit me like a runaway train. So hard that I had to sit down fast before I fell down. That’s the stuff, I said, as I closed my eyes and drifted off.
And I dreamt about Sheila again. This dream was even more graphic and frightening than the last. I was in an old flat of mine where the back door looked out over a small patio garden with a clothes line that stretched from fence to fence. In the dream there was washing hanging on the line. I was looking out through the window when Sheila pushed through the clothes. She was naked and the bleeding wounds I’d seen when I’d found her in her flat stood out in relief on the white of her skin. I watched as she came closer. I opened the door and she came into my arms as a fierce rain fell from the sky soaking the washing. I held her tightly and started to cry, the tears pouring from my eyes like the rain outside. She said that she was hurting and I tried to comfort her, but could hardly speak for the sobs tearing my chest. My tears washed the gore from her wounds until the cuts were white and bloodless. She kept asking me why she’d had to die, and I could come up with no feasible answer. And then she told me to be careful, to trust no one.
I woke with a terrible start, the sheet that was all that was covering me wrapped around my legs. The bed was soaked with sweat and I’d been crying in my sleep again. I lay there breathless before wiping the dampness from my face, and shivered as the bedclothes cooled.
When the sun’s rays moved far enough around the room to reach my face I got up, showered, shaved and made tea. I was too hyper to eat. I looked out of my window. Nothing moved but an old feral cat who loped across the road and disappeared behind the dustbins at the front of the house.
When I’d finished my sparse breakfast, I cleaned my guns and reloaded the magazine of the .22 with ten fresh rounds. For the Detonics I decided to use extended, nine shot clips. I figured I was going to need every bullet I could carr
y. I filled one and a spare with brass jacketed, hollow point shells, smacked it into the butt, worked the action, popping a bullet into the breech, then dropped out the magazine and put another in its place, locking the hammer back. Now I was ready to rock and roll.
Then I got dressed in jeans, a hooded black long-sleeved sweatshirt, despite the weather. Over the shirt I wore the webbing shoulder holster for the .22 and put on a black cotton Harrington jacket to hide it and the .45 automatic stuck down the back of my pants.
About my person I stashed a mini Maglite torch, a pair of black, skintight leather gloves, sunglasses, the tube of speed that Ricky had given me minus one pill that I dry swallowed, the spare clip for the Detonics, my mobile, and round my neck on a leather bootlace, a Wilkinson Sword FS fighting knife with a metal handle in a leather scabbard.
All the better to stab you with, my dear, I thought.
I didn’t want to leave too early, and the morning seemed to take an eternity to pass, with me pacing the floor and chain smoking. But finally the clock on the wall pointed to eleven-thirty and it was time to go.
I went downstairs, put on the sunglasses and gloves, and climbed into the driver’s seat of the Mondeo. It was hot inside from the sun and the sweat broke out all over my body and reminded me of the dream I’d had. I switched on the engine and turned the air conditioning up high.
It took me less than thirty minutes to get to Bromley. Finbarr’s street was empty, sweltering under the blind yellow eye of the noonday sun that looked down on all our crimes and misdemeanours with an indifferent jaundice that judged them all equally unimportant.
The house was set back in its own grounds surrounded by a high brick wall where dusty ivy hung as if it hadn’t the strength to climb further in the heat. The black metal gate at the front was closed as I drove up and stopped the Ford where I could look down the drive to the house. It was large and white and reflected the sun’s light so that I might have been in Spain instead of a south London suburb. The double front doors were made of blackened wood gripped with iron hinges and stood at the top of three shallow stone steps. There was no sign of life and I prayed that Fin hadn’t been called away by his little firm. I got out of the car and tried the gates. They were locked tight.
I got back into the driver’s seat and punched his number into my mobile. The speed was kicking in nicely and I chewed on the inside of my mouth as I waited for the call to connect. He answered quickly. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Fancy that drink now, Fin?’ I asked.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Nick. Nick Sharman.’
‘Listen, Nick,’ he said, with exasperation in his voice, ‘I haven’t got time for a drink. I told you that yesterday. I’m busy. I’ve got no time.’
‘Make time. I thought you had at least until Tuesday morning. Isn’t that the plan?’
The exasperation was replaced by suspicion. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Not on a mobile, Fin,’ I said. ‘Who knows who might be listening?’
‘Where are you, Nick?’ he demanded.
‘Just outside.’
‘What are you doing there?’
‘Waiting for you.’
‘Why?’
‘Unfinished business, Fin.’
‘We have no business,’ he said.
‘Oh yes we do.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like who killed Sheila.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t play the innocent with me, Fin,’ I said, the sweat beginning to run down my body despite Mr Ford’s best attempts at air conditioning.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Liar. You bloody liar. Was it you or that fucker Tufnell? Or Morris. Maybe it was him, yeah?’
‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t keep lying, Fin. It’s all up. I know everything.’
