by Mark Timlin
He nodded, forgetting we were there almost, but not quite. ‘Dry it,’ he said to JB. ‘And be careful.’
Jesus, this wasn’t the time to be butterfingers. She did as she was told, dabbing at it with a dish cloth. ‘Give it the me. And something to carry it in,’ he said.
She obeyed again, passing him a Waitrose carrier in which he put the icon. Just like I would have carried Jake’s shit.
‘You won’t get away with it,’ I said. Maybe rashly, but I didn’t think he had the balls to murder us all in cold blood. Of course I could have been wrong. Luckily I wasn’t.
‘Don’t worry. I have a vehicle every inch capable of getting through the snow. I’ll be in France by breakfast time, and then this will be sold.’
He walked out of the front door and I followed closely, followed by JB. We watched as he walked across the drive, and then vanished without a sound leaving only the bag containing the icon and the shotgun visible in the snow. ‘What the…? said JB, and I twigged. The open grave that Bertram had dug.
I pulled on my wellingtons and ran through the snow, and sure enough, snug as a bug in a rug there lay the young Fitzwilliam, out cold.
So that was that. We dragged him up and locked him in the cellar of the vicarage until we could get in touch with the outside world. He was arrested for murder, the icon, thankfully unharmed, although we never mentioned the dishwasher incident, was valued by Sotheby’s and sold at auction for close on four million quid. The church and the vicarage was saved. Douglas was buried in the very grave Fitzwilliam ended up in, and Edna and Jake finished up in Cromer.
JB and I went home once the ice melted and lived happily ever after, at least for a while.
So that was how it ended.
BAGS’ GROOVE
That Monday lunchtime in June it was on page three of the early edition of the Standard. Front page was a rail strike that was or wasn’t about to happen, and the fact that Madonna had decided to dress like she’d been brought up in the Shires, and was going to open an olde English pub in London with her dozy husband. I read the paper with a BLT that I’d managed to wrestle out of it’s usual cardboard and plastic coffin, and a cup of decent coffee from the office machine. On page three, half way down was a headline that read: MYSTERY OF SHOOTING VICTIM AT LUXURY HOTEL. Underneath was the report of an unnamed man found with bullet wounds in the car park of the five star Dulwich Blenheim hotel. He had been taken to a local hospital for treatment, where his condition was reported to be critical but stable. Nothing more. I bit off a bit more of the sandwich that I could chew and washed it down with a swallow of coffee, then moved on to page four, and some problem with rubbish collection in Hammersmith. The paper and my lunch finished, I dumped the detritus into my waste paper bin and went back to the Stephen Hunter paperback I’d been reading, put on the stereo and forgot all about the story.
As you might have guessed, business was slow that June.
I walked home about six, ordered a pizza to be delivered and put on the news to pass the time while I waited. Then came the local news just as the door went. I collected the pizza and began to eat it straight out of the box. The main story was the rail strike, now postponed, then the shooting in the Blenheim, the victim now identified as William Bridges, who was under guard in King’s College Hospital, still critical but stable. Still of no interest to me as I munched my extra Pepperoni. Then more local stories, followed by the sport and weather, which boded well, and I thought no more about it, finished my supper, watched a couple of films on video and went to my solitary bed.
The cops came to my office the next morning. Two of them. Female and male, female leading. A DI, her oppo, a DC. Her name was Riley, his Ward. I was drinking coffee again, but things weren’t all bad as I was still reading the Stephen Hunter paperback and listening to Miles Davis playing ‘Bags’ Groove’ with a whole bunch of the finest American jazzmen of the century. Life could have been worse, then, as was often the case, it deteriorated when Lily Law came calling.
I asked them to sit. They did. I offered them coffee. They refused. So I made myself another cup, sat behind my desk and lit a Silk Cut.
Ward coughed. Good. Riley looked like she could murder a fag, but I didn’t offer.
