by Mark Timlin
‘Go up Brixton Hill,’ I replied. ‘I’ll tell you where.’
I got him to stop by a big council estate. There was twelve quid on the clock. I took out a twenty, gave it to him and said, ‘Leave the clock running and wait for me a minute, will you? I won’t be long.’
‘What, here?’ he said suspiciously.
‘That’s right. If it gets up to sixteen quid you can go.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said and pulled out his paper. I got out and cut through a walkway and on to the estate.
The block I wanted was just a minute away and I crossed to the entrance over muddy grass that was crusted with grey snow and frozen dog shit. I climbed one flight of concrete stairs, trotted down the open walkway and knocked on the door of number ten.
There was a light on in the hall but no one answered, so I knocked again. After a minute the door opened on a chain and a tousled head peered through the gap. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ the owner of the head said and pushed the door to, let off the chain, and opened it wide. ‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘It’s fucking freezing out there.’
I sidled into the hall, which was warm and smelled of last night’s dope. The flat’s tenant stood in front of me, resplendent in a pair of baby-blue pyjamas covered with pink teddy bears. Hardly his usual style, which tended more towards leather strides and tattoos. ‘Nice jammies,’ I commented.
‘The bird give ’em to me,’ he said, scratching his head.
‘She here?’
‘I wouldn’t be wearing these if she was,’ he replied testily. ‘What do you want? As if I didn’t know.’
‘You sorted?’ I asked.
‘’Course.’
‘Coke?’
‘Sure. How much?’
‘Couple of grams. Good gear, mind.’
‘No problem. Come on in.’
I followed him into the living room, which looked like it had been ransacked by robbers but was just in its usual state. ‘Wait,’ he said, and went out into the hall again. He was back in less than a minute with two white wraps in his hand. ‘The best in town,’ he said. ‘Looks like you’ll be having a white Christmas.’
‘How much?’ I asked.
‘As it’s you and the time of year, one-twenty.’
I took out my wallet and found the cash. ‘Cheers,’ he said, folding the wedge into the breast pocket of his pyjama jacket. ‘Cuppa tea?’
‘No thanks, I’ve got a cab waiting. I’ll just have a line. Want some?’
‘Too early for me, but go ahead,’ he said. And I did, clearing a space on the glass coffee table, cutting out two big lines with a scalpel that was lying on it and snorting them both, using a new tenner.
‘You look like you needed that,’ he remarked.
‘I did. And I’ll need it more where I’m going. Listen, I’ll see you soon.’
‘Sure. Any time. But make it a bit later in the day, will you?’
‘I’ll try,’ I said, and he showed me to the door.
20
When I got back to the cab, the driver was starting the motor to leave. ‘Just in time,’ he said as I jumped in the back.
‘Norwood now, mate,’ I said. ‘And that’ll be me.’
I got him to drop me off round the corner from Charlie’s used-car emporium, and walked the rest of the way. Charlie was standing by a second-hand Mercedes estate, wrapped up warm in his sheepskin, drinking from a steaming cup and looking up and down the street as if he could summon customers by sheer force of will.
‘Nick,’ he said when he saw me. ‘I’ve been trying to ring you, but all I get is the answering machine.’
‘I got your messages,’ I said. ‘Sorry I haven’t called back.’
‘So how is everything? Judith?’
‘She’s at her auntie’s. Things ain’t good.’ I told him part of the story, but didn’t include the dead bodies back at the hotel. I didn’t think he was ready for that. He could catch it on the news later.
‘No wonder you look a bit rough,’ he said. ‘Laura murdered. Christ, that’s heavy. Here, have some of this.’
He put his cup down on the Merc’s bonnet, hauled a flask out of the back pocket of his trousers and opened it. ‘Brandy,’ he said.
I felt the liquor burn down into my gut. ‘That’s good,’ I said.
‘I like it,’ he said, adding brandy to his tea. ‘So what can I do for you?’
‘I need a motor,’ I said.
