Authors: Mark Timlin
'Soon,
I hope,' said Jenner.
'As
soon as,' said the policeman, and with a merry wave he went out the back way.
'What
do you think?' Lawson asked, addressing his question mainly to John Jenner.
'He's
a flash bastard,' said Chas.
'You're
just pissed off because you missed his gun. You should be more careful, son,'
said Jenner.
Chas
said nothing in reply, but they could all see how tightly his teeth were
gritted, and how red his face was getting, a mixture of anger and embarrassment.
'Getting
old, mate?' asked Jenner with a grin. 'But I'll give you that, Chas. Flash, he
certainly is. Maybe too flash for comfort.'
'But
useful,' said Lawson. 'Potentially very useful.'
'He's
very handsome,' said Hazel.
'I saw
you noticed,' said her husband. 'And he noticed you. All teeth and smiles.
"You can call me Hazel." Sometimes I don't believe you.'
'So I
should hope he noticed me,' she said. 'Being the only woman in the room.'
'I'm
surprised you didn't volunteer to shake him down yourself,' said Jenner.
'Maybe
I should've done,' replied his wife. 'I might've found his gun.' She winked at
Chas, but his face just got redder.
'So
what does your woman's intuition say?' asked Jenner.
'He'll
do,' she replied. 'He's got an eye for the ladies, that's for sure. Clothes,
coke and cars probably aren't his only expenses.'
'I
believe there are a couple of mysteries in his life,' said Lawson. 'Of the
female persuasion.'
'That's
handy,' said Jenner. 'A little something we know that he won't want his new
wife to. Something to keep him in line. Have you used him yet?'
'Just
for small things,' replied Lawson. 'Penny ante stuff. Getting a few addresses.
Things like that.' 'So let's see how he does with Skinner.'
'I
reckon he might be doing us up,' said Chas. 'He'll be noticed, wearing clothes
like that and a watch like that. I reckon he's on the cross.'
'A
double agent, you mean?' said Lawson.
'Yeah.'
'Maybe,
maybe not,' said Jenner. 'He's flash, you're right there, Chas. But I reckon
he's corkscrew. Double bent. He reminds me of us ten years ago. Let him have
his head, David. And when he's in too deep we'll have him.'
'No
problem, John,' said Lawson. 'No problem at all.'
It
was only a matter of days before the bent brief heard from the young policeman.
'Got a bit of news for you,' said Sharman when he called Lawson on his private
line.
'What
exactly?'
'Not
on the dog. Let's meet.'
'When?'
'Soon
as you like.'
'Tomorrow,'
said Lawson, and he gave a time and location. Lawson met Sharman alone at the
Sweet Bird Of Youth public house in Mayfair the following lunchtime. 'Nice
place,' said the policeman as the lawyer joined him just after two.
'One
of my locals,' said Lawson, ordering a gin and tonic for himself and a refill
for Sharman's scotch, before they found a quiet corner table in the busy pub.
'It's
all right for some. My locals leave a lot to be desired.'
'That's
police work for you.'
'Too
true.'
'So
what's the news?'
'It's
a tricky one. The robbery squad have got Skinner tied down tight.'
'Where?'
Sharman
grinned, showing white teeth. 'A safe house in Canonbury. But I warn you,
there's armed response on hand 24 hours a day, seven days a week. No one wants
to lose this fish.' 'Address?'
Sharman
told him.
'Good,
Nick,' said Lawson.
'Listen,'
said Sharman, grabbing him by the cuff of his jacket. 'I don't care about that little
shit Skinner. You can do what you want with him. But there's coppers in there
with him, and I won't have them hurt, get me?'
'A
touch of conscience, Nick?' asked Lawson, freeing the expensive wool and mohair
mixture and smoothing the material.
'If
you like.'
'Don't
come across all pious with us, Nick. If you're in, you're in. If not… Well,
John won't be pleased. Chas wasn't keen in the first place, I should warn you.
Thought you were too flash.'
'Is
that right?'
'It
is.'
'How about
Mrs Jenner?'
'She
liked you fine.'
'Good.
And I'm not in the least bit pious, David. Just careful. Just like you should
be. A grass - even a supergrass - gets offed, no big deal. There's a bit of a
stink for a few weeks, an inquiry, then it's business as usual. But a copper
gets hurt and it's like putting on a blender with the top loose. All sorts of
shit flies around, anyone in the way gets covered. Tell John to take it easy.
Pick his time.'
'I
see what you're saying, Nick. You're very careful.'
'I
try to be. That's what keeps me in the job, and I'm no use to you out of it.'
'Too
true. But who said anything about offing him?'
'What?
You're going to send him flowers and a note asking him to change his evidence?'
'Hardly.'
'Exactly.'
'So?'
'So
what?'
'Are
you going to go in easy?'
'We
will.'
'Good.'