From a voluminous bag Riley produced a plastic evidence bag. Inside was a business card. One of mine. I’d’ve recognised it anywhere. Don’t forget I’m a detective. Luckily it wasn’t one with crossed machine guns.
I made a ‘yes, it’s mine, but so what?’ gesture. At least that’s what I meant.
‘Recognise it?’ asked Riley.
I felt like saying ‘I’d be blind if I didn’t’ but realised that levity was not the best direction to take under the circumstances, although I was not yet sure what the circumstances were. Not good, that was for sure. ‘Yes. It’s mine, or was. I hand them out like confetti. You never know when someone will get in touch.’ Like now, I thought. Like the old Bill.
‘Do you know Charlie Barnett?’ asked Ward.
Charlie Barnett. Now that was a name from the past. If it was the same Charlie Barnett, and I had to assume it was, he’d been a snout for me, and Christ knew how many others, back when I’d been a DS at Kennington nick. But that hadn’t been all, and I felt just a little tingle in my sphincter at the mention of his name.
‘I remember him,’ I said. ‘Why?’
Silence. As if maybe I should know.
‘From the look of you, I imagine all is not well with Charlie,’ I added.
Ward snorted, and Riley gave him a dirty look. His face reddened.
She told me what had happened to Charlie. He was the shooting victim, left for dead in the car park of the Blenheim, next to his Mercedes Benz. The make of car had not been on the news.
‘It wasn’t his name given out on the news last night. Bridges wasn’t it?’ I asked.
‘You keep up with events,’ said Riley.
‘I try. Especially when people are being shot in leafy Dulwich. That’s something that doesn’t happen everyday.’
Another silence. Longer this time. Maybe they were expecting me to confess. I didn’t comply.
‘Now Mr Sharman,’ said Riley, when the silence dragged on. ‘We know a lot about you. You were the law, then you broke the law. Several times. But we’re in bit of a pickle with this one. We need to find out who shot Mr Barnett, and our only lead is your card.’
‘It wasn’t you was it?’ Ward interrupted. I’d bet a pound to a peanut they’d rehearsed that in the car coming over.
I shook my head. ‘No. I haven’t seen Charlie, or thought about him for years.’ Not true, but they didn’t need to know that.
‘He must have thought about you.’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ But critical, even though stable, probably put the kibosh on that.
‘We would,’ said Riley. ‘But circumstances prevent that. And now I’m going to tell you things I probably shouldn’t. Things that only a few people are aware. And if any of it leaks to the media, I’m afraid we’ll come calling again, but not in such a pleasant way.’
‘I’m no fan of the media,’ I said.
‘Good. The night before last. Sunday. An employee of the Blenheim hotel went out to the car park for a cigarette and found Mr Barnett lying by the driver’s door of his car. The boy thought he was dead. He almost was. In fact he died in the ambulance on the way to hospital but was brought back. He’d been shot twice. One was a through and through and got smashed against the car park wall. The other was in his chest, and the bullet bounced off a rib and ended up in his neck close to his spinal column.’ She touched her own neck as if in sympathy. I liked her then, and looked at her properly for the first time. Pretty decent, if a bit strung out looking. Some other time, some other place we might have got together for a drink. Had a laugh. Not much to laugh about today though. She had a hard job for a woman in the nineteen-nineties. Hard
job any time.
‘He needs an operation to remove the bullet,’ she went on. ‘But there’s a great deal of tissue damage, so it can’t be done right now. If the bullet moves in the wrong direction he’s a quadriplegic, in the other direction he’s dead, so the hospital has put him in an induced coma. So, unfortunately we cannot ask him anything. Also the bullet might be from a gun involved in other shootings.’
‘Any particular reason for that?’ Silly question really.
‘Well, he’s an interesting fellow.’
‘Always was.’