‘I was afraid of that. Remember what happened to the last one I lent you? I had a hell of a job convincing Old Bill it was nicked off the front. And what’s wrong with yours?’
‘I don’t think so, Charlie,’ I said. ‘I’m a bit warm at the moment and I need something cool.’
He shook his head. ‘More trouble?’ he asked. ‘When will you learn?’
‘It’s the breaks, Charlie. Shit happens.’
‘So what is it this time?’
‘Long story.’
‘They always are. Is it to do with Laura’s death?’
I nodded.
‘I never knew why you married her.’
‘Because she was there. She was a challenge. And if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have Judith, would I?’
‘That’s a point.’
‘So can you help me?’
‘You’re not having anything off the lot, that’s for sure. Let me think.’ He paused for a second. ‘Got it,’ he said, took out his mobile and punched in a number. ‘Jeff,’ he said after a moment. ‘That ringer you got garaged up: what’s the lowest price?’
A pause.
‘Too much. I’ll give you a monkey.’
Another pause.
‘Done deal. Right. Get it over here.’
Another pause.
‘No. Tuesday fuckin’ fortnight. What do you think? Get it over here now.’ And he cut off the call. ‘Pillock,’ he said. ‘It’s not far. Give him half an hour.’
Thirty-five minutes later a blue Rover 600 slowed down and stopped outside the car lot. Charlie went over, had a short conversation with the driver, a sandy-haired individual, who then got out of the car and walked off without a backward glance.
Charlie came back with the keys. ‘That’s five hundred you owe me,’ he said. Before I could reply, he stopped me. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ll put it on your bill.’
‘Cheers, mate,’ I replied. ‘I won’t forget this.’
‘Don’t worry. I won’t let you.’
21
Thursday afternoon
I took the car and headed east. There was only one person I knew who might be able to help. He wasn’t exactly a friend, but then he wasn’t exactly an enemy. Or at least he hadn’t been the last time we met. The motor was OK. A bit sluggish, but it’d do. The tank was almost empty so I filled it up at a garage in Dulwich and had another snort in the freezing-cold gents’. The life of Riley, or what?
When I left the garage I caught the news on Capital on the half-hour. The lead story was the triple murder at the hotel. My name wasn’t mentioned, but the newscaster said that a man was being sought in connection, followed by a pretty good description of me. But then it was a pretty good description of at least ten thousand other geezers in London. I knew that more would follow.
It was snowing again when I got to Deptford, and the sky had an evil yellow cast as dusk set in early. I drove the car on to the notorious Lion Estate and parked it between two others by one of the high-rise blocks. Before I got out of the Rover, I transferred Latimer’s Colt to the glove compartment. The other two guns I kept on me.
I went into the entrance hall and climbed four flights of stairs to the flat I remembered and wondered if the tenant would still be in occupancy, or doing bird at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
The door to the flat was protected by metal, like the last time I’d visited, and I ham
mered on it with my fist. After a minute a slot opened and I saw a pair of brown eyes looking me up and down. ‘Nick Sharman,’ I said. ‘To see the Darkman. I’ve been here before.’
‘I remember you, mon,’ said the owner of the eyes. ‘Hold on.’
The door opened with a screech and I saw the huge black man I’d seen on my previous visit about fifteen months before.
‘Come in,’ he said.
‘I’m carrying,’ I said. ‘But let’s not do the full body search this time.’
I pulled out the two guns I was holding and handed them over. ‘That’s all, and I’ll have them back,’ I said.
‘Cool runnin’,’ said the dude. ‘No problem.’
‘Is he at home?’ I asked.
‘Sure. I’ll let him know you’re calling.’
I waited in the hall whilst the black man went into the living room. A moment later he was back and said, ‘He’ll see you, mon.’
I went into the room, which was hot and dimly lit, and the Darkman was sitting on his throne just like the last time. Only now he didn’t look as well as I remembered, his black skin waxy and tight on his skull. There was drug paraphernalia littered about again too, but this time there were several crack pipes and Coke cans punctured with ballpoint pen barrels, held tight by wads of Sellotape. Darkman was going down a different road. A bad road full of potholes that would eventually lead to his death.
