Authors: Mark Timlin
Inside
the funeral home, the chief director was waiting, wringing his hands..'Miss
Jenner, gentlemen,' he said as they entered. 'My sincere condolences.'
'Thanks,'
said Martine brushing by him: 'Is everything ready?'
'Of
course. The vehicles are in the back.'
He
showed them through, past the other main mourners who had congregated there. It
was an eclectic bunch. Old friends and enemies from the past. Old villains,
some geriatric pop stars and a few footballers from pre- Premier Division days,
plus business acquaintances of John Jenner, who - as Martine whispered to Chas
- were only there to make sure he was dead.
In
the service area at the back of the funeral parlour, the hearse and the cars
for the mourners were parked in a circle, like a wagon train waiting for an
indian attack.
The
hearse in which Jenner's body was waiting was horsedrawn, with
a
pair of
Belgian Blacks between the shafts, their plumes and feathers bedraggled by the
rain. Behind them were four Mercedes stretch limousines, their black cellulose
gleaming under the raindrops.
'Miss
Jenner. You and your companions in the first car,' said the director.
'Fine,'
said Chas. 'It all looks perfect.'
The
director almost fainted with relief. It had not been his idea to make the
arrangements, even though he was due to make a big profit on the day. And he
knew that if he made a mistake with this funeral he would live to regret it,
and had been most careful to sort out the protocol. 'And there's a police
escort waiting,' he added.
'Who
organised that?' asked Chas, almost amused that the enemy would be there to
assist one of their most wanted villains on his last journey, instead of
escorting him to the local police station in handcuffs, as usually happened.
'Inspector
Lewis from Barton Street,' he said. 'They've closed the roads.'
'Have
they?' said Chas. 'How thoughtful of them.'
The
mourners dispersed to the various cars, the horses pawed the ground, and pissed
and shit as horses will. Resplendent in frock coat, top hat and with a huge
black umbrella unfurled above his head, the funeral director led the procession
out of the service area and on to the Walworth Road. The road itself had been
closed by uniformed police 'black rat' outriders, causing huge traffic jams
through Brixton, Camberwell, Kennington and Waterloo. As the cortege entered
the street it was joined by two more Metropolitan Police outriders. The crowd
roared, and there was a barrage of flashes bright enough to illuminate even
that miserable day, which set the horses rearing and neighing.
As
the official procession motored slowly up the Walworth Road, other motors
joined it from almost every direction, until the cortege was almost a mile
long. And behind them came the media. The hearse and every car present seemed
to be submerged in flowers. The local florists had to have been rubbing their
hands with glee at the profit they were making. Not since the last royal
funeral had their shops been stripped of every bloom and display - and all at
premium prices.
Slowly
the procession ground towards the Elephant and Castle roundabout, the police
outriders clearing the route as they approached, and then down the Old Kent
Road towards St Martin's Church in Deptford and the cemetery beyond.
Both
sides of the street were lined with sodden spectators. Coffee stalls and
hamburger wagons were doing a roaring trade. At the Bricklayer's Arms, a pair
of dwarves danced for silver. By the new Tesco's supermarket, a little further
down the Old Kent Road, a chain swallower exhibited the vomit he had dredged up
from his stomach for the edification of the crowd. A Jazz band outside a wine
bar played New Orleans funeral marches. Every pub on the. route was doing
premium business. Pickpockets and bagsnatchers had a field day. A couple of
prostitutes worked out of a Transit van, giving blow jobs on a pair of
mattresses. All in all, a wonderful south London holiday atmosphere pervaded
the soaking streets.
The
church service itself was remarkably restrained. Chas had seen to that. And
afterwards, the massive procession travelled on a further mile to the cemetery.
Through
the pouring rain, the mourners watched John Jenner being deposited in the
ground. News crews and press cameramen vied for a view, held back by uniformed
police officers. They listened as the priest spoke comforting words from the
Bible, before throwing clumps of dirt on top of the coffin, which had been
lowered into the grave. They landed with damp thuds, as all around the
graveside official mourners and gatecrashers trod the wet earth to mud,
trampling on other graves as they craned for a look. But not all the people
present cast their eyes in that direction. There were policemen spotting
villains, villains eyeballing the coppers they recognised, and some coppers
were looking at their off duty colleagues and wondering about their motives for
being there.
After
Martine dropped a white rose into the maw of the grave, she slumped against
Chas, who shook his head sadly and helped her back to the Mercedes, through
rain that almost blinded him.
Mark
watched the burial from a distance, as he'd watched the cortege arrive at the
church. He knew he wouldn't be welcome, Chas had spoken to him several times on
the phone during the week and they'd met once. 'She still blames you,' the big
man had said. 'I can't get it through her head that it could've happened any
time.'
'But
it didn't,' said Mark. 'It happened when he was pulled in for questioning about
something I was responsible for.'
'He
was involved too, don't forget,' said Chas. 'He put you up to it. If it hadn't
been for him, none of this would've happened.'
Mark
shrugged. 'So what?' he said.
Chas
slid a parcel across the table in the quiet Fulham pub where they'd met.
