by Mark Timlin
I obeyed.
‘Lift your sweater and turn around.’
I did it.
‘Pull up your trouser legs.’
Checking for an ankle holster. I did it, and eventually he seemed satisfied.
‘Now sit. Place your hands on the arms, and if you as much as lift them an inch I will blow your head off.’
I sat on the hard wooden seat and placed my hands where I guessed Roy had placed his before they were chopped off.
‘And now you,’ Campbell said to Robber, and the barrel of the shotgun moved to his stomach. ‘What’s your story?’
‘I’m just a broken down old copper driving a desk,’ said Robber in a voice that was not his own. Wheedling, frightened. Not like Jack at all. And he gently pushed the gun’s barrel away in my direction again. ‘Don’t hurt me. I only come to help that mug there.’
Meaning me, of course.
And then his voice changed again. Deepened. More like growl. ‘And I wanted to bring you something.’
Campbell’s expression changed and his eyes widened, and Jack snapped the fingers of his right hand and something flew out of his sleeve into his palm, a click, and a silver blade shimmied in the light as he slammed it upwards under Campbell’s jaw, up into his brain, and the shotgun fell to the floor with a clatter and Campbell followed, stone dead.
‘Well, that’s bloody inconvenient,’ said Jack as he wiped the flick knife’s blade on Campbell’s coat.
‘Christ,’ I said. ‘He was pointing that thing at me. He could’ve pulled the trigger on reflex and blown me in half. Then when he dropped it, it could’ve blown my feet off.’ Let me tell you I was shaking in my shoes.
‘Neither option happened. I think he wanted us next to your mate in the freezer. Thank your lucky stars.’
There was that of course.
‘Now what?’ I said.
Robber walked over, picked up the can next to the chainsaw, shook it, and liquid sloshed inside. He opened the top, sniffed, grimaced, said ‘petrol’ and started to chuck it round the room over Campbell’s body and the freezer.
He took out his Zippo, and I said, ‘hold on, there might be people upstairs.’
‘Or he might have a pussy cat,’ said Robber. ‘Christ, you’re going soft in your old age.’
‘Still worth checking,’ I said, picked up the shotgun, racked the action and left the basement.
The place was full of rooms. It seemed like dozens. More than should’ve been there from outside. Some were empty, some held sticks of furniture, some mattresses with a few blankets. One room was like a tart’s parlour. A round bed, red silk covers and a mirror in the ceiling. Another was a bathroom appointed like I imagined the Ritz would be, and yet another, a state of the art kitchen. And finally in the eaves was a small office. There was a desk, two chairs, one facing, one in front and a huge old fashioned safe, door standing open. Inside were stacks of cash all neatly banded with the amount inside written in thick black ink. But all in all, no sign of life either human or feline.
Robber literally rubbed his hands together. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’ve broken enough laws already today. What’s one more.’ And he started emptying the safe, packing money into his pockets until he resembled the Michelin man. When his pockets could take no more, he said. ‘Come on Nick. There’s plenty more. Fill your boots.’
He moved out of my way and I picked up a couple of bundles both marked £5000. I flicked the cash and it felt dirty, greasy and I threw it back. Didn’t seem right. I’d found the remains of my friend, and we’d finish the job the crematorium had started. Job done.
Robber shrugged, then doused the room with more petrol and continued down the stairs. At the front door I propped the shotgun up, opened the door and Robber flicked his lighter and threw it inside. I closed the door on what was already a conflagration and we walked away.
We got back to the cars sharpish. Sonny was still sitting trussed up in the front of mine. ‘Lend us your knife,’ I said to Robber. He pulled it out and handed it to me. It felt slick and ugly in my hand. I slashed the ties round Sony’s wrists. ‘Scarper,’ I said.
‘Ain’t you going to give me a lift?’
‘The tube’s round the corner,’ I said.
‘I’m skint.’
‘Ain’t you got your Oyster card?’
‘It’s empty.
‘Christ,’ I said. ‘Here.’ I pulled out my wallet and found two twenties. ‘Treat yourself. Take a cab. Now go.’