For
all his flash ways, which didn't endear him to his male colleagues at
Kennington nick but set the hearts of the female officers aflutter, Nick Sharman
knew how to keep a low profile. At work he wore a Timex, and had swapped the
fake Rolex for it after seeing Lawson and his clients at the pub after their
first meeting. And he knew that by accepting their money that day, and
supplying the address of the safe house to Lawson a few days later, he was
walking on thin ice. But needs must when the Devil drives, and his new missus,
Laura, was used to the best. He'd already forked out a deposit he couldn't
afford on their little two up two down in Camberwell, and she'd demanded the
most expensive furnishings she could find in the Fulham Road boutiques she
favoured. And now she was talking about babies, and Sharman knew that Peter
Jones was going to be favourite for all the bits and pieces that that entailed.
And the two young women he saw on a casual basis didn't come cheap either.
Trouble was, he just couldn't leave skirt alone. As it happened, he wouldn't
have minded having a pop at Hazel Jenner. But even he wasn't that big a fool.
Pity though.
Shit,
he thought as he tubed back south of the river for the afternoon shift. I hope
this one doesn't go up the pictures.
It
was three days later that he got the news, sitting in an ancient Ford keeping
obbo on a suspected car ringing firm in darkest Waterloo. The passenger door
opened with a bang and he narrowly missed spoiling his sharply creased khakis
with drops of coffee from a Styrofoam cup in his hand. 'What the…?' he yelled.
'Sorry,
Nick,' said his new companion. 'Didn't mean to make you jump.'
'Jesus,
Sarge,' said Sharman. 'Where did you spring from?'
'I
thought you were supposed to be keeping a keen eye out.''
'I
am. Over there.' Sharman pointed at the undistinguished front of a garage built
into an old railway shed round the back of Waterloo station.
'I
could've been a bad boy creeping up on you to deliver a killing blow,' said
Detective Sergeant Jack Robber with a leer, as he helped himself to one of
Sharman's cigarettes from the packet on the dash. 'Got a light?'
'Forgotten
to buy fags again, Sarge?' said Sharman.
'Why
bother, when you've always got loads?' said Robber.
Sharman
sighed, lit his superior's cigarette and cracked the window on his side another
inch.
'Heard
about what happened at Canonbury?' asked Robber when his cigarette was burning
to his satisfaction.
'What?'
said Sharman and felt his stomach clench.
'A
grass got blown away by a sniper whilst he's taking a constitutional in the
garden.'
'Do
what?'
'Yeah.
Just having a wander, smelling the daisies, when some shooter on a tower block
puts one in his head. Nasty business, from what I can gather. Not enough left
of his loaf for his mum to recognise, by all accounts.'
'Christ.'
'Christ
is right. It's gone right off over there. He was the main witness in the case
against John Jenner, and now it's gone all to cock.'
'Who
did it?'
'Nick,
sometimes you can be very naive. Who do you think?'
'Jenner?'
'Course.
But not in person. That fucker never gets his own hands dirty these days. As it
happens, he was on the golf course all afternoon. A bloody QC as his partner.'
'So,
an airtight alibi.'
'Exactly.
$o that's a lot of the tax payers' money wasted.'
'I'm
sorry to hear it.'
'Not
as sorry as the prosecution team. But that's life.'
'Case
dismissed.'
'Got
it in one. Bad day for the Met.'
'Anybody
else hurt?' asked Sharman casually.
'No.
His minder hit the dirt. Messed up his suit by all accounts. Blood and grass
stains are buggers to get out. Grass stains. Geddit?'
'Very
funny. But at least there's that.'
'At
least. Now, what about this bloody ringing team? Anything happening?'
'Not
a sausage, Sarge,' said Sharman, and lit a cigarette of his own. He noticed
that his hand was as steady as a rock.
When
Tubbs parked on a double yellow outside the old church opposite the Town Hall,
Mark let the Range Rover drift past, took a right through the one way system
and stopped in a side street next to the library. He stepped out of the truck
and crossed the road heading south, squinting through the railings at the red
BMW. Tubbs was standing next to it when he was approached by a man in a long
leather jacket and hooded sweatshirt with the hood up. They spoke for a moment
and then both climbed into the car. Mark sprinted back to his own vehicle, did
a hasty U-turn and rejoined the one way system.
As
he'd surmised, the BMW was just in front of him, heading back towards Streatham
and the Yardies' estate of flats. Just as well they like to keep things on
their own patch, Mark thought, otherwise he could easily have lost his friend
in the maze of south London streets.
The
BMW turned left just opposite the Telegraph pub, where he'd drunk with Chas
just a few days before, then turned again into the estate.
Mark
dumped the Range Rover on the corner, set the alarm and hoped it would still be
there when he returned. He pulled up his coat collar, jumped over the low wall
that acted as boundary for the estate and strolled through to the block that
Beretta called home.
Just
as he'd surmised, the red car was parked outside, empty.
Mark
stood in the shadows beside a ripe rubbish chute that rustled with vermin, and
mentally crossed his fingers that his old friend would be OK.
Inside
the flats, Tubbs had been taken up to the top floor in a lift that creaked with
age and neglect and which smelled all right provided he didn't breathe through
his nose. Then he was led down a windowless corridor lined with doors
reinforced with metal, to flat number 80. Moses, the man who'd met him down in
Brixton, had checked the money on the short ride back to the estate and had
almost cracked a smile at the amount, but said little.