A Good Year for the Roses (1988) (16 page)

So I was armed, but just with guns, not knowledge. I felt as if I'd been lost in a fast shuffle and been made to look like a complete fool. Two years off the streets had reduced my suss quotient to zero. I slept late on Thursday morning, or at least I lay in bed late and stared up at the fine cracks in the ceiling above me. When I was a kid in my little room at home, I'd imagined that they were the frontiers of vast continents that I would someday conquer. That morning they seemed to be maps of roads that led nowhere fast.

I eventually dragged myself out of bed and showered and shaved. Whilst I was in the shower I shampooed my hair and removed the sticking plasters from the cut on my head. There was still a sizeable lump, but the wound was scabbing over and seemed to be healing satisfactorily.

The morning was misty, but I could see the sun trying to break through, and the weatherman on the radio told me to expect an August day of uninterrupted sunshine. With that in mind I decided to give blue jeans the elbows for once. I pulled on a rather natty pair of Armani strides in a muted blue check and teamed them with a pale blue, long sleeved chambray workshirt. I found my navy espadrilles under the bed and wore them sans socks. I admired my bad self in the mirror and felt prepared for whatever the day might bring. Of course I was wrong, but why spoil a perfect record.

I tried ‘phoning Laura, but there was no reply. I actually felt hungry for a change and cooked myself a pan of scrambled eggs. I boogied around the tiny kitchen and sang along with the radio as I prepared the food. For some reason I was feeling good, although God alone knew why. I should have been depressed, but I didn't fight the mood, just rolled with the flow.

I sat at the little breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the living room and ate my food and drank three cups of tea. At eleven the telephone rang. It was Laura. She sounded distant in both senses of the word.

‘Are you alright?’ I asked with relief at the sound of her voice.

‘Yes, but no thanks to you,’ she replied.

‘Leave it out Laura, please,’ I said exasperatedly. ‘I'll get dizzy from ducking the ricochets.’

She was silent, and I listened to the crackling on the line.

‘Yes Nick, we're all OK.’ She heavily underlined the ‘all’.

‘Where are you?’ I asked.

‘In a hotel,’ she replied.

‘Where?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Not really. If you don't want to tell me, don't. Just as long as you're alright. How's Judith?’

‘She's fine. She thinks she's on a mystery tour, and in a way I suppose she's right.’

‘And Louis?’ I enquired.

‘This is not a social call Nick. I just phoned to settle your mind. Your friend asked me to.’

‘Who? John?’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘Good, I'm glad he was useful. I spoke to him yesterday,’ I said.

‘He was unusually helpful for a policeman,’ she commented. Once again I could tell the word hurt her. She'd never forgiven my job for coming between us, as she always put it. I would have thought by then, with all the free dental care, she'd be grateful.

‘Did Louis get in touch with the local police?’ I asked.

‘Yes, they weren't very pleased with you apparently. Hasn't anyone been to see you?’

‘No, John said he'd liase for me. That probably ruffled a few feathers. I've had enough of Old Bill.’

‘So have I, believe me.’

‘So everything's alright. You're sure no-one followed you?’

‘I'm sure. We borrowed a car from one of Louis’ friends. We all met up at some motorway services and switched cars in the petrol station. Then we went back down the motorway and changed over to B-roads. I think Louis quite enjoyed it.’

‘This isn't Starsky and Hutch, Laura,’ I warned. ‘This is serious.’

‘I know Nick, we're taking it seriously.’ I could almost feel warmth in her voice. Just like in the old days, before things went sour. Then she remembered herself. ‘I've got to go. Louis is waiting,’ she said.

‘Be careful now, and keep in touch. Give my love to Judy,’ I managed to say before she hung up without another word. Perhaps she'd heard the warmth too, and decided to put me back in my usual cold place. Still, what had I expected? A declaration of undying love? They'd gone out of the window when I joined the CID.

As soon as I put the phone down it rang again. My, but I was popular that morning. It was John Reid on the line. ‘Good morning Nick,’ he said. ‘I see you're keeping bankers’ hours these days. Has good old George Bright come up with another sub?’

‘George fired me two days ago,’ I replied.

‘Oh really, what a wise man. So business is slow?’

