Reap the Whirlwind

by Mark Timlin

  They both nodded. ‘And he paid you for this?’

  ‘Sometimes. Sometimes I paid him. Depends on which one of us had been hired. Sometimes if we were quiet, just as mates.’

  ‘And are you quiet at the moment Mr Sharman?’

  ‘I’m sort of between jobs at the minute.’

  ‘Why do you think he was murdered, and left in that kind of state?’ Bond asked.

  ‘God knows. A message I suppose?’

  ‘Who to?’

  To whom, I thought, but I didn’t say it. Instead I shrugged. ‘I have no idea,’ I said. And I didn’t, but I would love to know.

  ‘To you?’

  ‘No. Why? Listen, we were friendly. Close. But I didn’t live in his pocket or him in mine. We weren’t partners. I have no idea what he was doing job wise, and he didn’t know my business. Sorry. Can’t help.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’ Blackburn interrupted, and the mood changed.

  ‘He was my friend,’ I said. ‘I’ve told you that. Best friend according to his ex. I’m proud of that.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘So I do,’ I replied. ‘And this is starting to worry me. Do I need my solicitor?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘If you’ve got nothing to hide.’

  ‘I haven’t,’ I said.

  ‘Then that’s fine. Where do you think the rest of him is?’

  ‘I have no idea. All I know is, no one deserves that.’

  They both nodded. They were fishing. Putting in time, but neither really cared.

  Because of the usual coroner’s and police bullshit Roy’s body wasn’t released for weeks, so the funeral wasn’t until the cusp of October and November, and London got the first chilly kiss of winter on its brow. I got an invitation from Roy’s solicitor by phone. He asked me to make myself known to him at the service. I agreed.

  JB came with me to keep me company. I liked her better for that. She certainly dressed the part. Black boots, long black coat, black scarf and gloves and a black beret on her blonde hair. The service was at Newham crematorium. A seventies brutal build that smelled damp and there was a constant drip from a leak in the roof. It was close to the pub where Roy’s body had been found. Outside the crematorium was an attractive brunette shaking hands with those going in, but no tears. I supposed it was Roy’s ex though I’d never even seen a photo. ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘You must be Carol.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Nick Sharman. We spoke on the phone. This is my friend JB.’

  ‘Nick, JB’ she replied ‘So glad you could come. Roy would have appreciated that.’

  ‘I’m sorry it’s not on happier times that we met.’ I thought it best not to mention any missing body parts, because as of that day nothing had been found.

  ‘But not surprising,’ she said. ‘Roy liked to keep things in boxes. The army, the police, the investigations. Me, you, all in little separate boxes. And another little box is his solicitor, Mr Spector. See, I don’t even know his Christian name. He’s not arrived yet, but I’ll point you out to him.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  I thought I didn’t know anyone, but I looked over the car park and saw a familiar figure inspecting the gravestones lined up against the wall that I guessed had been dug up when the place was built as had so many graveyards, desecrated in the name of progress. Inspecting was what Jack Robber did, so I left JB and walked over to him. ‘Jack,’ I said. ‘Didn’t know if you’d make it.’

  ‘Always like to know where the bodies are buried,’ he replied.

  ‘Or burnt in this case.’

  He gave me a stiff smile. ‘Friend of your daughter?’ He asked nodding towards JB.

  ‘Funny,’ I replied. ‘She’s not that young.’

  ‘Too young for you son,’ he said, and pulled out a packet of Rothmans. ‘Better get back to her before she leaves you for a younger bloke.’

  I shrugged under my smother and left him to his smoke.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Asked JB when I joined her.

  ‘You really don’t want to know,’ I said. ‘Not a nice man.’