I could see black smoke coming out of the house and I shoved him on his way, shut the flick knife and gave it back to Robber. ‘Time for us to go too,’ I said. ‘Thanks for everything.’
Robber grinned. ‘No. Thank you,’ he said.
‘There’s cameras,’ I said.
‘Leave them to me. Everything will be fine. Just go.’
So I did. And so did he. The fire was on the evening news. Big story in the end when they found the remains of the freezer and Roy. But true to his word no one came knocking on my door.
So that was that. Robber just kept being a Robber, and I just kept being me. JB? Well we lasted a bit longer and had another adventure, but that’s another story altogether. Eventually we went our separate ways. Last I heard she was married to someone her own age and expecting her first baby. I think of her often. Fondly. I hope she does the same for me.
MURDER AT THE VICARAGE
So, here’s how it started: Early one winter’s morning before it was properly light JB was preparing for her daily executive battle at retail heaven. Black suit: bolero jacket, pencil skirt. White blouse, black tights, black patent leather pumps, and putting the finishing touches to the make-up she really didn’t need. The radio was tuned to LBC, and Steve Allen was blathering away in his usual style, the volume just about audible for the news and time checks.
I was in bed, in t-shirt and Calvins, chewing on a slice of Warburtons farmhouse bread toasted by her own fair hand, smothered with Waitrose Brittany Butter avec sea salt crystals, and some very expensive French raspberry jam whose name I couldn’t pronounce, but cost a bomb and tasted heavenly. How come the French make the best jam, Or framboise I believe they call it? Rhetorical question. They just do. I was washing it down with strong Italian blend coffee delivered in my favourite cup, also brewed by JB. I should’ve known something was in the air. Everything was just too perfect.
‘I’ve got some holiday owing,’ she said. ‘We should take a break.’
My mind went to infinity pools, sun loungers, long, cold, sweet cocktails, and warm evenings eating dinner, watching the sun sink into the Mediterranean, but before I could say a word, she said, ‘I got an email. There’s a cottage to let in Suffolk. An old stable conversion behind a church…’
‘Suffolk,’ I interrupted. ‘Christ love, it’s March. If you want a holiday let’s head for the sun.’
‘It’s nearly Easter.’
‘I’ll buy you an egg at the airport.’
‘It’s a bargain. Aga. Wood burning open fire. All the wood we can burn thrown in. Big screen TV. DVDs. A beautiful part of the country. A fourteenth century church. There’s a Michelin starred restaurant just by the A12. We could have lunch on the way. I’ll drive so you can have a drink. What’s not to like?’
So my plan for sun, sea, sex and sangria was vanishing in the haze.
‘What?’ she said.
‘I was just wishing and hoping as Mr Bacharach said to Mr David.’
‘Who?’
I knew I’d lost an argument when there wasn’t even one. ‘Never mind. You’re too young.’ She ignored that comment. ‘And you’re flush, and not doing anything.’ She said.
She was right. I’d copped a few quid from the sale of a flat I’d inherited, and even though I’d had to straighten out my old friend DI Jack Robber, and no doubt the revenue would be calling soon for
some capital gains tax, I was richer than I’d been for a long time. If ever.
‘It’d be great,’ she said as she shrugged into her overcoat. ‘You could take your Range Rover off road.’
‘And get mud on the paintwork,’ I said. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’ll book it then,’ she said as she left the room. ‘I’ll call you later and get your card number.’
Game, set and match to the lady in the black coat.
So the following Thursday found us setting out for Bungay St Edmundsbury, yeah, I know, for a week in the country. I’d looked it up in my AA book, and it was about as far in the boondocks it could be, before coming out the other side. Hardly even a dot on the map. Get a rubber and it would be erased in the blink of an eye. Anyway, I’d invested some of my cash in one of these state-of-the-art, brand new sat-nav inventions, with a nice lady talking through the directions. Blimey, but there ain’t half some clever bastards.
