A Good Year for the Roses (1988) (11 page)

‘I was just going down the pub.’

‘I'll buy you a drink later. Listen, I've got no more tens.’

He thought for a second. ‘I've got the low loader outside. I suppose I could get there in twenty minutes or so.’

‘I'll owe you one, Charlie,’ I said with relief.

‘All right,’ he said finally. Then the pips went, so I hung up and walked round to view the remains of my beloved automobile.

I had to pull up the collar of my jacket as the blood-soaked neck of my shirt was a pretty unusual sight even in the Brixton Road at that time of night.

As good as his word Charlie arrived not long after I did. He was almost as upset about the state of the car as me. After all, he had put many long hours into restoring it. We managed to manhandle the Jaguar onto the trailer attached to his Ford Transit truck, and he took it off to his garage in Norwood. He declined my offer of a drink and on his way dropped me off at my flat. I was quite relieved, as I was depressed, hurt and skint.

By ten o'clock I was in bed nursing my headache and my pride.

The A M rolled over me like a hit and run. I had all the familiar symptoms of a hangover again, except any memory of a good time. I lay on my back trying to remember where I'd been. Some detective, I thought. Then the events of the previous day came flooding back. I moaned at the memory. I couldn't believe it was only Tuesday morning. I had to check. I dragged myself out of bed and hunted for my watch which had a day/date function. After some searching I found it lying in the sink and confirmed the day, date and time which was past nine thirty.

I rinsed my mouth out with cold water in the bathroom and studied the face that stared back at me from the mirror. I looked shitty and felt the same. I gingerly touched the lump on the back of my head and decided to leave the plasters on. I found a torn sweatshirt hanging over the shower rail. It matched my mood exactly. I went back into the living room and pulled fresh jeans from a hanger, then rooted around for clean socks in the chest of drawers.

I made a pot of tea and planned my day over the first cup.

I needed wheels badly, then I had to discover who wanted me out of the way badly enough to hire the black and white minstrel show to fit me up. And why? What was I getting myself into. There were so many questions running around my mind that I could hardly remember my name. I decided to clear my head by taking some positive action. First I rinsed out my dirty cup under the tap, then I pulled on my old leather jacket and went off to see Charlie at his garage.

Fox had been right. I didn't feel much like a super sleuth waiting at the bus stop and then crawling along to my destination, downstairs on a Routemaster wedged between two pensioners and their mid-week shopping.

When I got to the garage, Charlie was working underneath a Ford Escort van. I kicked his foot and he rolled out from underneath the vehicle.

‘How's the Jag?’ I asked, after he'd pulled himself to his feet and we'd made polite enquiries as to each other's health.

‘Bad,’ he said, scratching his chin with an oily thumb. ‘Very bad. Whoever did it, stitched you up good and proper. What was it all about?’

‘I'll tell you another time Charlie,’ I replied. ‘When I know myself.’

‘I'll look forward to it.’

‘Is she repairable?’

‘Of course. Everything's repairable if you've got the money. Have you?’

‘It depends,’ I said. ‘How much do I need?’

He pondered like all mechanics do. ‘Minimum fifteen hundred quid,’ he told me.

‘Oh Christ,’ I said disbelievingly.

‘That's straight,’ he protested. ‘Your motor's in bad shape.’

‘Where is it?’ I enquired.

‘In the back, under canvas.’

I walked through the garage and out into a brick built extension. I recognised the sleek shape of the Jaguar under a tarpaulin. I pulled back the cover and surveyed the wreckage. The E-type was indeed a mess. Worse than I remembered. I tucked her up again and sadly went back to the forecourt. Charlie was leaning against the Escort cleaning his nails with a sliver of metal. He looked at me as I approached.

‘Bad,’ I said.

‘Told you.’

‘When can you start?’

‘As soon as I've got some money for parts.’

‘Alright, I'll get you some,’ I told him, although I didn't know where. ‘Can I leave her here for now?’

‘Of course you can, for as long as you like. I'll take care of her.’

‘Thanks,’ I looked around for a moment and then asked the big question.

‘Any chance of a loaner?’

He considered, then grinned a big gappy-toothed. grin. ‘I might have something,’ he said. ‘But it won't be much.’

‘Anything,’ I urged. ‘I just need wheels.’

He went into the shack that acted as his office and got some keys off a hook on the wall. Then he led me through the garage, past the E-Type and out into a muddy open space at the rear of the building. The area was full of junked cars lying in disarray.

‘Try this,’ he said.