  She accepted my answer, and we went inside the building and sat down avoiding the dripping water. It was obvious that the vicar hadn’t known Roy, and didn’t have much to say about him, once again obviously avoiding the obvious. The only music was ‘Coming Home Baby’ by Mel Tormé. I remembered Roy telling me it was his favourite record. Thank God it wasn’t ‘My Way’. The service ended and the coffin disappeared into the void. Roy’s remains were sent to the oven, and the only reminder of my friend was a puff of smoke from the chimney as we exited the building. I saw Robber head to his car and drive off. He gave no sign he knew me as the car passed us.

  JB and I shared a cigarette outside. One of the congregation, a middle aged bloke in a smart cashmere looking overcoat was talking to Carol who pointed in our direction before he headed our way. ‘Mr Sharman?’ he asked.

  I nodded, and he held out his mitten. ‘Spector,’ he introduced himself. No Christian name. Old school. ‘Roy’s solicitor. We spoke on the telephone.’

  I nodded again, and introduced JB.

  He politely acknowledged her, then went on. ‘I know this is unusual, but it was the way Roy wanted it. He left everything to you.’

  Now I was surprised. ‘You what?’ Was all I managed to say.

  ‘All his goods and chattels. He made a will a few days before he disappeared. I think he knew something was going to happen.’ He made no mention of the missing head and hands either. What could anyone say?

  ‘Christ,’ I said. ‘You didn’t say anything when we spoke.’

  ‘It was what Roy wanted. Don’t ask me why. I’m just following his instructions. And he wanted me to hand you this when we eventually met if anything did happen to him.’ He reached into his overcoat and pulled out a long, fat envelope that jingled as he handed it to me. ‘Spare keys to the kingdom,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘My card is inside. Please ring me for anything further.’

  With that, and another handshake for me and a smile to JB he left us.

  ‘Well that was a turn up,’ I said. ‘I need a drink.’

  There was a pub close to the church and several stragglers headed to the bar. JB and I got a table away from everyone else. ‘How did he know he was going to die?’ She asked when we sat down.

  ‘I don’t know. Christ. I don’t believe all this. It’s not often I’m lost for words, but this is a bloody puzzle. He never hinted at anything the last time we talked. Just said he was on a job.’

  ‘Maybe the answer is in that envelope.’

  ‘Yeah. I don’t really want to know.’

  ‘But you will.’

  ‘Of course I will,’

  And for my sins I did.

  After one drink we left the pub, nodding to the people from the service and headed back to mine. The flat was chilly and reminded me of the crematorium, so I smacked the thermostat up. ‘I’m going to get out of these clothes,’ said JB and went to the bedroom where she kept some of her stuff in my wardrobe. ‘I’ll leave you alone to look at your inheritance.’

  I took the envelope from my coat pocket and looked at it. I knew that inside there was going to be something life changing, and I didn’t want to see. I thought about chucking the whole thing in the garbage, but I’ve always been cursed with insatiable curiosity. I tapped the thick paper on my own palm, then stood it on the mantelpiece with some unpaid bills. ‘Fancy early doors at the Greyhound?’ I called to JB.

  She came back into the living room looking great in a sweater and jeans. ‘Sounds good to me,’ she replied.

  ‘Let me get changed and we’ll be off,’ I said.

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  I left her in the room and went to get out of my suit before we headed to Dulwich and our local gastropub.

  I called a c
ab as I didn’t want to drive, and I didn’t want JB to drive either. Not that I was driving a cherry that year, just a Ford Ranger pickup with blacked out, highly illegal black windows all round.

  We lucked out on a table by the window overlooking the forest at the back of the boozer. The music was Sinatra, the food was home made. Kate and Sidney pudding with mash and carrots. The booze was good red wine and plenty of it. We followed with apple pie and custard. JB wailed at the carbs, but I told her that with her figure she could handle them. Brandy and cappuccinos with extra shots finished the meal. Good spot with the taxis I thought as I paid up and got the waiter to call us another.

  Back home we went to bed together and I didn’t even look at the envelope glaring balefully at me from its home on the mantel.

  Next morning, bright as day I made the coffee whilst JB lay in bed. I joined her. ‘It won’t open itself,’ she said after taking a sip.

