by Mark Timlin
I had a sudden thought. ‘Here, Madge,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘Smyth. Fan of crime writing. He said something.’ Her eyebrows rose in an unasked question.
‘The Squeaker,’ I said. ‘Ring any bells?’
‘Easy. Edgar Wallace. A prolific crime writer. Written nineteen thirty or thereabouts. Made into a film several years later. It’s good, but dated. The Squeaker was what you’d call a grass these days.’
‘Makes sense. Do you have a copy?’
‘Of course, under W in the library.’
‘Mind if I take a look?’
‘Course not.’
‘Is it valuable?’
‘The dust jacket is worth more than the book.’
‘And you have one?
‘Of course.’
‘I promise to handle it with kid gloves.’
‘Cotton ones are better. You’ll find fresh ones in a drawer in the room.’
And I did, and found the book. A first edition in a colourful jacket. And in the heat of the morning, I was taken back to smoggy old London Town in the years between the wars. Dated it was, but I enjoyed it. The story was simple. A bloke who architects robberies grasses up the wrongdoers if they piss him off. And he did have a black heart. Could be Smyth thought Stowe-Hartley did the same. Or wanted him to. Fair enough.
38
Johnny Angel – Shelly Fabares
After breakfast and a cigarette out in the garden, I pulled on a baseball cap, turned up my collar, and went shopping. There was a small branch of my mobile provider on Norwood Road, and after just a few minutes, I left with a brand new, latest model telephone with a brand new number.
It was too early for the Standard to check out the coverage of last evening’s adventure, so I headed back to Madge’s. On the way, I heard someone shout, ‘Mr Sharman’. So much for my disguise. I turned slowly, fearing the worst, and was relieved to see it was only a bloke called Gabriel, the main man in our local neighbourhood watch.
He was a right pain in the arse. Short, with a typical Napoleon complex, and I always thought he probably wore lifts in his shoes. He was about seventy, retired from some corporate job in the city. White hair, bristly white moustache, and a red face that hinted at more than a passing acquaintance with the whiskey bottle. He always wore a collar and tie during the week, and slacks, a sports jacket, and a cravat at the weekend. A cravat, I ask you. He’d had a stroke a couple of years previously, and it would have been better, as far as most of us in the street were concerned, if he’d just turned up his toes and gone to meet St Peter and maybe met his namesake at the pearly gates.
‘Mr Gabriel,’ I said. ‘Enjoying the weather?’
‘Not particularly’ he replied, and I believed him. His face was even redder than usual, and it looked like his old school tie was strangling him. ‘Were you at home last night?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I replied, although it was none of his business. ‘I stayed at a friend’s.’
‘Thought as much. No car, and there was a bloody commotion last night at your front door about two. Woke me and the wife up. I didn’t go out, because, frankly, some of your friends leave a lot to be desired.’
Charming, I thought.
‘Called the police, but as usual, no one came for an hour, and by then all was quiet.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I have no idea who it could have been.’ Although I was pretty sure. ‘Are you sure it was my place?’
He gave me what my old gran would’ve called an old-fashioned look. ‘I may be getting on, Mr Sharman, but I’m not senile. It was your house, and I know the couple in the other flat are away. You see, they have the politeness to let me know their movements, so that in my capacity in the community I can keep my eye on things.’
Pompous little twerp. In another life, I would’ve grabbed him by both ears and head butted his ugly little face. But not this one. Instead, I apologised again and promised to be a better boy in future.
When I got back to Madge’s, I filled her in on developments. I put my new number in her mobile, and texted Robber with the same.
‘What are you going to do now?’ she asked.
‘I should check the place. See what surprises they left me.’
‘No. You’re too obvious. Why don’t I take a wander?’
‘No, Madge. I’ll wait ’til it gets dark and see for myself.’
‘If you say so. How about some lunch? There’s a ham salad in the fridge. Then I’m going to get an afternoon paper, see the reports of your exploits last night.’