He pointed towards a huge American muscle car, or the remains of one. It was a Pontiac Trans-Am. It was no particular colour. The bodywork had been sprayed with a matte grey primer, but in some places it had been rubbed down to bare metal blotched evilly with rust.

The bonnet was bright yellow and the boot lid was a dull brown. The car must once have had a vinyl roof, but it had been torn off and all that remained was a slight, black fluffy residue like a badly shaved chin. The front and back wheels were different diameters and widths. The front wheels were white mags and the rear drive wheels were steel and the low profile tyres stuck out from the bodywork at least three inches on both sides. To accomodate the massive wheels at the back, the suspension had been jacked up and huge wishbone springs had been fitted.

‘Nice car, Charlie,’ I said.

‘Don't knock it babe,’ he replied. ‘It's this or nothing.’ Then he added with a wicked smile. ‘Of course you could always try Avis.’ I pulled a face.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘You've got eight cylinders here.’ He patted the bonnet. ‘She may be a bit rough under forty, but she'll smooth out. Then watch her go. I fitted big springs and beefed up the front and rear bodywork with extra steel panels. I thought about Super-Stocking the beast, but I ran out of readies.’

‘Cheers, Charlie,’ I said. ‘It looks like my kind of car.’

I opened the driver's door. The interior stank of damp. Across the front seats lay a jumble of black nylon webbing.

‘What the hell's that?’ I asked.

‘Parachute harness,’ replied Charlie proudly. ‘You've got a lot of brakes on this little baby, and it'll stop you going through the windscreen. You know how to use it don't you?’

‘Yeah, I saw the Dambusters.’ I replied as drily as I could.

I pushed the webbing out of the way and sat on the stained upholstery, then tried the ignition with the key Charlie had given to me. The engine turned with a rattle, but didn't catch. I tried again. Again nothing.

‘Hold on,’ Charlie said, and went round and opened the bonnet. He fiddled around inside the engine compartment.

‘Try again,’ he said as he emerged.

I tried for the third time. Nothing

‘Give her more choke,’ he ordered.

I concurred. That time the engine caught with a massive rumble that shook the car. In the rear view mirror I saw clouds of smoke belch from the twin exhausts. The smoke gradually turned from black to blue, then grey, then petered out.

‘Let her idle for a minute, then she'll be alright,’ said Charlie, grinning again.

‘Am I insured to drive this?’ I asked.

‘If you want to be,’ he replied.

I gradually pushed in the choke and the engine note settled to a muted roar.

‘Give her a go,’ said the ace mechanic. ‘You'll soon get used to her.’

I lifted my hand from the wheel in salute, put the car into gear and bounced her through the puddles across the muddy ground, down by the side of the garage and out into the main road.

A bit rough under forty, he'd said. Well I can testify to that. The car sounded like a Sherman tank driving down the Norwood Road. Every time I got stuck in traffic or stopped at the lights, the engine began to splutter, and I had to rev her up hard. The roar from the exhausts echoed between the shop fronts and heads turned to stare at the battered automobile. By the time I manoeuvred into my turning I was hunched down in the seat from embarrassment. I parked in front of the office, where I half expected the windows to be kicked in.

All was quiet and undisturbed, however, even the postman had given me a miss.

My head was still throbbing, so I went over to the pub for a medicinal brandy or two. As I drank I once again tried to piece together the events of the previous few days and once again came up with a complete blank. I decided I needed to speak to George Bright as soon as possible. I went back to the office and dialled his number. He answered immediately.

‘George,’ I said, when he picked up his receiver.

‘Yes, speaking,’ came the reply.

‘Nick Sharman.’

‘Oh,’ he said.

For some reason he didn't seem keen to speak to me.

‘I need to see you straight away, George. There's been a few developments.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I was dragged down to the mortuary to identify a body yesterday.’

‘Well, at least it wasn't Patsy,’ I said.

‘No, thank God.’

‘Can you come down and see me at my office?’

‘I'm not sure.’

‘You were sure enough the last time we spoke. What's occurred?’

‘Nothing.’ Then he made up his mind. ‘I'll get down as soon as I can,’ he said.

‘Make it fast, George, I'm waiting.’

He hung up without another word.

Something was bothering him, that was for sure. Something more than a visit to the morgue. I didn't have long to wait to ask him what it was.