The TV was on in one corner, tuned into the news.
‘Sharman,’ he said. ‘Long time. You’re famous, man!’ He gestured at the TV. ‘You on London Today! Cool. Killing cops, man. I take my hat off to you. Five-oh all runnin’ round like chickens with their heads cut off.’
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘Did they mention my name?’
‘Sure. And a nice photo. And straight away you turn up here. Coincidence, or what?’
‘Not entirely. And I didn’t kill no cops.’
‘But you come here armed to the teeth. What should a boy think about that?’
‘Whatever you like. But I didn’t kill anybody.’
‘So what can I do for you, big-time desperado? I’ll be honoured to help!’
‘I’m looking for someone,’ I said. ‘And people he hangs out with.’
‘Who?’
‘A Yank. Jefferson Parker from New York. His mates are Yardies.’
‘Who the fuck are Yardies, man? You’ve been reading too many newspapers.’
‘Don’t dis me, Darkman,’ I said. ‘I didn’t come upstream on a lettuce leaf. Yardies exist. They killed those coppers.’
‘Heavy duty, man. You don’t want to mess with those boys and girls.’
‘They’re messing with me. And talking of girls, where’s Marsha?’
Marsha had been the Darkman’s woman the last time I called.
His lip curled. ‘She gone, man. Quit on me. I had her striped. No one leaves without my say-so.’
‘It must’ve been your new-man attitudes that got to her. Or was it the crack? That’s bad stuff.’
‘Get you high, though, man.’
‘So are you going to help me?’ I asked.
‘The brothers won’t like it.’
‘That’s their problem. My problem is more pressing. If Old Bill gets me, they’re going to lock me up and throw away the key. I’ve got a reputation and this morning didn’t help it.’
‘What did this dude Parker do?’
‘He was grassing up his mates, from what I can gather. He’d been arrested in New York and the coppers turned him round. He sold out his pals in exchange for going into witness protection.’
‘Over here?’
‘Here, there and everywhere. He was going an abundance on everyone he could think of.’
‘And now they’ve got him.’
‘Either that or he double-crossed the coppers himself. It doesn’t matter. There are three policemen dead. Two from America and one from the Met. Plus another couple murdered in that plane crash in Chicago the other day. Not to mention the other four hundred-odd civilians who got caught in the crossfire.’ I didn’t mention Laura, Louis and David. ‘It’s fucking heavy-duty, Darkman, and it looks like I’ve been voted the boy most likely to carry the can back home.’
‘And you want me to get involved? You gotta be joking.’
‘It’s no joke.’
‘It is from where I’m sitting.’
22
‘I thought you said you’d be honoured to help,’ I said.
‘That was before I knew what you wanted.’
‘Can you do anything for me?’
‘I can let you have a blow.’
‘No, man. I got my own.’
‘Then you’re sorted.’
I suddenly had a brainwave. ‘Then you’re not interested in the money?’
‘What money?’
‘The money Parker was carrying.’
‘How much?’
‘Christ knows, but a lot,’ I lied. Shit. Right then I’d’ve sworn the Pope was a Jew to get some slack.
‘How do you know?’ Darkman asked with a greedy gleam in his yellow-rimmed eyes.
‘I saw it,’ I lied again. ‘A big caseful. Some kind of profit from a deal in New York.’ I was on a roll and began to elaborate. ‘American currency. Thousand-dollar bills, I think.’
Darkman chewed on that for a minute. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe I might be able to come up with something.’
Funny that I knew he was going to say that.
‘How about a beer to be going on with?’ I asked. ‘My throat’s as dry as a bone.’
It was too. I knew that I was in deep trouble already, and lying to Darkman wasn’t going to help. Well, maybe for a bit. But when he found out that I was having him on… well, the old sewage was going to hit the fan big time.