‘When he was found he was wearing a very expensive tailored Hugo Boss suit, that my friend here,’ she looked over at Ward, ‘tells me would set you back about a thousand pounds. A handmade shirt and silk tie from Jermyn Street, Lobb brogues. He was wearing an Omega Speedmaster watch that is list priced at seven thousand pounds. In his pocket was a wallet with his driving licence, bank and credit cards, a bundle of cash and of course your card. We’re waiting for a court order to see inside his accounts. The house keys were for a nice little town house in Battersea worth a few bob. The house was also his office. And here’s something interesting. He was the managing director of a record company that has never released a record, and an entertainment agency with no clients. The Mercedes and a Bentley were leased by the company. The Bentley is nowhere to be found. And finally, in the safe in his suite was ten thousand pounds in used notes, and a brand new passport in the name of William Bridges. Now you know everything we do, so over to you.’
‘Nobody saw or heard the shooting?’ I asked.
‘No. And what’s a sickener is that the hotel just fitted closed circuit TV in the underground garage and grounds. It’s the latest thing, but it hadn’t gone live. In fact we have no idea who fired the shots. So that’s why we’re here.’
I put on my serious face, frowned a bit and started. ‘I really don’t know what to say,’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen Charlie for years. He was a grass.’ They both pulled faces at that so I backtracked. ‘A paid informant, and a good one. He used to hang out at a boozer in Herne Hill that had bands in at the weekend. He was something to do with the management. The place is flats now. But I never knew anything about a record company, or the other business. We were matey, but not mates. There used to be lots of lock ins at the pub. Then there were plenty of Rubys and Chinese as well. In those days you didn’t always know who you were eating and drinking with. Cops and villains, pretty much of the same stamp.’
That didn’t go down well either, but it was the truth.
‘He was good at what he did, but he ruffled quite a few feathers, and maybe some of those feather have ruffled back. Have you checked any of his successes have recently been released?’
‘It’s not that easy Mr Sharman,’ said Riley.
‘That’s why they pay you the big bucks.’
‘Anything else?’ said Riley.
I shook my head. I’d told the truth up to a point, but some things that happened years ago were better off left years ago. That is, until there’s nothing left but the truth, and the truth can sometimes set you free. But not always. Who said that? Me, as it happens.
‘So, can I see him?’ I asked after a moment.
‘There’s nothing much to see,’ said Riley. ‘Just a man lying in bed being fed through a tube.’
‘I mean when he wakes up.’
‘If he wakes up,’ said Ward. And that pretty well was the end of that.
‘Do I need a lawyer?’ I asked
‘Do you think you need one?’
‘I didn’t shoot him.’
‘Then no. If we thought you did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation here.’
I had no smart answer for that, so I kept quiet.
‘Well thank you for your time,’ said Riley, and she collected her bag, my card and her detective constable and left.
I waited a moment and went to pick up the phone and call my old friend DI Jack Robber, but the phone beat me to it, and there he was. What a coincidence.
‘Had visitors?’ he asked.
‘As if you didn’t know.’
‘We should meet.’
‘Not at the Dog.’ The disgusting boozer in Loughborough Junction that seemed like his second home.
‘No. Is Li’s open?’
‘Should be.’ Li was Lionel, our Vietnamese friend who ran a tasty bistro just up the way from my office.
‘You can buy me lunch.’
‘By all means.’
So, half an hour later the door to my office slams open and Jack Robber breezes in all poshed up in an electric blue whistle and matching tie and hankie. What a geezer.
‘Carnaby Street?’ I asked. ‘Or Oxfam?’
‘Piss right off. You got my usual?’
‘Cash or cheque?’ I asked.
‘Cash is king.’
I slung him over an envelope containing two hundred sovs, the usual. He actually counted it. After all these years.
When he’d finished he tucked it away and gave me a questioning look. ‘Tell me all,’ I said.
‘Lunch,’ he said.
‘Come on then.’
Lionel’s Vietnamese was doing well and had recently expanded into the shop next door. It was a balmy afternoon as Robber and I arrived. Lionel, or Li as he was most often known, was standing in the front in his chef’s whites. By coincidence in this day of many coincidences, his stereo was playing ‘Bags’ Groove’, his favourite tune ever since I’d introduced him to it. This time it was the Milt Jackson’s version.
