by Mark Timlin
‘I think she likes you,’ said Madge. ‘Give her a knuckle on her cheek. She loves that.’
I felt a bit foolish, but did as I was told. The cat pushed back hard with her head until her skull rattled, and started to purr. ‘Told you so,’ said Madge. ‘If she likes you, it’s good enough for me. I’ll take you up on the offer.’
‘Good,’I replied. ‘Otherwise, I’d worry.’
‘But I have managed so far. I have my own security measures.’
‘Yes?’ I said with a query.
‘Yes,’ she replied, stuck her hand into the bag and pulled out what looked exactly like a nickel plated, pearl handled Colt 1911, seven shot automatic pistol.
23
Gun Fever – The Techniques
People often say ‘my jaw dropped’, but don’t mean it. Let me tell you, mine did. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. ‘Is that for real?’ I asked, after a moment.
‘As real as real can be,’ said Madge, with a smile. ‘It’s one of a pair.’
‘Where’s the other one?’
‘Upstairs, in my bedroom, under my pillow.’
‘Where else?’ I said. ‘I hope your cleaner doesn’t see it.’
She smiled. ‘She’s Polish. The Polish have a history of violence.’
‘Does she give it a quick once-over with a duster?’
She smiled again, then worked the slide, popped a shell into the chamber and cocked the pistol.
Her smile turned into a laugh, and I joined in. ‘Christ, you’re a bloody marvel, Madge,’ I said.
‘I try to be.’
‘Where did you get it… them?’
‘I told you my husband was in the navy. He was an admiral. When the fleet docked in San Francisco, the mayor held a big dinner for the commanding officers of the ships. Everyone got a pair.’
‘God bless America. Are they legal?’
‘They’ve never been registered. Not over here.’
‘Just as well with the way things are. Can I look?’
‘Of course.’
I got up and walked over to her chair. The Colt looked huge in her tiny hand, but she spun it round like an expert, and offered it to me butt first. I took it and gently lowered the hammer. Accidents can happen. It felt heavy, but snug in my hand. ‘You’re a woman of many parts, Madge,’ I said.
‘Like I said, I try to be. Now, sit down Nick, I’ve got a proposition for you.’
‘I’m all ears,’ I said, handing the gun back, and resuming my seat. ‘Tell me all.’
24
See That My Grave Is Kept Clean – B.B.King
‘You see, Nick,’ said Madge. ‘What it boils down to is that I’m bored. Bored stiff. Yesterday, when you came along on your white horse to help an old lady in distress, I was ready for those boys. You didn’t notice, but I had this in my hand.’ She reached into her knitting bag again, came out with something that resembled a shotgun cartridge. She tossed it to me, I caught it one-handed and looked closer. It was a can of Mace, a sort of pepper spray, made in the USA, and highly illegal here. Just like her pistols. And a bastard to be sprayed in your eyes.
‘God bless America,’ I said again.
‘You saw my library,’ she said.
I nodded.
‘I love those books, crime fiction and true crime. Trouble is, with the former, I always guess who done it from early on, and with true crime, it’s obvious.’
‘Why didn’t you write one yourself?’
‘I tried. But then I knew who done it from word one, and I lost interest.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Anyway, you came, and being a detective I looked you up on the web.’ She nodded in the direction of a computer set up and printer on a table behind the door. ‘You’ve led an interesting life.’
I couldn’t argue with that.
‘Especially when I went on the dark web.’
‘What do you know about the dark web?’ I asked.
‘Nick. I used to be in the navy too. That’s how I met my husband. Intelligence. Naval intelligence, if that’s not too much of an oxymoron for you. More like a headless chicken farm. But I know a lot about a lot of things.’
‘I’m still listening.’
‘I just thought that if you ever need a sounding board in one of your adventures, or if you ever need a bolt hole, or somewhere to keep anything illegal, then feel free.’
‘Madge,’ I said. ‘Do you know I might hold you to that.’
And I did, which is why I telephoned her that night after my adventure with the pair in the SUV.
And I did get my mate to set up a state of the art security system at her house. A cat proof one. After all, if she was going to hold stuff for me, I had to know it was safe.