He went and told his minder to get me a Red Stripe, which I drank in the living room, and had another line of coke, whilst he went off and made a couple of calls.
He was back within fifteen minutes and said, ‘Maybe, man. Just maybe I found out something.’
‘That was quick.’
‘The thought of much ready cash can have that effect.’
Yeah, I thought. But what happens when the thought turns out to be pie in the sky?
‘But, of course, if you lying…’
For a minute I thought he was reading my mind.
‘What me, man?’ I said. ‘Perish the thought.’
23
‘But first,’ he said, ‘we gotta find you somewhere to stay. You’re too hot to be wandering round town on your own.’
‘How about here?’
‘No, man, I don’t think so. What would nine-nine-nine say if they found you here?’
‘Shit, would you care? Look around, the place is rotten with dope and weapons. What difference would I make?’
‘The difference that might just bring them here. Who knows who saw you come in?’
He had a valid point.
‘No, man,’ he went on. ‘I’ve got just the place. Perfection. There’s food, booze, women and plenty of coke.’
‘What is it? The YMCA?’
‘Always the humour, Sharman. Don’t you take anything seriously?’
‘Sure. But you’ve got to have a laugh, ain’tcha?’
He shook his head and left me alone in the room with another beer, a packet of Silk Cut and the depleted wrap of cocaine.
That time he was gone for maybe fifteen minutes, and when he returned he was wearing a sharp overcoat and carrying a brown suede briefcase. The big black guy was with him, wearing a leather anorak. Obviously time for walkies. In one massive hand the black guy was carrying my brace of guns and he passed them to me. I checked them. They were both still loaded.
‘OK,’ said Darkman. ‘Let’s split.’
‘Where we going?’ I asked.
‘To do some business,’ he replied.
‘I won’t ask what kind.’
‘I think you already know.’
We went out of the flat and down the stairs when I said I’d take my motor, but Darkman told me I was driving with them. I shrugged. What the hell? I thought, I’ll probably never see it again, and retrieved the Colt from it before we walked round to a garage that appeared to be the only one in the block not burnt out, and I said as much.
‘No motherfucker’s gonna mess with Darkman’s stuff,’ said the black guy, and opened up the garage door with some gizmo on his keyring, to display a black Mercedes 190 with black bumpers and black windows. ‘Discreet,’ I said. ‘Looks like a drug dealer’s motor.’
‘So it is,’ said Darkman. ‘What did you expect us to drive? An Escort van?’
‘Just a thought,’ I said as the black guy got in, started up the motor and let it drift out of the garage with a muted rumble. ‘Where we going?’ I repeated.
‘Maida Vale, man,’ said Darkman as we got in, him riding shotgun and me stretched out on the black leather back seat. ‘Nice area.’
‘What’s there?’
‘Pussy farm, man,’ said the black geezer. ‘Wall-to-wall cunt.’
‘Whorehouse,’ explained Darkman as if I might not have guessed. ‘Have yourself some fun on the firm, and keep your head down.’
‘The mind boggles,’ I said.
We headed north away from Deptford, crossed the river and went through the West End up to Maida Vale. The black geezer steered the car expertly through the traffic and parked outside an imposing mansion block.
We left him in the motor and Darkman and I went to the main entrance. It was locked, with an entryphone stuck on the wall. He did the business and a vaguely female voice squawked at us, and then he whispered something into the mike. The door buzzed and we were inside.
The flat we wanted was on the first floor. I would’ve walked but Darkman insisted on waiting for the cranky old lift. When it finally arrived we squeezed in and he hit the button. The hall outside the lift was wide, carpeted in purple and very quiet. We walked to a door marked 108 and he rapped with his knuckles on the wood. A few seconds later it was answered by a short, good-looking redhead in a miniskirt, black nylons and a thin T-shirt top. She wore nothing underneath it and her breasts were clearly visible, nipples erect. ‘Baby,’ she said when she saw us, and I guessed she wasn’t referring to me.