Authors: Mark Timlin
Jimmy
Hunter didn't sleep very well that night.
The
second person to see the Smith's bodies was Elsie Thomas, their cleaner. She
let herself in the side gate as usual on the first of her twice weekly
mornings. Elsie was almost sixty and looked every minute of it. She was widowed
and lived alone in a one-bedroom flat on the New Addington Estate. She hated
it. She hated the kids and the blacks and the Pakis. She hated the single mums
with their screaming offspring, their late-night parties, drug taking and loud
music. And for the fact that they could get a free home for just opening their
legs and letting some randy git impregnate them. She hated her husband for
dying without life insurance, and her children for leaving her. Sometimes she
could hardly recognise herself as the young Elsie Richardson as she was then,
who'd wet her knickers for Paul McCartney when The Beatles came to Croydon in 1963.
She didn't think much of her employers, either. He was a fat pig and she was a
mutton dressed as lamb tart. All those diamonds she wore… But they paid her
well enough, and Mrs Smith was always there for a cup of tea and a chat. And
the work wasn't too onerous.
That
morning, as Elsie trudged up the drive, she saw that the garage door was wide
open, both cars was parked up and the light was burning inside. That wasn't
right. By the time she got close, she could smell something that reminded her
of bonfire night and something else that reminded her of bad drains. Then she
heard a faint buzzing and saw a small swarm of flies around the bodies. She
didn't get too close, she knew not to do that. Elsie fished out the mobile
phone that her eldest son had bought her 'just in case' to ease his conscience
as his visits became less frequent, and called 999. Then she took out a packet
of cheap cigarettes and her lighter, and smoked one in the warm morning sun,
waiting for the police to arrive.
The
scene of crime officers found two dead bodies, identified as the owner
occupiers of the house where they'd been found, two bullet holes in the male
cadaver, one in the female. Two.22 calibre bullets were dug out of the Wall
behind the deceased, one which had passed through the throat of Mr Smith, one
which had not. A.25 calibre bullet was discovered in the wall next to it; and
on the floor, four.22 bullet a without fingerprints and one.25 casing with some
smudges. The bodies had been disturbed after death, and Mrs Elsie Thomas, who
had discovered the double murder, confirmed that certain items seemed to be
missing. Later, at the post mortem, three bullets were removed from the bodies.
All.22 calibre. First conclusion: The unfortunate Smiths had been murdered by
two or more armed assailants - hence the different calibre bullets - after a
robbery had gone wrong. It wasn't the first time this had happened in the
suburbs of south London and it surely wouldn't be the last.
The
murders were going to be high profile for a day or two, and the police assumed
that the killers had come from the estate up the road. They made plans to raid
the flats of a few likely suspects.
Jimmy
Hunter received a call on his mobile at about eleven. He'd finally managed to
get off to sleep just after eight and, when the ringing tone woke him, he
thought he was back inside and that it was the call for slopping out and
breakfast. When he realised where he was and remembered what had happened the
previous night, he reached for the instrument and summoned up enough saliva in
his mouth to answer.
'Yeah,'
he grunted.
'Good
morning, Jimmy,' said Daniel Butler. 'But not for some.'
'Do
what?'
'I
read the news today, oh boy,' sang Butler, obviously in a fine mood.
'I
don't know… oh yeah,' said Jimmy, recalling a Beatles tune he'd sung himself
once.
'You
did well, apparently.'
. 'If
you say so.'
'I
think we should meet.'
'Hold
on,' said Jimmy as he swung his legs out of bed and made for the kitchen tap.
He stuck his mouth under it and sucked down the water. Refreshed, he said into
the receiver: 'Say again.'
'I
think we should meet. We have things to discuss.'
'Like?'
'Your
family's whereabouts, who dropped you in it twenty years ago. And your future
employment. You've fulfilled your part of our bargain, and I've never been one
to renege on a promise.'
Jimmy
was coming fully awake by then and all he could think of for the moment were
the two dead bodies in New Addington. 'Yeah, Dan,' he said. 'Whatever.'
'Could
you make lunch tomorrow? My treat.'
'Lunch.
Bloody hell, it's been a long time since anyone but the prison. service bought
me lunch.'
'Well,
it's high time that changed. I know a little Italian in Kensington. Quiet,
discreet and they do a fine veal Parmesan. Interested?'
'Sure.'
Butler
named the place and Jimmy scribbled it at the top of the back page of
yesterday's paper. 'One o'clock,' said Butler.
'I'll
be there.'
'And
everything went well?'
'As well
as can be expected.'
'No
hitches?'
'One.
But nothing I couldn't handle.'