‘Sounds fine. I could get used to staying in this hotel.’
She just snorted, and went to get the lunch ready.
I sat out in the garden, smoking a cigarette, petting the cat, and watching the grass turn brown in the sun.
39
New Boots And Panties – Ian Dury And The Blockheads
Luncheon was served, and eaten, and the long day dragged on. I was sitting in the garden again when my new phone chirruped. It was Robber. ‘Listen, Nick,’ he said, ‘I’m not having much luck with your men. There’s no Martineau working for the Revenue. The Spencer, I told you about, and Smyth with a y don’t exist as far as the Met and Special Branch would let on. Who knows what the truth is? You never know with these fuckers. So I’ve come up a blank, and don’t bother asking for your money back, it’s already spent.’
‘On a new suit?’ I asked.
There was a long pause. ‘Funny,’ was all he said.
I didn’t tell him about my adventure the previous evening after we’d met. Too much information for even a slightly dodgy cop to ignore. ‘Fair enough, Jack’ I said. ‘If anything comes up, let me know.’
‘You’ll be the first,’ he said, and rang off.
Then Madge said she was going to the shops for more supplies. My latest big mistake was letting her. When she hadn’t come back after an hour, the penny dropped. I tried her mobile and a man answered. ‘This must be Sharman,’ the man said. ‘I was just going to call you. We’ve got your girlfriend. Bit old for you, I would’ve thought.’
‘Stowe-Hartley, of course.’
‘If you’ve hurt…’
‘Save the histrionics for someone who might appreciate them. She’s as good as gold. It’s you we want to talk to. You’ve cost us dear already.’
‘And more, if I have anything…’
The voice cut me off again. ‘I said save it. You got satnav?’
‘Sure.’
‘Then get in your car and get here.’ He gave me instructions. ‘It’s not far. And I don’t have to tell you to say nothing to anyone. If you do, we’ll know and she’ll pay. It’ll be on your head. Come now. And alone. You’ve got an hour. Be here or she’ll get hurt.’ With that, he cut me off.
Shit. Not Madge. Not another innocent hurt because of me.
I looked at the bag of guns. I was walking into a trap. There was more than one of them. A whole fucking army if Smyth was right. Fat chance I’d have to sneak up on them. They had the high ground. The advantage of their territory and numbers.
Regretfully, I left the ordnance and headed for my motor.
40
Driving Sideways – Freddie King
I went to where I’d left my car. It was still there, just a bit dustier. I fed the information I’d been given into the satnav, and it led me down through south London towards Croydon. It was still baking hot, the tarmac shimmering in the heat, and although I had the air con on high I was still sweating like a dog. More from worry about Madge than the weather.
Stowe-Hartley had been spot on with the timing. Just under an hour after I’d got the call, I arrived at an industrial estate on the south side of Croydon. It had seen better days, but then so had I.
I drove through a set of open gates, and saw a tattooed skinhead
sitting in a deck chair under a striped umbrella, drinking from a can of special brew.
He was expecting me, and he pointed to a warehouse with huge doors wide open. Another big bloke, this time with hair, heard me coming, and beckoned me inside. The place was empty apart from several tarpaulin-covered cars at the far end, plus a beautiful pearl white Bentley GT, which probably cost about the same as my flat, with a personalised number plate V12 LNS, which told me who had answered Madge’s phone. As if I hadn’t known. There was a third bloke giving the motor a wash and brush up, who stopped as I drove in. I stopped the car, as the warehouse doors closed behind it, filling the place with shadows.
The first bloke opened the car door. ‘Out,’ he said.
I did as I was told, and yet another bloke appeared from the darkness. He slammed me against the side of the car and gave me a thorough frisking, including a good punch in the kidneys for good luck, and, just to add injury to insult, whilst the first bloke watched, after showing me the butt of a pistol stuck in his belt.
‘Did you really think I’d be stupid enough to come here carrying?’ I asked.
