Guns Of Brixton (50 page)

    Eventually
he was calm enough to drive and made the short journey in minutes, calling Mark
on the way to open the gates. When he'd parked the car he went to the front
door where Mark hugged him hard. 'You did well, son,' he said.

    'Nearly
needed new underwear,' replied Tubbs as he followed Mark into the living room.
'Thought for sure I'd go caca when they found my gun.'

    'You're
the man,' said Mark.

    'Too
right,' agreed John Jenner from his seat in front of the fire.

    'Let's
see what we've got here,' said Mark taking the plastic bag of dope from Tubbs.
'You got a good deal, son.'

    'Fucking
good,' grumbled John Jenner. 'It cost them nixes.'

    'I
think they need readies,' said Tubbs.

    'That
suits us,' said Mark. 'And we know where they live, who's about and the layout
of the place.'

    'We
sure do. It's imprinted on my mind for ever.'

    'You
did so good, Tubbs,' said Jenner. 'Reminds me of another bloke I once knew,
name of Sharman. He went into a flat for me too, but it didn't work out so
well.'

    'What
happened?' asked Tubbs, glass in hand, reclining in the armchair.

    • 'It's
a long story.'.

    'We've
got time.' There was nothing Tubbs liked better than old war stories. John
Jenner knew that and he sat back and filled the boys in on the story so far.

    'So
he came good with the grass,' said Tubbs. 'Earned his bread.'

    'Ah,
but it gets better.'

    Sharman
got another call from Lawson the next day. This time the meeting was at a bar
in St Catherine's Dock, all chrome and leather, and foliage-filled coloured
drinks. 'A bit poncified,' said Sharman, when he joined the lawyer.

    'Suits
me,' said Lawson.

    Sharman
made no comment.

    'You
heard what happened?' asked Lawson.

    Sharman
nodded.

    'John's
very pleased.'

    'Good.'

    'And
no policemen involved.' 'I heard one's got a big bill at Sketchley's.' 'He'll
get over it.' 'I expect so.'

    'So
what now?' asked the policeman. 'There's something else you can do for us.'
'What?' asked Sharman, lighting a cigarette. 'Simple. We need someone to mind
one of our boys going into a very nasty place.' 'Like?'

    'You
know the Lion Estate?' 'Jesus, do I.'

    'We're
making a drop there on Thursday next. The person we're delivering to owes John a
great deal of money. Now he wants more supplies and has promised to make good
the whole debt when we deliver the next consignment.'

    'And
you think maybe there's going to be a rip off,' 'Precisely.'

    'How
much are we talking?' 'Altogether, fifty grand's worth.'

    'That
is a lot of money. Specially round there. People kill their grannies on the
Lion for a quid.' 'Exactly.'

    'And
who's the face you're delivering to?' 'Lionel Godey.'

    'Lionel?
Bloody hell, I thought he was inside.' 'He's out on bail.'

    'And
what bent brief arranged that?' Lawson smiled.

    'I
thought as much,' said Sharman. 'You do mix with the cream.'. 'I have to earn a
living.' 'Sounds to me as if you're running with the hare and hunting with the
hounds.'

    'Is
that the sound of the pot calling the kettle black? My loyalties always have
and always will lie with John. But I'm the best there is, and besides, he
couldn't collect if Godey was on remand.' 'Fair enough,' said Sharman. 'So
you'll do it?' 'How much?' 'What?'

    'How
much for me when I collect the dough?' 'You don't have to collect. They don't
know you. Tony Wiltse is the courier. He works for John.' 'I know him.'

    'Excellent.
He's a good lad with a clean record.' 'So how much?' 'Five hundred pounds.'

    'A monkey
to go up against Lionel and Christ knows how many others on the Lion? Do
behave.' 'Scared, Nick?'. 'Bloody terrified.'

    'Good.
That's how you keep sharp in this line of business.' 'A grand,' said Sharman.

    'Funny.
That's exactly what John said you'd ask.' 'Then he's smarter than you.' 'In
some ways.'

    'And
you owe me for Skinner. The other half. And I'll need to be tooled up.'

    Lawson
put his briefcase on the table and said, 'It's all been taken care of. Open
it.'

    Sharman
smiled, put the case on his lap, flipped the latches and opened the top so that
only he could see inside. He smiled as he saw a Beretta nine millimetre
semi-automatic pistol, a stack of banded ten pound notes and another brown
envelope.

    'There's
five hundred in each bundle,' said Lawson. 'Plus the other five K. Old notes.
Non-consecutive. There's also instructions on where to meet Tony and what time
on Thursday. I take it you're free that afternoon.'

    'You
take it right, David,' said Sharman and he shut the case. 'Another drink?'

    'Lovely.
But be warned, Nick. You're getting in deep. Make sure your waterwings are on
tight.'

    'No
problem,' said Sharman as he rose to go to the bar. 'I can walk on water, me.'

    Lawson
grinned. 'That's over eleven grand you've had since we started working
together. Now maybe you can get rid of that piece of junk on your wrist.
Another drink?'

    Sharman
reddened as he looked at the fake Swiss watch he was wearing. On his way home
that night he dropped it down a drain.

    The Lion
Estate was in Deptford, between Evelyn Street and the river. There was a fine
view of The Isle Of Dogs from the upper floors of the four tower blocks, which
stood guard over the lowrise flats and the playground in the centre.
'Playground' was a euphemism for a muddy area in the middle of the place where
the disaffected youth played football among dog shit and used syringes.

