by Mark Timlin
Saturday night
I got to the boarding house around eight-thirty. I was as jittery as a barrow of monkeys, half pissed and stoned to the bone by then. I wished I’d handled those kids better, but it was too late for regrets. Just put it down to experience and wear a cheap Timex in future. If indeed there was a future for me.
A low, freezing mist had come down across south London, and the street lights were just balls of yellow that did nothing to illuminate the darkness as I walked the few hundred yards from where I was dropped by the bus I’d caught outside the pub, more than a mile away from the killing ground. And when I knocked on the widow’s door, my clothes and hair were dotted with drops of moisture and my breath plumed from my mouth like steam.
She answered within a moment, looked up and down the deserted street and hustled me inside. She was as plump and blonde as I remembered. ‘Were you followed?’ she asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m all alone. I wouldn’t have come here if I thought I’d got company.’
‘I don’t know why I’m doing this,’ she said. ‘I must be mad. Jack said he’d be here about ten. The fog’s much worse on the coast.’
She led me into her comfortable, warm little living room where the TV was chattering to itself in the corner. ‘Have you eaten?’ she said.
I hadn’t, and I thought I’d have no appetite after what had happened earlier, but suddenly I was starving. ‘No,’ I said.
‘Egg and bacon?’
‘Please.’ And she bustled off to the kitchen.
‘Tea?’ she said, sticking her head back round the door. ‘Or something stronger?’
‘Both please,’ I said. ‘Is anyone else here?’
‘Just the top back,’ she replied. ‘But you never see him. The others have gone away for the holidays. I’ll put you in the middle front. Jack can come in with me.’ And she blushed slightly.
Lucky Jack, I thought.
We watched the nine o’clock news as I ate my food, and drank the tea and large Scotch she’d brought me. I wasn’t featured, which was good, but there was a late-breaking story about a triple shooting in Vauxhall. Drugs and gangs were mentioned. I said nothing.
The widow and I were watching the late film when we heard the whine of a car’s transmission outside and the slamming of a door. I peered through the curtains and watched Robber walk away from an antique Morris 1000 Traveller with real wood panels.
Welcome to the nineties, Jack, I thought as the widow went to let him in.
52
The widow went to the front door and Robber came into the living room wiping moisture off his face. ‘It’s fucking murder out there,’ he said grumpily. ‘I was nearly killed three times driving up.’
I stood up and offered my hand. ‘And a very good evening to you too, Jack,’ I said.
He ignored my mitten, dropped the overnight bag that was hanging from his shoulder and shrugged out of his coat.
I kept my hand outstretched. ‘Jack,’ I said, nodding down in its direction.
He scowled, but took it anyway and gave it a perfunctory shake. ‘That’s better,’ I said. ‘I see you’re in one of your usual sunny moods.’
‘Bollocks,’ he growled.
‘Something to drink, Jack?’ asked the widow, to break the silence that followed.
‘I thought you’d never ask. Scotch.’
‘Please,’ she said.
‘Please,’ he added, then almost cracked a smile and said. ‘Sorry. But those roads.’
‘I understand,’ she said, bobbed up and kissed him on the cheek and left the room.
Robber fell into an armchair and I took the sofa. ‘Thanks for coming,’ I said.
‘You need bloody someone to look after you.’
‘You’re right. And I appreciate it.’
‘So what happened?’
I drew a breath as the widow came back with fresh glasses and the bottle, and over the next half-hour I told them both the whole story. Only leaving out my recent contretemps in Vauxhall. I didn’t think they really needed to know about that.
When I’d finished, Robber shook his head. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘How do you manage it?’
‘God knows,’ I replied. ‘Just lucky, I guess.’
‘And you want my help?’
‘That’s why I phoned.’
‘I don’t know what to say Sharman,’ he said. ‘Every time I help you I seem to end up in hospital.’
‘It’s only happened once.’
‘So far,’ he said and lapsed into a sullen silence.
53
‘Nellie,’ he said to the widow after a moment or two. ‘You go on up. I need to talk to Nick on his own.’
‘Will you be long?’ she asked. I think Nellie fancied a spot of rumpy-pumpy as a Christmas bonus.
‘No,’ he replied.
‘Then I’ll say goodnight,’ she said. ‘You know where you are, Mr Sharman. The room above this one. I’ve put clean sheets on the bed, and the central heating’s on.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll find it.’
She left us then and Robber poured two more glasses of Scotch. ‘All right, Sharman,’ he said. ‘What’ve you got?’
I nodded at the case and he hauled it up on to his lap and opened it. He whistled when he saw the contents. ‘How much?’ he asked.
‘About quarter of a million wholesale. Christ knows how much on the street.’
‘I see you’ve given it a field test. Any good?’
‘Very.’
‘Well that’s something. You armed?’
I showed him the Detonics. ‘I’ve only got a couple of rounds, though,’ I said. ‘And I had to leave a couple more guns round Mr B’s gaff. How about you?’
‘I can’t afford not to be with you around,’ he replied, dumped the case on the coffee table, picked up the bag he’d brought, unzipped the top and brought out a brushed silver S&W .44 magnum.