‘Business is out of the window, John. It's down to me now. George Bright doesn't figure in it any more. He was history the minute I got that note about Judith.’

‘That's what I'm calling about,’ said John, in an official tone. ‘The shit's really hit the air conditioners about that. I tried to keep it as quiet as possible, but Louis the Lip was on the blower to his local nick the minute he finished talking to you yesterday. Fox got wind of it, and believe me he's doing his pieces up here. It's a good job you don't fall under Brixton jurisdiction, or you'd have been back for another little natter last night. Rubber hose job, I wouldn't be surprised. As it is Streatham CID aren't your biggest fans.’

He was dead right. It was just as well the local law hadn't called round for a little chat. They might have bumped into Em and me with handfuls of illegal arms and ammunition. That would have given Fox food for thought.

‘Bollocks to them,’ I said. ‘What was I supposed to do? Go and tell the Station Sergeant? Get in the queue with all the wallies reporting their missing dogs? Or that someone's nicked the milk off the front step?’

‘That's beside the point,’ John continued. ‘I've put myself on the line for you again. Christ alone knows why. And as yet, nobody's seen this famous threatening letter. I supposed it does exist?’

‘What do you think?’ I asked disgustedly. ‘That I invented the sodding thing, then got Louis to take the girls off for a trip in the country for fun? You must think I'm really mental. Of course it exists. It's here now.’

‘I want it,’ said John, as if I hadn't spoken. ‘I've been told to handle it myself. And that's over the head of the DI at Streatham. He's not well pleased. There's been a lot of talk about special treatment for an ex-copper who left the force under … how can I put it? Rather dodgy circumstances.’

‘I don't care how you put it John, just as long as Judith is safe.’

‘I hope the press don't get hold of this,’ he remarked.

‘Fuck them too.’

‘Alright, big man,’ he interrupted. ‘We all know how tough you are. Just do me a favour and shut up. Now I want to see you with the letter.’

‘Where?’ I asked. I'd rarely been able to impress John.

‘Right, do you remember when we used to go drinking in Waterloo?’

‘Yes.’

‘Remember the pub we used in the market?’

‘Yeah, the Spanish whatsname?’

‘That's right, The Spanish Patriot.’

‘Of course I remember it.’

‘Good, meet me there in an hour, and don't forget the letter.’

‘That's a bit of a rough old pub, isn't it?’

‘Who are you then? Little Boy Blue? It's not rough now. The brewery have done it up.’

‘It's not a continental style brasserie pub, is it?’ I asked suspiciously.

‘You're never happy are you? Of course it's not. That's hardly my style is it? It's fine, believe me. Be there in an hour.’

‘ Alright,’ I said, then he hung up on me too. I wondered why no-one said goodbye any more.

I pottered around for a while, washing up my breakfast things and making the bed. After half an hour of domestic chores, I got ready to leave the house. I put the letter in the inside pocket of a white, double breasted jacket, and as an afterthought, slipped the Colt Cobra into one of the side pockets. I hoped it wouldn't pull the material or leave any nasty, oily stains.

I felt in an even better mood knowing Laura and Judith were safe. I drove slowly and carefully to Waterloo, over Denmark Hill and down the Walworth Road. East Street Market was as busy as usual and I amused myself by looking at the South London girls in their summer dresses.

There were some real beauties about that morning. The sun had brought them out like exotic flowers. They were taking advantage of the glorious day by showing off their new schmutter. I felt a twinge of guilt about feeling so good. I'd seen an old friend mutilated not forty eight hours previously, but I could forget about him and enjoy the weather. That's just human nature. I'm not going to apologise for it. Nothing I could do would bring him back so I continued eyeing up the women on the street. My libido was back with a vengeance.

I got to Waterloo within the hour and drove down to Lower Marsh Market to meet John. The pub we used to drink in had always been a bit under the arm, but now it had been tarted up and turned into a ‘Victorian Parlour’, whatever the hell that was.

I parked neatly between two vans unloading goods onto the stalls.

Because the market sold mainly clothes and electrical items, it didn't really get started until lunch-time when the office workers came out to play, so there was still some space at the kerbside. I grabbed my jacket from the back seat and got out of the car. As I was locking up, a little guy in glasses sidled up to me.