    Sharman
met Tony Wiltse at the Traveller's Rest boozer in Deptford High Street at
ten-to-three as instructed. Not that any sensible traveller would wish to rest
in its dilapidated bars at that time in its history.

    Sharman
went to the bar, ordered a pint and looked at Wiltse in the mirror behind the
jump. Wiltse rose and walked over to him, carrying a Head sports bag. 'Nick,' he
said.

    'Tony,'
said Sharman. 'How's it going? Drink?'

    'I'll
have a goldie.' Sharman ordered a large scotch from the slattern behind the bar
and they took their drinks to a table as far away from the counter as possible.
'You carrying?' asked Wiltse.

    'Yeah.
You?'

    Wiltse
shook his head. 'Not me. Not my style. I work in the office mostly, doing the
accounts. That's why you're here.'

    Sharman
nodded. 'And there's just you and me?'

    'No.
We've got a driver. Ricky. He's in the car outside. You parked up?'

    'On a
meter. Two hours.'

    'That'll
do. I hate this land of fucking job,' said Wiltse.

    'I
would've thought they'd have sent in a team,' said Sharman. 'There's a lot of
cash involved.'

    'John
didn't want Lionel to think he didn't trust him.'

    'But
he doesn't.'

    'That
don't matter. It's all down to respect.'

    Shit,
thought Sharman. I'm being set up here. A number cruncher and a bent copper. If
we never come out, who's going to miss us?

    Sharman
swallowed the rest of his drink and looked at his watch. The Timex. He still
hadn't got over Lawson recognising the snide Rolex for what it was. 'Three
o'clock,' he said. 'There's only fifteen minutes. We'd better go.'

    Wiltse
nodded, sunk his whisky, grabbed the bag and they left the pub together.

    Ricky
was sitting behind the wheel of a navy blue Jaguar XJ illegally parked opposite
the pub. Wiltse got into the front passenger seat and Sharman climbed in the
back, the Beretta digging painfully into his groin as he did so. 'Ricky, this
is Mr…'

    'Nick,'
interrupted Sharman. 'Just Nick.'

    'Oh,
sure,' said Wiltse.

    Ricky
didn't seem to care either way, he just started the engine, engaged drive and
pulled into the traffic without a word.

    The
Lion was only a few minutes away and it had started to rain by the time they
drove on to the estate. Sharman peered through water streaked windows at the
water-streaked buildings and shook his head, wondering how anyone could live in
such a place. I don't like this, he thought as he eased the automatic from his
belt and quietly pulled back the slide, putting a bullet into the chamber and
pulling back the hammer. He slid it gingerly back into place, thinking that
this was not the time to put a bullet into his balls.

    Ricky
steered the car through the potholes and pulled up outside one of the tower
blocks. 'First floor,' said Wiltse. 'Just as sodding well. The lifts never work
and they're full of shit, anyway.'

    Sharman
just grunted a reply and they got out into the rain and went for the front
door.

    The
foyer was dank and gloomy and Sharman mentally agreed it was just as well that
they only had to go up two flights of stone steps to the first floor.

    The door
of the flat was halfway down a graffiti-covered corridor and Wiltse banged on
it. Once there had been a square of glass in the door, but it had been replaced
with plywood. Two bare wires protruded from where a doorbell might have been
and the letterbox and knocker had been ripped off, leaving a toothless mouth of
a hole that was now backed with metal.

    After
a minute, Wiltse grimaced and hammered again, harder this time.

    Eventually
the two men heard the sound of locks being disengaged and the door opened on a
heavy steel chain.

    'Come
on, Lionel,' said Wiltse. 'Open up. It's me.'

    'Who's
that with you?' demanded a voice from the darkened inside.

    'Nick.'

    'Nick
who?'

    'Nick
It-doesn't-matter,' said Sharman. 'Just open up for Christ's sake. It stinks
out here.'

    'Not
much better inside,' said the voice, but the chain came off and the door opened
to reveal a shell-suited figure.

    Wiltse
and Sharman slid inside and the door was locked and bolted behind them.

    In
fact, the interior of the flat was a good deal sweeter than it had looked from
the hallway. The walls were painted pale blue and there was a carpet on the
floor on which the pattern was still discernible. 'Down here,' said the man
who'd opened the door.

    Sharman
recognised him from some mug shots he'd seen back at Kennington Police Station
as Lionel Godey.

    He
led them into the living room where thick curtains covered the windows. Sharman
went over, pulled one aside and looked straight down into Ricky's eyes behind
the wet windscreen of the Jag.

    'Oi,'
said Lionel. 'Don't take fucking liberties.'

    'Just
checking we hadn't been towed away,' said Sharman.

    'Fat
chance of that round here.'

    'Joke,'
said Sharman.

    'I
don't like jokes,' said Lionel. 'Or the people who make them.'

    'Forget
it,' said Wiltse. 'We're here for business.'

    'Yeah,'
said Lionel, giving Sharman a dagger look. 'Show.'

    'The
money,' said Wiltse.

    'It's
here.'

    'Show,'
said Sharman, already tired of the whole deal.

    'Who
is this mug?' said Lionel.

    'A
friend,' said Wiltse.

    'Well,
he wants to watch himself.'

    And
you want to watch yourself, if I ever get you in the cells one fine night,
thought Sharman, but said nothing. 'He will,' said Wiltse and shot Sharman a
glance that said 'keep your mouth shut'. Sharman nodded.