We were both in jeans, boots and leather jackets all ready for anything the country could throw at us, or so we thought. I took the first turn at the wheel and we dawdled through the usual post rush hour traffic up through east London towards the A12 and Suffolk beyond. On that leg of the journey it was JB’s choice of music on the stereo. Today it was Madonna’s greatest hits. I could put up with that if she could put up with ‘Ruby Baby’ by Dion DiMucci. Live, and let live is my motto.
True to JB’s word, there was a Michelin starred restaurant in an old mill just off the highway, and she’d booked us in for lunch as promised. And what a lunch it was. I won’t bore you with details, but it was first class. Don’t ask me how much it cost, but I bet it was a purse breaker. The menu I was given had no prices on it. It was that sort of place.
JB stuck to water, except for a very weak spritzer. Me, I finished the bottle, and was in a fine mood when we left the restaurant and I sunk into the leather luxury of the Range Rover’s heated front seats as JB obeyed the lady in the sat-nav, and took us into the wild and woolly Suffolk countryside.
Eventually we came off the A12 and joined a succession of B and probably C roads. By then it was the Adderley brothers doing ‘Mercy, Mercy, Mercy’. Real mellow, as the leafless trees loomed over us, and the ground was covered in daffodils. A lot. A fucking host as the poet didn’t say, but maybe should’ve. It was dark before we hit the village. Lunch had taken longer than we thought. But then we were on holiday, so what the hell.
‘Just look for the spire. That’s what it said in the mail,’ said JB, and lo and behold, even in the gloom there it was. Not that it would be hard to miss as the village itself was just a couple of streets, a pub, a green, a short row of shops and a duck pond sans ducks. They were probably sheltering from the cold. ‘And the stable’s at the back,’ she added.
Everything in its place, I thought.
JB swung the motor through a gap in a waist high stone wall, then past the church which looked every year of its fourteenth century age, then, what turned out to be the vicarage. Exactly the same birthday by the state of it. Then a crunch of pebble-covered drive, and a low, single-storied building that looked more recent, with a dim light in its windows, and a single bulb over the front door to welcome the weary travellers. Then, suddenly, a figure showed up in the head lights. Big. JB slammed on the anchors and the car skidded to a halt, and the figure took off dragging one leg behind him.
‘Bloody hell,’ I said. ‘Who the fuck is that? Quasimodo?’
‘Don’t be cruel.’
‘OK. Just a local inbred.’
‘Nick…’
‘Sorry. Made me jump.’
‘Not like you.’
‘I was dozing. Too much wine with lunch.’
We got out of the car. By then the drive was empty. I opened the back and unloaded our bags, plus a couple of bags of supplies JB had insisted we bring. ‘Key’s under the flowerpot by the front door,’ she said.
‘Trusting souls.’
‘This isn’t Tulse Hill.’
‘Well that’s a plus,’ I said.
The key was where she said it would be, and I opened the door and in we went. It was warm and smelled of cooking. Good cooking. The downstairs was open plan. By the door was a tall cupboard holding a telephone and telephone books. The room itself was dominated by a long dining table. On top was a vase of daffodils, a bowl full of fruit and a bottle of red wine holding down a note. We dropped the bags and JB rescued the paper. ‘Welcome,’ she read out. ‘Hope you like red wine. There’s a lamb hotpot in the Aga. Should be perfect by seven. Apologies if you’re vegetarian. Forgot to ask. Milk and butter in the fridge. Bread in the bread bin. We’ll leave you in peace this afternoon, but please pop round for coffee tomorrow morning around eleven. Signed by the vicar’s wife, Mrs Whitechurch.’
‘Good name for a vicar. She seems to have thought of everything,’ I said. ‘Nice digs.’
‘I said you’d love it given time.’
‘Maybe it’s you I love.’
‘Just maybe?’
‘Just about.’
‘Which is just about enough for me. I’m going to unpack,’ said JB. ‘Give us a hand with these bags.’
I did as I was asked, then left her in the master bedroom, complete with king size bed, soft mattress, softer duvet, and a en suite with a huge bath, and went back downstairs. We’d bought a dozen bottles of white which I dumped in the fridge. The fireplace was big enough to roast a pig, with cords of wood stacked waist high. The grate was laid with paper and fire lighters, so I struck a foot long match from the box on the mantelpiece and started a blaze and checked out the TV. A brand new looking thin big screen attached to the wall. Underneath was a PlayStation and a pile of games and DVDs. All mod cons, and reminded myself to replace my old set at home now I had some spare cash. I switched on, selected Sky news and slumped on the sofa. Happy days.