‘You can't park that there,’ he said, with a disparaging look at the state of the the Pontiac. ‘There's somebody coming in to unload in a minute.’

‘There's room,’ I pointed out politely.

‘No mate, he always parks there.’

‘Tough,’ I made as if to walk away.

‘Yes mate, tough on you. He won't like it.’

‘Who is he then? King Kong?’ I asked. The little man didn't crack his face.

‘Worse,’ he said.

I knew what he was after. ‘Listen, son,’ I said, and reached into my jacket pocket for a quid to tip him to take care of the car. I knew the markets and it was worth parting with a coin for no hassle. As I fumbled in one pocket, the Colt dropped neatly out of the other and landed with a clatter on the pavement between us. We both stared at the gun on the ground for a heartbeat of time. Luckily there was no-one passing, and luckier still, because the Pontiac was left hand drive I'd exited on the pavement side and the bodywork of the car shielded the sight of the gun from the shoppers on the other side of the road. The little guy looked at the gun, then me, then the gun again. I thought he was going to salute.

‘Don't worry sir,’ he said. ‘You park here, I'll take personal care of your car. It'll be my pleasure.’

I nearly laughed out loud. I didn't know who looked the bigger twat, him or me.

‘Just make sure you do,’ I said, and bent down and scooped the pistol up, then tucked it into the waistband of my trousers. I put on my jacket and buttoned it to hide the gun from view. ‘Or I'll come looking for you.’

‘No problem, Guv,’ he said. ‘Trust me, leave it here for as long as you like.’ Then he turned and almost ran across the street. I would have to be more careful in future. The bloody gun could have gone off. I might even have shot myself in the other foot.

I strolled into the boozer. Things certainly had changed there. What had once been spit and sawdust, had been converted to oak and velour. I saw John straight away, sitting at the bar on a stool and reading the morning paper.

‘Hello John,’ I said. He looked up from his copy of The Sun. ‘Still reading the quality press, I see.’

John looked me up and down. ‘Christ Nick, what are you wearing? You look like a bloody waiter in that jacket.’ He stared at my feet. ‘Can't you wear your socks, who do you think you are? Boy George?’

‘Very satirical John,’ I replied.

‘What do you want to drink?’ he asked.

I opted for a lager top, and waited for the landlady to pull the pint. I could see what attraction the place held for John. The woman serving the beer was big and brunette. She must have stood nearly six foot tall in her heels. She possessed a voluptuous figure, well strapped in, but I could imagine what she looked like when she loosened her corsets.

‘Brenda,’ said John. ‘This is Nick Sharman, he used to be on the force.’

‘Charmed,’ said Brenda, with a big, red lipped smile. When she opened her mouth to speak, I noticed that her teeth were stained pink with lipstick.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘This place has changed since I was last here. What happened to Dot and Tom?’ I was referring to the couple who had run the pub when I used to visit it regularly.

‘They took a place by the sea,’ replied big Brenda. ‘A nice little retirement cottage in Bournemouth.’

She put my pint in front of me and John paid her. I took a sip of the sweet, cold mixture. Brenda would have continued chatting I'm sure, but John growled ‘Business,’ and led me over to a quiet table close to the door of the pub.

‘I can see what the attraction is here, John,’ I said. ‘I bet old Brenda puts it about a bit.’

‘I wouldn't know,’ replied John severely.

‘Oh yeah, I believe you. I bet you've had afters here a few times, and some main course too. What does she look like naked?’ I asked with a grin. ‘I reckon she's white all over. Is that her natural hair colour? She looks like she might be ginger to me.’

‘Shut up Nick, will you? I haven't got all day. Where's this letter?’ I reached into my pocket and pulled out the typewritten note. John took it from me, carefully by the edge of the envelope. A real pro.

‘I suppose you've put your dirty paw prints all over it?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, I suppose I have. At the time I didn't know it was evidence. I'm not psychic and I can't read through envelopes.’

John ignored my attempts at insolence, read the note carefully several times, then folded it neatly and put it into a plastic bag which he took from his pocket.

‘Have you heard from Laura?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘She called this morning, just before you did.’

‘Did she tell you where she was?’

‘No, she wouldn't say.’

‘Good.’

‘I suppose that was your idea?’

He said nothing.