'There's some cash in there for you,' he said. 'Twenty grand. And half the coke
that Tubbs bought that day. John would've liked you to have something.
Everything else goes to Martine, according to the will.'
'No,'
said Mark. 'You'll need it.'
'He
would've given it to you himself if he was here,' said Chas. 'He wanted you to have
all the proceeds. And there's plenty left for her. You'd be surprised the bits
and pieces of money he had stashed away. And then there's the house.'
'But
what about you, Chas?'
'I'll
be all right. She wants me to stay on. And John set up a nice little pension
fund for me years ago. Who'd've thought it, eh? Gangsters with pension funds.'
They
both smiled at the thought and Mark said, 'So this is it. You won't see me at
the funeral, though I'll be around.'
'And
then?'
'And
then, who knows? I'll worry about that when the time comes.'
He
left his old friend and stashed the money and drugs into the compartment in the
Range Rover that had held the streetsweeper. There it lay next to Mark's other
weapons. He spent another lonely night in another lonely hotel, this time in
Penge. By then, the wound in his back was healing nicely. Martine must've done
a better job than either of them had thought. He'd peeled back the bandage and
the lips of the cut were clean and knitting together well. I bet she wishes
she'd stabbed me herself now, he thought. But that's life.
And
he knew he couldn't show his face at the funeral, even if he had been welcome.
Too many of the mourners would have been plainclothes coppers. Instead, he
stood under the shelter of a tree, collar up and a recently acquired trilby low
over his eyes, as he watched Chas helped Martine from the lead car behind the
hearse and support her into the church, and afterwards did the same at the
rain-soaked cemetery. He watched as Jenner's black-draped coffin was lowered
slowly into the ground and as the priest spoke words he couldn't hear. And he
saw Martine throw a single white rose into the grave before going back to the
car with Chas.
When
everyone, apart from the gravediggers, had left, he walked down the path
through the deluge and said his own final farewell to the man who had taken him
into his home, all those years ago. By then he didn't care if a whole platoon
of armed police arrived and took him in. It might even have been a relief.
But
no one showed and, with just a raise of his hand, he turned away and back to
his car.
He
drove to Croydon, parked outside Linda's house, noticed that her four-wheel
drive was sitting outside, and rang the front door bell.
Linda
opened the door herself and her eyes widened when she saw who it was. 'What the
hell are you doing here?' she asked. 'Don't you know how dangerous it is? Half
the police in London are looking for you.'
'Only
half. Well, you can't have everything. I came to see you.'
'Well,
you've seen me. Now you can go.'
'Don't
be like that, Linda,' he said.
'What
do you mean "like that"? You run out on me and I don't hear from you
for ten days, then my brother lets it slip that you're a wanted man, and now you
just turn up as if nothing had happened. And looking like hell, I might add.'
'John
died.'
'I
know that. I read the papers. The funeral's today, isn't it?'
'It's
just over. Listen, can I come in?'
'No,'
she said, blocking the doorway with her body.
'Fair
enough,' he said. 'I'll say what I came to say out here.'
'Which
is?'
'I've
got to leave the country. It's too hot for me here.' She shrugged. 'That's what
you always do when things get too hot for you, isn't it? Leave.'
'Yeah,'
he agreed. 'But this time it's different.' 'How?'
'I
want you to come with me.' 'Me?'
Another
nod.
'What
about the children?'
'Bring
them.'
'You
are joking.'
'No.
We could be a family.'
'More
like the authorities are looking for a man on his own, not one with a woman and
two kids in tow.' 'That's unfair, Linda.'
'Nothing's
unfair when it comes to you, Mark.' 'Listen, I know I've been a bastard, but
I'm so…' 'Don't say sorry,' she interrupted. 'Just bloody don't. And your
girlfriend phoned.' 'Who?'
'Who
else? Martine, of course.'
'What
the hell did she want?'
'To
tell me you two had slept together.'
'And
you believed her?'
'Why
shouldn't I?'
'Because
it's not true. I've never slept with her in my life.' 'Then why did she tell me
you had?'
'Use
your loaf, Linda. To split us up once and for all. She blames me
for
her father's death. She tried it on one night and I slung her out. You've heard
about "a woman scorned"?'
'I've
been that woman.'
'I
know. But it's not true. What do I have to do to make you believe me?'
'We're
past all that. I don't care anymore.'
'Are
you sure?'
'I've
never been more sure of anything in my life.'
'So
you won't come?'
'Just
leave all this?' She gestured back inside.
'A
house in Croydon? When I met you that was the worst case scenario. You didn't
want to end up like your parents, and now you have.'
'It's
a bit different, Mark.'
'I
don't see it.'
'Well,
it is. And you just want me to leave everything and go abroad. Go where abroad,
exactly?'
'Not
Spain. Too many villains. Portugal maybe. South of France.'
'And
what do we do for money?'
'I've
got some. You must have loads. You could sell the house. It's worth a bloody
fortune.'
'You're
having a laugh, aren't you, Mark? You expect me sell everything to bankroll our
life together?'
'Until
I get myself straight.'