‘Dirty Harry,’ I said. ‘What do you use that for down in Worthing? Shooting rabbits?’
‘If I did with a gun this size they’d be minced and cooked before they hit the ground.’
‘Bunnyburgers,’ I said with a grin. ‘Christ, Jack. but it’s good to see you.’
54
‘I wish I was sure I could say the same for you,’ he said, but I could tell he was pleased. As pleased as Robber was ever likely to get, anyhow.
‘And what’s with that bloody old car?’ I said. ‘What will it do? Nought to sixty in three weeks?’
‘You got anything better?’ said Robber. ‘It’s my sister’s motor. Mine’s in the garage with a duff gearbox. And it looks like I won’t get it back till the new year. It pisses me off. I spend nearly twenty grand on a previously owned M-reg Mercedes and the sodding thing’s always playing me up.’
‘That’s German efficiency for you,’ I remarked. ‘But at least you’ve got a good old Cowley machine to keep us out of trouble. Now tell me. Do you know these Mr B and Tootsie characters?’
‘I’m surprised you don’t. Lee Byron, a.k.a. The Reverend Mr Black or Mr B. He ran an evangelical church in Dalston as a front for drug peddling. He got chased out of there on the hurry-up about ten years ago. But he’d made a packet and bought that house in Brixton, reconverted it from flats and spent a fortune on antique furniture. He stays there with a posse of bad black boys. He’s got Yardie affiliates all over the world.’
‘And he’s still there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why hasn’t he been nicked, if everyone knows his game?’
‘Use your bloody loaf, Sharman. What do you think? He keeps the wheels oiled, of course. Besides, if every guilty sod in this part of the world was where he should be, we’d need another hundred prisons the size of Parkhurst. And where would Lambeth get council tax? The streets would be bloody empty.’
&nbs
p; ‘And Tootsie?’ I asked, ignoring his diatribe.
‘Failed reggae producer and promoter turned gangsta. He listened to all those rap records about killing the police and took it literally. He’s a nasty little bastard. Or big bastard, I should say. We had him down for killing that poor bloody unarmed PC in Herne Hill two years ago. But we couldn’t make it stick.’
‘He killed Laura and her family,’ I said. ‘Or at least his pals in the States did.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘He admitted it. I already told you that.’
‘I’m sorry about Laura. And her husband and the kid.’
‘And the rest of the poor bastards on the plane.’
He nodded.
‘Then there’s Parker and the Darkman,’ I said.
‘Parker I’ve never heard of. But that’s not surprising as he’s a Yank. But isn’t Darkman an old mate of yours?’
‘I didn’t exactly have him round for dinner on a regular basis, but I know him.’
‘I just bet you do.’
‘But he’s gone even stranger than he was before. Crack.’
Another nod from Robber.
‘All in all a lovely collection,’ I said.
‘The world would be a better place without them, I’ll say that.’
‘And the world might have to get along without me if they catch up with me,’ I said. ‘That’s why I want to catch up with them first, if that’s possible. Judith could’ve been on that sodding plane with Laura.’
‘You’re going to have to prove it.’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that there’s more than one way to skin a cat, or a bunch of cats for that matter. The proper way. The proof way could take years. Or never happen. And meanwhile I’m banged up for murder and the judge has got his black cap on. Maybe I’ll never be able to find out who actually planted the bomb. Maybe no one will. But there’s a bunch of characters right here who were all webbed up in it. And Tootsie and his mob did kill those people at the hotel. That’s for sure. If we can bring him down and as many of his friends and enemies as possible, at least I’ll have that satisfaction. And I’ll be in the clear. Otherwise I remain Britain’s most wanted. You in?’
He thought about it for a minute. ‘Any more where that came from?’ he asked, nodding at the case.
I hesitated. I didn’t know. But I needed Jack Robber and his car and blunderbuss, so without any more thought I told a porky pie again. “Course,’ I said. ‘Tons. Enough for half a dozen brand new Mercedes and a country house thrown in.’
55
He thought about it for a minute, then grimaced. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m in.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Let’s drink to it.’
He poured me another glass, and we sat in silence for a while. ‘Do you sometimes wonder if we’ve wandered into hell, Jack?’ I asked eventually.
‘Here we go,’ he said.
‘Seriously, do you?’ I pressed.
‘Sometimes. But if this is hell, why do we carry on thinking we might go there when we die?’
‘Because there’s always someone worse off, and that would be the real hell.’
‘Sure.’
‘What do you reckon the real hell’s like then Jack?’ I asked.
‘No fags. No booze. No saturated fats or pork pies.’
‘Sounds like your sister’s house down in Worthing.’
‘It bloody is, too.’
He cogitated for a moment as he drank his Scotch and lit a Benson’s. ‘What about you, Nick?’
‘Having to watch Riverdance all day on TV.’
‘Is that it?’
‘And the shopping channels.’
‘There’s some nice birds in that Riverdance,’ he said.
‘Yeah, but it’s still the most boring thing I’ve ever seen.’