About ten minutes later, his Mercedes saloon drew up and parked outside my office, behind the Trans-Am. The gleaming paintwork of George's car made mine look even worse. George emerged from behind the driver's wheel. He looked as if he was dressed for the members bar at Dulwich Golf Club. He was wearing a beautiful chunky kit, double breasted cardigan in navy blue wool, a white polo shirt buttoned to the neck and trousers that looked suspiciously like they were tailored by Tavatini in a black and grey Prince of Wales check. On his feet he was wearing shiny black brogues. He looked like a whiz. His outfit made me feel even more like Jack Shit.

George walked slowly through the door of the office and stood looking at me.

‘Had a rough night, son?’ he asked.

‘You could say that George. More like a rough day, though, if the truth be known. It was nice of you to get in touch. I can tell you must have been desperate with worry.’

‘I didn't know you'd been arrested,’ he said lamely.

‘And you weren't interested enough to find out.’

He didn't reply.

‘What's got into you George?’ I asked.

‘It was seeing that girl on the slab.’

I thought he was about to cry again. Too bad.

‘Tough experience, George. But like I said, it wasn't Patsy, was it?’

‘No. But it could have been, and it might be next time.’

I shrugged.

‘It seems as if I've stirred up a hornets nest,’ I said. ‘Someone doesn't want me looking for your daughter. Now tell me George, who could that someone be?’

‘I've no idea.’

‘I've only spoken to two people about it,’ I continued. ‘One wasn't interested, and as for the other, he's a friend of mine who doesn't know you and has no axe to grind. So he would hardly have sicked the heavies onto me. I've just got two questions to ask you. One, why didn't you check around the local drug clinics about Patsy? You knew she was into dope. And two, who have you told that you hired me to look for her?’

‘I've already told you,’ he said. ‘I didn't know how deeply she was into drugs. I expected the police to check out that sort of thing.’

I declined to mention that if he expected the police to look into a drug connection, he should have told them about the box of tricks he'd found in Patsy's wardrobe.

‘I've only told a few people about you,’ he continued. ‘My employees know. It was obvious something was up. I was forgetting orders, not keeping on top of the job. My foreman came to me, and I told him everything. The other men were very good, very supportive. They took a lot of weight off my shoulders. Besides, they knew Patsy from when she worked there. They're fine lads.’

‘Very touching,’ I said. ‘Anyone else?’

‘I think I told some people at my club.’

‘Club?’

‘The Conservative Club. I drink there.’

I might have known.

‘So I'm looking for a right wing fascist army,’ I said. ‘I don't think so George. The shotgun that geezer stuck on me wasn't for shooting grouse.’

I saw George's eyes widen when I mentioned the gun, but I didn't elaborate. I decided to ignore the Monday Club connection. ‘What about your employees?’ I asked. ‘Can I speak to them?’

‘I'd rather you didn't,’ he said, looking around the room like a puppy searching for it's favourite bone. ‘Listen Sharman, I think I'd rather you didn't look for Patsy any more. It's getting too dangerous. I didn't think you'd raise this kind of stink.’

‘You're incredible, do you know that?’ I asked. ‘You wanted me to search for Patsy because the police were doing nothing. Even though on your own admission you'd suppressed information that might have helped them. And now things are starting to happen, you want me to bow out gracefully. I don't think you know what the hell you do want. It's too late now. I want to see these guys again for myself. They've wrecked my car as well as trying to fit me up. They've done at least fifteen hundred pounds worth of damage and that doesn't include this.’ I touched the lump on the back of my head. ‘It's personal now.’

George looked even more agitated. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I'll pay for the car. It's the least I can do. I'll get my accountant to make out a cheque as soon as you submit a bill, plus I'll put in something over the top for your trouble. You know my address. Drop your account in and you'll be paid within twenty four hours. Meanwhile, I don't want you looking for Patsy any more and that's that.’

George was getting petulant, that was all I needed. I knew I was losing him.

‘George,’ I said, trying to get him back. ‘Last week, you were crying for me to take the case on. Today, less than seven days later, you're prepared to pay almost anything I ask for me to drop it. Who's got to you?’

‘Nobody.’

‘I don't believe you.’

I'd been on the force long enough to know when somebody was lying. He began to protest.

‘OK. OK,’ I cut him off. ‘But what about Patsy? Don't you care any more?’

‘Of course I do,’ he protested. ‘But I'd rather leave it to the police. They've got more manpower.’

‘That's exactly what I said to you when you first approached me, and you said fuck them, well now I'm saying fuck you. I want to see the men who work for you. When can I come round?’

‘I don't want you to ask them anything,’ he interrupted. ‘I want you to stop your enquiries as of now. I forbid you to continue. Just send me the bill for your car and I'll see that it's paid. That's all. Now I'm going.’