The evening went well. The hotpot was just right at seven as the note had said. Even after my large lunch I did it justice. The chops were small, tender, and greasy, the gravy not too thick, not too thin, and potatoes crisp and brown on top, soft and white underneath. The vicar’s wife obviously knew her rhythm and blues.
Afterwards we collapsed on the sofa in front of the fire and the TV with the remains of the bottle of red, which we’d started with our meal, and smoked one of the ready rolled joints I’d brought with us. ‘Is it blasphemous to smoke drugs on hallowed ground?’ Asked JB.
‘This was the stables,’ I said.
‘Jesus was born in a stable.’
‘Not in Suffolk he wasn’t.’
‘Fair comment. Do you think the vicar and his wife will smell it?’
‘We’ll tell them it’s herbal.’
‘We really shouldn’t smoke in here at all.’
‘There’s an open fire. That smokes. I don’t think it matters.’
‘You’re right.’
We watched one of the stack of DVDs that were on a shelf by the TV. Pulp Fiction as it happens. Not a very religious choice, but then we’re in an increasingly secular world.
About eleven we locked all the doors, turned everything off downstairs, raked the fireplace and headed upstairs to the king size bed, and whatever fate would bring. Wishing and hoping as Mr Bacharach once said to Mr David.
I woke up early and left JB snoring gently in bed. I slipped into jeans, a sweat shirt and thick socks and headed downstairs. There was a chill in the air so I set the fire going and pumped up the Aga. I went outside for a cigarette where the chill was chillier. I took a little walk and discovered an empty grave in, you guessed it, the graveyard. Not every holiday home has one of those I thought.
JB had put our supplies away and I decided on a full English for breakfast. Eggs over easy, crispy smoked streaky bacon, mini sausages, baked beans, fried cherry tomatoes, fat mushrooms, fried bread and loads of coffee. The place was getting a bit smokey when sh
e glided down the stairs to join me. ‘Blimey,’ she said. ‘You’ve been busy. I thought I smelt something good, but I reckoned I was dreaming.’
‘No dreams here babe,’ I replied. ‘Just me. Your dreamboat come home.’
She sniggered at that, but I forgave her as I recited the menu and laid out warm plates.
‘You’ll have me fat,’ she complained. ‘You know I’m watching my figure.’
‘Leave that to me darlin’,’ I said, twiddling a fake moustache. ‘That’s my job.’
We made good inroads to the food, hardly leaving a crumb and took our coffees to the sofa. ‘What’s the plan?’ she said.
‘I cooked, so you can clean up.’
She snorted.
‘Dishwasher,’ I said. ‘Save your lovely hands. I saw a newsagent as we drove in last night. I think I’ll go and get a paper. Then we’ve been invited for coffee with our hosts, don’t forget.’ I looked at my watch. It wasn’t yet nine-thirty. ‘Stacks of time,’ I said.
I got fully dressed and hit the road, lighting a cigarette as I went past the vicarage and the church, through the opening in the wall we’d driven through the night before, and headed into the centre of the village, if you could call it that. That was when I got my first surprise in a day full of them. The first person I passed, a chubby woman of maybe forty, wished me ‘good morning’; I nearly dropped my Silk Cut but managed to stammer back ‘morning’. This was definitely not south London. On those mean streets you learned to keep your mouth shut early.
The next villager, this time male, also wished me the same. Me back. The third I beat to it and got ‘And a very good morning to you, young man’. Now I knew was in a strange land.
I got to the newsagents/mini mart in the short row of shops I’d seen as we’d arrived. A hairdressers/barbers, a real butcher, a bakery and an iron mongers that seemed to stock everything but irons. I pushed open the door, and a bell attached to it announced out my appearance.
Next surprise was that the proprietor of the newsagent was a middle aged white man. Like I said. Definitely not south London.