‘Nice legs,’ he went on. ‘Short skirts. Do you think you could see what colour knickers they’re wearing from the front row?’
‘Fancy booking a matinee to find out?’ I said. ‘But no ticket for me, thanks.’
‘Or even if they’ve got knickers on at all,’ he mused.
‘They might forget.’
‘They might.’
‘But not if you went, Jack. Sod’s law.’
‘My sister watches the shopping channels,’ he said.
‘You’ve got a satellite, Jack?’
‘Cable. A satellite would’ve spoiled the house value. Marge said that.’ Marge was his sister.
‘And you watch the shopping channels?’
‘Sport mostly.’
‘But Marge likes to spot a bargain.’
‘Too bloody right. Have you ever seen them?’
‘Now and again.’
‘Horrible jewellery with fake stones. Lots of cleaning materials. Have you noticed that?’
‘Not really.’
‘Marge likes the cleaning materials. And slimming aids. There’s a lot of those, too – pity she doesn’t go in for those particular items. And she likes models of the Starship Enterprise. And old American cars.’
‘Real old American cars?’
‘No. Little models. Well, not so little, really.’ He held his hands about a foot apart. ‘This big.’
‘So does Marge buy a lot?’
He looked to see if I was taking the piss. ‘You taking the piss?’ he asked.
‘No. I’m interested.’
‘Blimey, Nick, if you only knew.’
‘Well tell me!’
‘A tin tray with a picture of Elvis on it.’
‘Early or late?’
‘The Las Vegas years.’
‘Cool. Is that all?’
‘No. Not at all. Cleaning materials, like I told you. There’s so much in the garage we can’t get the bloody car in. And models of little houses. To make up a village. A pub, the village shop and all the people. She keeps them on the side-board. I swear she talks to them. “Hello, Mr Brown the baker. Good morning, Constable Smith.” I think she’s going mad. I had to get away. That’s why I was glad you phoned.’
‘Nothing to do with my predicament?’
‘And that too.’
‘And a chance to see the buxom widow.’
‘And that too.’
‘So, Jack. Apart from Riverdance, you’ve pretty well got hell sewn up on the south coast.’
‘Pretty well.’
‘Well, it seems to me I’ve got it sorted out up here. So welcome to my version of hell.’
‘It could be worse.’
‘I don’t think so.’
But, of course, I was wrong.
56
After that, we sat talking until the Scotch bottle was empty, trying to come up with a plan, but with little success. There were only two of us, and loads of them. Who knew how many if the word went out? And we had just two guns and a few bullets between us, whilst they had an armoury. ‘It’s going to be tough,’ said Robber, in a serious understatement. ‘Very tough.’
‘We know that,’ I said. ‘But what are we going to do?’
‘Christ knows. Vamp it.’
‘As per bloody usual. I’m getting tired of having to vamp it every time I do a job.’
‘They’re the kind of jobs you get.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘How’s Judith?’ he asked, after a moment, changing the subject.
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘I should’ve been in touch.’ I looked at the widow’s phone, but I couldn’t use it. It was insecure. Too many ways of getting the number these days, and I cursed at having thrown away Latimer’s portable phone. ‘You still got a mobile?’ I asked.
Robber nodded.
‘Give us it, I’ll call her up.’
‘Bit
late, isn’t it?’
‘She’ll be up. She’s a night bird.’
He pulled a Nokia mobile out of his pocket, switched it on and passed it over. I punched in Jane’s number and looked at my Rolex and felt a stab of guilt about the three lives I’d stopped in Vauxhall. And now I was getting on my high horse about some other murderers. Still, that’s life. No one ever said it was going to be perfect. It was nearly midnight and I bet myself Judith was watching some post-pub entertainment on Channel 4 featuring well-fit young people getting their kit off.
She answered on the third ring. ‘Judith Sharman,’ she said.
‘I knew you’d be up.’
‘Dad! Thank goodness. I’ve been frantic.’
I could hear voices in the background. And music. And laughter. Electronic styli. ‘Are you alone?’ I asked.
‘Yes. They’ve gone to bed.’
‘What are you watching?’
‘Some silly programme.’
‘The Girlie Show?’
‘Something like that. Where are you?’
‘I can’t tell you. You never know who’s listening. But I’m all right.’
‘You’re still in trouble. The police were round again today.’
‘I know. But it’s going to be sorted.’
‘By Christmas Day?’
‘I don’t know. It’s only the day after tomorrow.’
‘You promised!’ she wailed. In some ways she was still a baby.
‘I know. But time is tight.’
‘What about my present?’
See what I mean about being a baby? ‘It’s safe,’ I said.
‘Where?’
‘At the flat, of course.’
‘And Christmas dinner?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You promised.’
‘I know, love. But it’s difficult.’
‘Oh, Dad. I’ll have no one.’
‘There’s Auntie Jane and Uncle Joe.’
‘She’s not Mum. And he’s not you.’ And she started to cry. Loud sobs that almost ripped my heart out of my chest.
‘Darling,’ I said. ‘I’ll try. I promise.’
‘No you won’t.’ And she slammed the phone down.