‘Who knows how stupid you are?’ the handy bloke said.
‘Not that stupid,’ I said. ‘I’m come only armed with my sunny disposition.’ That got me another painful jab. One day I’ll learn to keep my big mouth shut. ‘I hope we get to meet again,’ I said, through clenched teeth.
‘It’ll be my pleasure,’ he said. That time I said nothing.
When they were both sure I was unarmed, bloke number one drove my car down to where the others were parked, got out and locked with a chirrup from the horn, and a flash from the indicators.
‘Valet parking,’ I said. ‘Give it a wash whilst it’s here,’ I said to the geezer still holding a chamois leather who was polishing the Bentley.
Nothing back.
‘Just in case you had any surprises waiting for us under your seat,’ said bloke number two. Then he gestured towards a set of metal stairs leading up to a mezzanine floor. ‘Up you go,’ he said. ‘The boss is waiting for you in the office.’
41
Radar Love – Golden Earring
I did as I was told again, climbed the stairs, then went along a wide platform towards a half glass door at the end. Inside, in air conditioned cool, sitting behind a metal desk, toying with a small revolver, and listening to some forgotten song from the sixties playing on a portable radio, was Stowe-Hartley. Still looking like a shark waiting for his lunch.
Unfortunately for me, it looked like I was the main course.
‘We meet again, Mr Sharman,’ he said. ‘Sit.’
‘Where is she?’ I demanded.
‘Don’t worry. She’s in good hands. At the moment she’s receiving the hospitality of my home for the elderly. I must say she’s a feisty old girl. But then, my staff are used to difficult customers.’
The old folks’ home. Where this whole mess had started. ‘I’m warning you,’ I said.
‘Stop it,’ he said back. ‘No one’s interested in your empty threats. Let’s have no more of them. Just sit down, you’re giving me a crick in my neck.’
I had no choice but to do as I was told again, and I was getting sick and tired of it. ‘I have no idea where you sprung from,’ he said when I was sitting. ‘Or why you wanted to interfere in my affairs, but you managed to kill two of my best men yesterday, and walk away without a scratch.’
Not quite true, I thought, but I wasn’t going to show him the scabs on my body from the broken glass in the SUV.
‘But possibly even more intriguing,’ he went on, ‘is where you got the cash from the bank robbery that got you arrested. That money has not been touched since it was carefully hidden away until such time as it seemed safe to allow it back into circulation.’
‘I got it from someone who wanted to piss on your parade. And if those were your best men, I feel sorry for you. I killed them both with a fucking biro. And as for those four downstairs, one is working on his tan drinking Special Brew, another one’s giving your car a wash and brush up, the third one, when he’s not giving my kidneys a seeing-to, is probably hiding away with a dirty magazine having a J Arthur. And as for the other, all he seems to be interested in is the size of his weapon. Pathetic!’
‘Very clever. But you’re here on my orders. Help me out, who is this mysterious person who has it in for me?’
‘If I knew, I’d tell you. He’s a right royal pain in my arse. He’s something in law enforcement. Something secret.’
‘Name?’
‘He has several. Martineau when he was part of the Inland Revenue when he hired me to deliver those papers, Spencer, a Met detective inspector, and Smyth with a y, Special Branch.’
He looked genuinely surprised. ‘Describe him.’
‘Average height, average build, dark hair, dresses like a dummy in a Moss Bros window, and talks like an extra in an Agatha Christie film.’
He shook his head. ‘That doesn’t ring any bells with me. Martineau was the grandson of the old lady who died. But he’s in the south of France, and nothing to do with the Revenue as far as I know. And he’s in a wheelchair.’
‘This bloke was definitely able-bodied. But he did have a stick. But more for show than to help him walk, I think. A sword stick probably.’
It felt as if the pair of us were just like old buddies catching up.
‘He told me that you were some kind of criminal mastermind, and he wanted to put a spanner in your works. In other words, me.’