The afternoon became the evening, and my bottle of wine vanished, and Madge produced a bottle of very decent red, which from the age and the label probably cost ten times or more than Mehmet’s had. The cat was sleeping and the fire was ruby red ash, and Madge and I were talking like old mates.
She was telling me about her husband and his adventures on the seven seas, when I asked how he’d died.
‘Cancer,’ she said. ‘Leukaemia. A right bugger.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. Naturally nosey. The job you know.’
‘Of course. Don’t apologise. It’s been years. But I can still tear up.’
‘Then forget I asked.’
‘No. People don’t. At first they do, then they stop. The world keeps turning. I love talking about his life. His death is as much part of his memory.’
I didn’t say anything. I could see she was looking inward, and there was nothing I could add.
‘It wasn’t so much the cancer that killed him. His immune system was down the drain. He kept getting these shocking infections in his chest. Of course, he’d been a smoker. Cigarettes were dirt cheap in the service. And liquor, of course. Funny thing… ironic thing, was that he gave up smoking years before he got sick. Then, with the chemotherapy the doctors told him to abstain from alcohol. He just stopped. Fantastic willpower. I poured everything alcoholic in the house down the drain. Didn’t make any difference. He just got sicker. Wasted away. Terrible thing to see. He had the most terrible coughing fits. So bad I thought he might have a heart attack. They gave him antibiotic after antibiotic. No good. Just prolonged the agony. I knew he wanted to die, but didn’t want me to be on my own. The children came and went, and they had their own lives to lead. He told them straight. Don’t hang around, for his sake. Harsh, I know, but that was him. We had another cat then. Name of Lily. She somehow knew he was dying. Wouldn’t leave him alone. Followed him round like a little dog. Slept on him, or as close as she could get. They were like a little gang. I was almost jealous. She was inconsolable when he finally went. Wailed through the house. We mourned together. She gave me comfort too. She died a few years later. I didn’t replace her for ages. Not that she was replaceable, if you understand.’
I nodded, and could see the fire reflected in the tears in her eyes.
‘Madge,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘Fiddle dee dee,’ she replied. ‘Just an old woman’s foolishness. He had a saying. His granny’s: “It’s not the cough that takes you off, it’s the coffin they take you off in”.’
‘I know that one,’ I said. ‘My granny’s too. She had a million of them. All full of doom.’
‘Now is there anything left in that bottle?’
I told her there was, and replenished our glasses, and drank a toast to absent friends.
25
Grocer Jack (Excerpt From A Teenage Opera) – Keith West with The Mark Wirtz Orchestra
So that was Madge. And, believe it or not, she did help me with a case shortly after. One I couldn’t have solved on my own without her he
lp.
The client was John Coffey. He was well known in the manor, a self-made millionaire who owned five south London supermarkets. Streatham, East Dulwich, Norwood, Camberwell, and his headquarters in Brixton on the main road to Clapham Common. He was no Tesco, but he was very successful, and was well-liked, good to his staff and customers as far as the local word went. His stores were simply named Coffey Shops, before coffee shops started to take over our high streets. I’d spent many a hard-earned sovereign on food and wine in his establishments over the years without a complaint.
I got a call from his PA, who simply asked me to expect him at my office first thing on the first Monday in October, the same year as my first meeting with Madge.
I breakfasted at the greasy Greek that day, and was in my office by eight thirty. John arrived at nine precisely in a shiny black chauffeur-driven Mercedes saloon. Latest model. That year’s plate.
He was an imposing figure as he walked across the road towards me. Tall, with military bearing. His hair was short, curly, and he wore a double breasted dark blue suit well. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine. He looked important and knew it. So important that I stood and opened the door for him.
‘Coffey,’ he said when he came in, hand outstretched.
‘Nick Sharman,’ I replied, and took his hand. His grip was firm, but he didn’t squeeze too hard. No power games there.
‘Come in,’ I said.
He did, and I indicated the client’s chair. He sat, carefully setting his trousers in their crease.
‘Coffee?’ I asked.