  ‘What won’t?’

  ‘The letter from your friend.’

  ‘I know. I just don’t want to know what’s in it.’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘No. It’s my job. What are we doing today?’

  ‘Being as it’s Saturday, and no work for me, I think I should go home and do my laundry.’

  ‘Do some for me will you.’

  ‘I’m not your skivvy.’

  ‘No. But you know you love me.’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘As long as it’s the time you’re doing your smalls.’

  ‘Behave yourself.’

  But she was right, and I got up, pulled on jeans and a hoodie, left her to lie in and went to the living room, whacked up the thermostat again, and took the letter off its perch. Inside was another envelope, sealed with my name on the front in Roy’s handwriting. Inside was a letter:

  Dear Nick,

  If you’re reading this I’m dead, and you’re not. Not funny I know. I’ve got into a bit of a pickle and I should call you up for a hand. But you know me, always going where angels fear to tread, and I’m no angel. I’ve got a client, details enclosed. Her boy has gone missing. Done a runner after turning into the teenager from hell. If you decide to do anything about it she’ll fill you in. She knows about you. If you don’t, no hard feelings. It’s not pretty where he went.

  I made a will that’s with my brief. Once again, If you’re reading this you’ll have met him, and know the full SP. I’ve left you the lot. Only thing worth anything is the flat. Mortgage protection paid up. All that Carol left me after the divorce was just enough for the deposit on a rabbit hutch, but these days even a rabbit hutch in the East End is worth a bit. The office is rented on a short lease. Anything you can use, be my guest.

  Hope you enjoyed the service if there was one.

  Roy

  Now that was a turn-up.

  I emptied the rest of the envelope onto the sofa next to me. There were three sets of keys, all three had labels attached. One was for his office, one for his flat, one for his Range Rover.

  There was also a notebook with names and addresses. The client he mentioned was on page one. Finally there was a legal pad covered in his handwriting again, telling a nasty little story, of which until then I had no idea. It didn’t make easy reading.

  I fancied a drink after that, but it was only half nine in the am. Fuck it, I thought and went into the kitchen and poured a stiff vodka over ice and knocked it back in one.

  Well Roy, I thought as I toasted him with a second. How about that, then?

  So then I go back to the bedroom where JB is standing in front of the wardrobe mirror in her underwear combing her hair. My, but she does look good. ‘New pants?’ I say.

  She nods. I swear that girl has got more knickers than John Lewis. ‘Like them?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Just for you.’

  ‘Appreciate it.’

  ‘Did you open the letter?’

  I nodded at her back, and she caught my eye in the reflection. ‘And?’

  ‘And Roy was caught in something very nasty.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Kids being used to ferry drugs round the country. One kid in particular. Ronnie Bennett went missing. Mum hired him. Looks like it went pear shaped from there.’

  ‘And.’

  ‘And he was going to row me in. There was too much for a solo act.’

  ‘Why didn’t he?’

  ‘Looks like that was when someone or someones decided to do something about it.’

  ‘What about the police?’

  I almost laughed out loud. ‘Sweetheart,’ I said. ‘The police couldn’t care less about one of their own gone to the dark side. A swift sweep under the carpet and that’s all she wrote.’

  ‘Someone like you,’ she said.

  I’d never made any secret about my past. ‘Give the lady a cigar.’

  ‘And this is leading where?’ She finally turned to look at me directly.

  ‘He’s left me his property,’ I said. ‘The least I can do is have a shufti.’

  ‘A house.’ She said wide eyed.

  ‘Well, a flat. I can’t take it though.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s his ex. I don’t know how she’s fixed.’

  ‘She looked OK to me. That coat she was wearing yesterday. A thousand quid if it was a penny.’ JB knows about these things. She works behind the scenes in retail. Trust me.

  ‘I’m going to have a word. And speak to his brief. Spector.’

  ‘So I’m with a man of property,’ said JB who came over and gave me a hug which led to the pair of us spending a Saturday morning in bed. Oh, I forgot to tell you I took the vodka and two glasses with me.