‘Gentlemen,’ he cried as we went inside. ‘How grand to see you both.’
‘Li,’ we said in unison.
‘Today is indeed an auspicious one, and you are both here. I have something for you to try. A new recipe of my own invention.’ As he was talking he led us through to the back of the building, and a table for two tucked away from the main room. His girlfriend Maureen who also waited tables was laying out silverware on the snow white tablecloth.
‘Mo.’ Robber and I again in unison.
‘Hello,’ she said back.
‘Chicken and pork,’ Li continued. ‘A marriage made in heaven. Minced together with a special secret chilli sauce that will creep up and smack you in the neck.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Robber as we sat, and Maureen poured iced water for us both.
‘And beer,’ said Li. ‘Ice cold.’
‘Yes, your highness,’ said Maureen.
‘I’ll get it ready,’ said Li. ‘Fragrant rice. Mustn’t forget fragrant rice.’
‘What is this feast called?’ I asked.
Li pointed at the stereo speaker above our head. ‘Why, Bags’ Groove, of course,’ he said.
And then they both left us alone.
‘So what’s all this about?’ I said to Robber.
‘Looks like you’ve upset somebody.’
‘Not for the first time.’
‘Or the last probably.’
‘If I don’t end up in jail.’
‘You didn’t shoot him.’
‘I know that. You know that. And I think Riley and Ward are of the same opinion, Thank God. I don’t need a night in the cells.’
‘They’re a good team. Maybe a great one. Murder squad. She’s single. Married to the job. No significant other as far as anyone knows. Never has been. Lives alone in a flat in Streatham. Not even a cat. A bit like you Sharman, at the moment.’
I nodded. He was right. But then he so often was.
‘Maybe you two should get together. As you’re both on your lonesome.’
‘How do you know that I am?’ I asked.
‘Not difficult. I saw the dry cleaning bag in your office. No one ironing your shirts?’
‘Jack,’ I said. ‘The usual kind of women I go out with aren’t great shirt ironers. They
generally have other talents.’
‘Anyway, I know when your birds are on the go.’ He went on. ‘Not literally. I don’t have an ear at your bedroom door.’
‘That’s a blessing.’
‘But back to Riley. When she’s not working she goes to see musicals. Her only vice apparently. As for him. Twenty five, though he looks about fourteen. He’s on a fast track. Might be her boss in five years. Married with a kid, and another on the way. Loves Oasis apparently. And yes, I do know who they are. Plays guitar, badly.’
‘Clean I suppose.’
‘As Colgate. Both of them.’
‘And Charlie?’
‘Alright bloke. I’ve paid him a shilling or two over the years. You too I imagine.’
I nodded. The music had changed to Charlie Parker with strings. Another coincidence that we were talking about one.
‘Who wanted him dead?’ I asked. A rhetorical question. Any south London lowlife he’d sold out for cash.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ said Robber, as our food and bottles of beer, freezing cold and coated with moisture arrived. ‘It all looks like a bit of a pickle.’
I could do nothing but agree.
Li didn’t embarrass himself or us by hanging around for our verdict. The food was as good as he’d promised. The chilli subtle at first, but then exploding on the tongue and lips like a tiny volcano. Robber wiped his eyes before he swallowed a mouthful of cold lager. ‘By Christ,’ he said. ‘That’s got a kick.’
‘But in a good way,’ I said around a mouthful of beer. ‘The thing is, why would Charlie have my card on him? I’m not hard to find. I’m in the Yellow Pages for Godsakes. Like I told Riley and co. I hand those babies out like sweeties.’
‘You’ve been framed.’
‘Funny.’
‘Not for you.’
Li had seen our empty plates and bounced up to the table with a big grin on his face. He didn’t say a word, just raised his eyebrows.
‘Ten out of ten, son,’ I said.
His smile widened.
‘Ditto,’ said Robber. ‘Nearly took the roof of my mouth off.’