‘That’s me,’ he replied with a grin. ‘Black. That’s me too.’ That’s when I decided I liked him.
I’d already put the coffee machine on, and poured two mugs. Mine with milk. ‘Sugar?’ I asked.
‘Just as it comes.’
I delivered the beverages, and sat in my chair. ‘So, Mr Coffey, sir. You wanted to see me.’ He had that way about him that made me call him ‘sir’. Not many blokes do.
‘John,’ he replied. ‘Just call me John.’
‘John, it is. So, John, what can I do for you this morning?’
He took a sip of coffee, put the cup and saucer down on my desk and began. ‘You know me?’ he said.
I nodded.
‘And you know what I do?’
‘Everyone knows you,’ I said. ‘I’ve been in your shops.’
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I’ve seen you. And, of course, in the papers.’
‘Maybe the less said about that the better.’
‘Maybe. But that’s for another time. In retail, as in the army, there’s such a thing as acceptable loss. In my business, it’s shoplifting, breakages, and staff pilfering. It’s part of the game. There’s no point in worrying about it. But this summer our losses have been too high. Now, we’re coming into the busiest part of the year. Christmas. And I want the losses stopped. That’s where you come in.’
‘Really. What about security on site?’
‘I have a security team. Four at each store, eight hour shifts. Ex-military, prison officers, police. All good men. We open seven till eleven. I tried twenty four hour opening, but it was too much aggravation. So now, it’s lights out just as the pubs shut. Safer for all concerned.’
‘Cameras?’
‘At all the stores. At Brixton, inside, on the warehouse doors, and the car park.’
‘Looks like you’ve got it covered.’
‘Obviously not,’ he said.
‘Police?’ I asked.
‘They’re good,’ he replied. ‘They come when we call. We support them. The superintendent’s ball. Open days. Sports days. We fed and watered them and the fire brigade and ambulance people during the riots. But they can’t be with us day in, day out. And anyway, coppers around the place isn’t good for business.’
That made sense. ‘That makes sense,’ I said. ‘What sort of stuff are you losing? Surely a few packets of bacon isn’t a major crime.’
He shook his head, as if at my naïveté. ‘I see your scepticism,’ he said. ‘It’s not just a few packets of bacon. But have you seen the way the price of pork has shot up recently?’
I had to admit I hadn’t. He continued my lesson in retail. ‘Joints of meat. Steaks. Electrical goods. Spirits. Even though they’re locked in cages. DVDs.You’d be amazed how it mounts up.’
I agreed that I would.
‘It’s my main branch that’s taking the losses. Brixton. That’s where we get wholesale deliveries, keep the bulk, and transport the rest by van to the other shops.’
‘Nothing goes astray en route?’
‘Drivers and mates. Long term staff. Checked out and in.’
‘But you did mention staff pilfering.’
‘Peanuts,’ he said. ‘People got to stick it to the man. Human nature. My staff are well treated. I let a little go. No, this is serious.’
‘So who’s in charge of the warehouse?’
‘My partner. Tony Harvey.’
‘Is he in the frame?’
Coffey smiled. ‘A history lesson, Mr Sharman.’
‘Nick.’
‘Nick. Tony and I were in the army together. Lance jacks. Nothing glamorous. Queen’s Own. Infantry. Cannon fodder. We were best mates. Took leave together. He stayed with me in our house in Brixton. You see, my nan and gramps came over after the war. Not on the Windrush, but not far behind. Nan was a nurse, and everyone expected gramps to work on the buses or the tube. Racial stereotyping. But he had a job in the National Bank head office waiting when he got off the ship. The male staff had been decimated by the war, and he’d worked at their branch in Kingston. Jamaica, that is. They offered him a head clerkship in London. Amazing for a black man in the 1950s. He took it, and bought a house in Brixton. A big one. He’d never have got a mortgage if he hadn’t worked in a bank. They were hard to get in those days. Not handed out like lollipops as they are now. Then dad and mum and I joined them. Mum was a nurse too, and, funnily enough, dad did drive a bus. The number two that stops outside the pub opposite your office.’