‘You know nothing.’
‘We’ll see. So are you going to come out and see me or do I have to come in and get you?’
‘Nick. It’s hot and you’ve had a bad time. I understand that, so I suggest you turn around and go away again before I call the police.’
‘Police. What larks,’ I said. ‘Now I would’ve thought they were the last people you’d’ve wanted to see. This weekend of all weekends.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I think you do,’ I said.
‘Nick. For the last time, go away. And we’ll say no more about this silliness.’ And he cut me off.
I let the Mondeo drift right up to the gates and sounded the horn. Nothing. I sounded the horn again, and saw Finbarr’s anxious face at one of the side windows next to the front doors. The front gates didn’t move.
Time to get physical, I thought.
I reversed the car across the wide street, slipped the stick into neutral and wound up the engine until the rev counter redlined and the entire car shook like a bitch on heat. I gripped the wheel with my right hand and shoved the stick into DRIVE with my left. The back wheels spun with a scream of protesting rubber, caught, fishtailed left then right until they found traction and propelled the car forward into the gates, which burst open from the impact. The motor slewed as the surface changed from tarmac to crushed stone. I adjusted the steering and kept my foot on the gas as the Ford roared up the drive, spewing gravel from under its wheels. It hit the concrete steps, which blew out at least one of the front tyres, but the momentum propelled the car forward, up the steps and through the heavy front doors like they were matchwood, and into the hall where I saw Fin’s look of surprise as he threw himself out of the way.
I stamped on the brakes and the car broadsided over the polished floor and hit the inside wall on the passenger side with a bang that shook the entire house and dislodged plaster dust from the ceiling.
I was out of the driver’s door before the car was still, tugging the Detonics from inside my belt. Fin was holding a gun, but he carried it like an amateur. I slapped it out of his hand and it bounced across the floor. I grabbed the shocked solicitor by the hair, threw him across the hot bonnet of the Mondeo and stuck my gun in his ear. ‘Right, you son of a bitch,’ I said. ‘Will you talk to me now?’
‘Calm down,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Don’t shoot.’
‘Tell me the truth then.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
I pulled his hair hard and he screamed like a girl. ‘Yes you do.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you let me up?’
I stood back and allowed him to stand upright, but kept the .45 pointed at his head. He looked round the wreckage of his hall and shook his head, which was dusted with white powder. I had to give it to the man, he was cool. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘This is going to cost a packet to fix.’
‘Then don’t add the price of cleaning your brains off the wall,’ I said.
‘Nick,’ he said in a pleading voice. ‘I think you’ve got things all wrong.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve called it off and I’ve gone to all this trouble for nothing.’
‘Called all what off?’
‘There you go again, Fin. I really am losing my patience now,’ and I ground the barrel of the gun into the soft folds of flesh under his chin. ‘Don’t fuck with me. I will kill you. That’s a promise.’
He must’ve heard the determination in my voice, or maybe the look on my face convinced him that it was show and tell time and that I wasn’t going to go away until I had the truth. ‘OK, Nick,’ he said, in a placating way. ‘You win. What do you want? Part of the action? OK it’s yours.’
‘Don’t fucking insult me, you cunt,’ and it took all my willpower not to slap him round the head with the gun in my hand.
‘If you don’t want money, what do you want?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
He shook his head.
I went and picked up the gun he’d been holding. It was a snubby nosed .38 five shot revolver. I opened the cylinder and all the chambers were full. The more the merrier I thought as I added the gun to my arsenal.
‘You’re trying my patience, Fin. Let’s go,’ I said.
‘Where?’
‘The City of London mate,’ I said. ‘Where it’s all happening.’
‘And what do you intend to do there?’
‘Find out who killed Sheila.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t start all that again.’
‘It wasn’t any of us.’
‘Course not.’
‘I swear.’
‘And I’m supposed to believe you?’
‘You must.’
‘There’s no must about it.’
‘Please, Nick, you’ll ruin everything. All the months of planning and hard work.’
‘Too bad,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to take your car. You can leave mine for the cleaners.’
35
Finbarr’s Jaguar was parked in the double garage next to the house. We got to it by a door in the kitchen. I hustled him into the driver’s seat through the passenger door, me following, my gun stuck in his kidneys. When we were all sitting comfortably, ‘Drive, she said,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. A film. Let’s get going before one of your neighbours calls the police.’
He started the motor, opened the garage door with a gizmo mounted on the dashboard and drove into the light. He steered the car down the drive and between the wrecked gates. He shook his head as he saw them twisted and buckled and the junction box on the gatepost sparking and fizzing. ‘Do you know how much they cost me?’ he asked.
‘I couldn’t even begin to imagine.’
‘A fuck of a lot.’
‘You’re insured,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you?’ But I didn’t think he was going to live to collect, although I didn’t mention it.
He nodded.
‘And if that’s the worst that happens to you today, I’d count myself lucky.’