  After our tryst if that’s what you call it we went out for a late Italian pasta and wine lunch locally. Then back to mine and some serious business. Even though it was Saturday afternoon I called Spector on his mobile. ‘Sorry to bother you on a weekend,’ I said.

  ‘No bother’’ came the reply. ‘We never sleep.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. I need Carol’s number.’

  ‘I’ll text it.’

  ‘Great. You know I can’t take all this.’

  ‘Roy’s estate?’

  ‘Yes. I mean we were friends, but bosom buddies, no.’

  ‘He said there was no one else.’

  ‘Carol?’

  ‘There was no love lost there. But it’s up to you.’

  ‘Fine. Get me her number and I’ll speak to you in the week.’

  ‘As you wish,’ and with that we both hung up.

  Half a minute later my phone pinged with a text and hey presto Carol’s number was mine. I phoned her straight away. she answered on the third ring. ‘Carol?’ I said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nick Sharman. We met yesterday.’

  ‘Hello Nick. What can I do for you.?’

  ‘It’s Roy’s will. He left everything to me.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want it, Don’t deserve it.’

  ‘Obviously he thought you did.’

  ‘But you were married to him.’

  ‘Were is the word. And believe me the parting wasn’t amicable. Nor was the divorce. I got nearly everything. The house, the cars, the money. I don’t even know how he managed to scrape enough together to make deposit on that flat. Truth is Nick, I’m with someone else now. Someone well fixed. He doesn’t want anything to do with Roy. Neither do I. I only helped Spector with the funeral for old times’ sake. Old times I want to forget. Keep the stuff, sell it, give the money to the local cats’ home. I don’t care. End of story. Sorry to be blunt but that’s it.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said. ‘Thanks for being so frank.’

  ‘So now I can get on with my life?’

  ‘Of course. I wo
n’t bother you again.’

  So ended that phone call. I hung up and answered JB’s look.

  ‘Seems like I am indeed a man of property,’ I said.

  The next morning I decided to take a look see at my new flat, and check Roy’s office on the way. ‘Can I come?’ Asked JB.

  ‘Do you want to?’

  ‘Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Anyway, you’ll need someone to drive your new car home.’

  She was right. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Then lunch.’

  We took off in my car. Roy’s office was over a hairdresser’s in Blackwall. The back door was locked, and I used one of the keys Spector gave me and we went up a flight to a door covered in police tape. I pulled it off and in we went. The place was freezing and looked like a bomb site, fingerprint powder covered every flat space and papers were scattered hither and thither. ‘Tidy, the Met,’ I said. ‘Glad I’m not looking for office space.’

  We stood around for a minute, then I said. ‘No. Everything he wanted me to know was in that note book. The cops must have his computer. There’s nothing here for us.’

  We locked up and left and headed for my new flat by the City airport. It was new build, and on the top floor. ‘Penthouse suite,’ said JB after we got through the main door, past the concierge, who said Roy had been a most generous resident, moaned about the cops making a mess in his block, and into the lift. Suite wasn’t in it. It was just a studio hardly big enough to swing the proverbial puss cat. One room with a plug in oven in the corner kitchen, and a tiny bathroom with toilet, shower and hand basin. Even the bed folded into the wall. There was one armchair facing a flat screen TV hanging on the wall. Depressing or what? No wonder Roy had never invited me round for dinner. Also the SOCO had left their fingerprints everywhere. ‘Christ,’ I said. ‘What a dump.’

  ‘Still worth a hundred grand paid for,’ said JB, ever the pragmatist. I told you she knew about these kind of things.

  We found Roy’s car parked out back in a resident’s bay so that meant he’d been jacked from home or else he’d used another, more anonymous motor on business. It was an old, but not ancient black Range Rover. It looked immaculate from outside. Roy loved cars and looked after them. I gave JB the keys. ‘You take it home,’ I said.