I knew the route. I’d taken it often.
‘It wasn’t always easy’ he continued. ‘We got our fair share of blackies, coons, niggers, jungle bunnies. That was the one that amused my father most, as we had never ventured closer to a jungle than Clapham Common. Broken windows and paint on the brickwork. We just got on with it. Replaced the windows, painted over the ‘DARKIES GO HOME’ graffiti. It would have been worse if we’d been cramped together in a rented flat, like lots we knew. I promised once I got back, and made something of myself, I’d help my community. And I meant both black and white. I wasn’t born to work in an office,’ he went on. ‘I wanted adventure, so I joined up, then it all went bad. Mum, dad and gramps were killed in a car crash. The hand of God. Nan lasted less than six months. Died of grief. She left me the house. I couldn’t live there. Not then. I sold it. Got a pretty penny. Enough to buy me and Tony out. We’d always talked about setting up in business together. We got a stall in the market, stocked it up, got a couple of rooms in Electric Avenue. Shared kitchen and bathroom. We worked like dogs, got a shop in the arcade. Everything a pound. We were amongst the first. Then a corner shop with green grocery, then bigger shops, then supermarkets, and when Sainsbury’s moved out of Brixton, I bought the premises lock, stock and barrel. Turned out the land with freehold was soon to be worth a mint. Funnily enough, Nan’s house came back on the market years later. It had been converted into bedsits. I converted it back, and my family and I still live there. There you have it. Long story short. I don’t usually tell my life to strangers.’
‘I’ve got that sort of face, I’ve been told. So you obviously trust him?’
‘With my life. Brother in arms.’
‘I know the feeling.’
‘You were military?’
‘Police.’
‘Of course. Once we got a bit successful, I gave him half of the business. It was just my luck. My bad luck that I had the cash to set it up. It cost me three loved ones. He would have done the same in my place. He shares in the profits. He lives in a flat above the warehouse free of charge, though God knows I’ve told him to invest in property enough times. He says he’ll wait until he retires, if he ever does, and buy a cottage in the country with roses round the door for him and his wife.’
‘Fair enough. But you have to understand there’s just me.’ I gestured round my tiny office.
‘You seem to have succeeded on your own before. And I like to support local businesses. What are your fees?’
‘Two fifty a day, plus reasonable expenses.’
The look on his face made me think I could’ve asked for more. ‘That seems fair,’ he said. ‘If you want the job, I’ll get my office to get you a cheque for a week or so in advance. Would that suit?’
I decided then and there to give it a shot. After all, I wasn’t busy, and Christmas was coming and a week or so in advance was very tempting. ‘I’d have to take a look round,’ I said.
‘Of course.’
‘When?’
‘Well, there’s no time like the present, unless you have something else to do.’
‘My calendar is clear,’ I said.
‘Then, let’s go.’ And we did.
26
Oh Lord Won’t You Buy Me A Mercedes Benz – Janis Joplin
I ushered him out, pulled down the blinds, locked the door, and joined him in the back of his car. It smelt of leather, money, and influence. I reckoned he could have easily afforded a Rolls-Royce, but maybe he didn’t want to show off his wealth too much. Black man with too much money. Still not a good look in our part of the world.
The Mercedes ran smoothly through the end of rush hour streets, and soon we were in the car park of his flagship store in Brixton. We got out and returned to the real world.
We walked through the store towards the back. John was greeted by every staff member, who to a man and woman wore their COFFEY SHOPS t-shirts or sweats, and called him either Sir, Boss or John, depending on their seniority or length of service I imagined, apart from a burly bloke standing by the front door, next to a Christmas tree groaning with fairy lights. He wore a blue faux police uniform with SECURITY written in white on the back and on each upper arm. John cheerfully replied to each one. They pretty much ignored me, which suited me fine. The shop was busy, the shelves were full, and the tills were ringing. Not much to worry about there. The halls, or rather the shelves, were decked, if not with boughs of holly, with tinsel and paper decorations, and carols were being played through the public address system. A bit early for all that I thought. But then, I wasn’t a retailer.