‘It seems to have worked, up to a point,’ he said. ‘You’ve given me a lot of problems. The driver you killed last night was my best wheel man. He was about to do a very special job for me. According to the web,’ he nodded in the direction of a computer on another desk, ‘you were a police driver. If you want to see your friend again, you’ll fill in.’
Fucking computers, fucking web. Does nobody have any secrets anymore? ‘Are you having a laugh?’ I asked, but I didn’t think he was. ‘I’m not even smiling,’ he said.
‘What about those four downstairs?’ I said. ‘And if this bloke who got me involved is anything to go by, plenty more?’
‘They have their specialities, driving is not one of them. And with the hold I have over you, you’re best fitted for the job. You have a lot to lose.’
He cocked the gun, and pointed it at my head. ‘Make up your mind now, or I will kill you, then your friend also. Then I will find your other friends, your family, and kill them too. You have five seconds.’
It looked like I didn’t have much choice. Not for now, but things would change. Or I would die in the attempt.
On the radio, a weatherman said that the heatwave was going to break tomorrow.
42
I Didn’t Know The Gun Was Loaded – The Cannons
‘OK, OK, you win,’ I said. ‘Point that thing another way.’ He did as I asked.
‘But I have to speak to her. Make sure she’s alright.’
He pondered for a second, then reached for the phone on his desk and punched in numbers. ‘Put her on,’ he said, when the phone was answered. He paused, then put the receiver on the desk and nodded at me. I leant forward and the gun swung in my direction again. I picked the phone up and said, ‘Madge…’
‘Nick, are you alright?’ said the familiar voice of my friend.
‘More importantly, are you?’ I said.
‘I’ll survive. I’ve been stationed in Taiwan.’
‘I’m going to get you out.’
‘I know, dear. Don’t worry.’
‘I didn’t feed the cat.’
‘She’ll survive too. She’s a huntress.’
Stowe-Hartley gestured impatiently, and I handed the phone back. He dropped it onto the receiver. ‘Happy now?’ he said.
‘For now,’ I replied. ‘So what’s the plan?’ It was ma
sterful in its simplicity.
In Waterloo, close to the station, was an anonymous building that housed a firm of jewellers. At approximately noon the next day, there was to be a delivery of uncut gems valued at somewhere between one and two million pounds sterling.
Deliveries of greater and lesser amounts had been made since time immemorial with no problems, and security was lax. Stowe-Hartley had been watching for months, gathering intel and now he was ready to strike.
One car, three men, two to do the job, one to remain with the motor, then a quick spin through London’s lunch hour traffic to a second car waiting in a supermarket car park opposite the London Hospital, then on again to Mile End, dump the second motor, tube to Waterloo, then overland train to West Croydon where we’d be met by another gang member, and back by car to the warehouse with the swag.
Bob’s your uncle, Lily’s your aunt.
43
Jaguar And Thunderbird – Chuck Berry
I spent an uncomfortable night on a cot in a locked room in the warehouse, with only mice for company. I could’ve done with Schmoo the cat to keep them at bay. I got woken up by the tattooed skinhead at seven am with cold McDonald’s and warm coffee. ‘They’ll be here in a minute,’ he said. I assumed he was speaking about my fellow armed bandits.
I stretched my legs outside in the car park. It looked like the weathermen on the radio the day before had been right. Black clouds loomed over the South Downs, there was the faintest rumble of thunder if you listened closely, the atmosphere was thick with moisture, and electricity fizzled in the air.
But it was still boiling hot, and most unpleasant, especially as I was still wearing yesterday’s sweaty clothes.
I sluiced myself down in the dirty warehouse toilet and went to meet my partners in crime.
There were two of them. I never got names, just christened them Itchy and Twitchy. Itchy because he looked like he couldn’t wait to use the sawn-off double barrelled shotgun he was carrying, virtually making love to it, and Twitchy because he did. Twitch, that is.