'You'll
have to tell me all about it tomorrow.'
'I
will.'
'One
o'clock then.'
'See
you there.' And Jimmy killed the connection.
He
stood in his chilly kitchen, his feet cold on the composition floor, and filled
the kettle. Once it was set to boil, he went to the bathroom, made a fast
toilet and, once dressed, put a tea bag, milk and sugar in a mug. He knew he'd
not be able to face food just then, and drank his tea looking out of the front
window at the street below, wondering how soon, if ever, the cops would come
for him.
It
wasn't a happy thought.
The
discovery of the bodies was too late to make the morning papers, but was
reported on the local radio and TV during the day and made a splash in
The
Standard
that evening. Not much of a splash, but enough to make second
story on page three of the early editions. It was just such an edition that
Linda Spiers was reading when Sean arrived home from work that evening. He'd
called in to see how Linda was, before going up to his flat. It was the au
pair's night off and Linda had given the children an early supper and bath,
packing them off to bed, before digging out the inevitable wine bottle and
ashtray.
'Bad
business,' Sean said, tapping the paper before getting himself a glass. He
figured that it was easier to join her than to make some comment that would
just set her off.
'New
Addington,' she said. 'Just round the corner. This place is getting worse. What
happened? Do you know?'
'I
heard a bit,' he replied, taking a sip. 'At first they thought it was just a
robbery gone wrong, but forensic figured out that the woman had a gun.'
'How?'
'I
shouldn't be talking about this. But apparently there were a few bullets in the
walls and they worked out that one had been fired at the shooter. And bugger me
if it wasn't the woman who did it.'
'How
do they know?'
'Well,
once they figured the paths of the bullets, they checked both bodies for
gunpowder residue, and it was on her hands.'
'Gutsy
girl.'
'Gangster's
moll, more like. Those two were rotten.'
'You
know a lot.'
'I
make it my business to know what's going on where I live. Anyway, neither gun's
been found, so it's possible that more shots were fired, and that our killer's
got a bullet in him.'
'They
say in the paper that some valuable jewellery was stolen.'
'Yeah.
Perk of 'the job. Or maybe the killer wanted to put us off the scent.'
'I can
still wear my Mickey Mouse watch without fear?'
Sean
didn't find the comment amusing. 'I suppose,' he replied.
'So
what do you want?'
'Just
to see that you're OK.'
'And not
passed out on the sofa, with a cigarette in my hand, setting fire to the
furniture.'
'Don't,
Linda.'
'Sorry,
Sean.'
'I
wish I knew what was wrong.'
'So
do I,' she lied.
Jimmy
spent that day and night at his flat. He was in no mood for company, haunted as
he was by the sight of the two people he'd gunned down in cold blood. He
watched the story on the box and tried to read between the lines as to what the
cops were doing. He ate little, kept the little pistol he'd taken off Mrs Smith
handy, and marvelled at the intricate gold and diamond work on the two watches
he'd stolen. Eventually, he found a loose board in the corner of the bedroom
floor, levered it up and hid the Rolexes there. It wouldn't take much of a
search to find them, but he figured that if the police got as far as his flat,
he was done for anyway.
The
cash he'd taken from the Smiths totalled about six hundred quid, but his
leather jacket was ruined by the bullet that had come close to hitting him in
the arm, and he knew he'd never wear it again. He bundled it up and put it in a
black garbage bag ready to dump as far away as possible. He'd liked that jacket
and intended to get another. So, cash wise, he'd come out of the job with less
than a ton. Not much for two deaths, he thought. But at least he was going to
get a free lunch out of it. If there was such a thing.
The
next day dawned fine and Jimmy took a bath, shaved closely and dressed in one
of his new suits. He set off early for his appointment with Butler, walked to
the tube and made just one change to get to Kensington High Street. He found
the restaurant just after twelve and, being early, he went into a pub on the
opposite corner for a livener and to scan the paper he'd bought at the station.
The murders got hardly a mention, so much other evil was happening in the
world. He mentally shrugged, lit a cigarette and sipped at his lager. The door
to the pub was open to let in the spring air and, all in all, he reflected that
things weren't going too badly.
Jimmy
was finishing his second pint when he saw a Roller draw up outside the Italian,
with Bob at the wheel. Dan Butler got out of the back, said something to his
driver, who pulled away. Jimmy watched through the open door as Butler entered
the restaurant, then gathered up his cigarettes and lighter, left the paper
where it was and walked across the street.
Once
he'd pushed his way through the glass door of the trattoria, Jimmy saw that
Butler was being seated by a skinny bloke in a black suit and white shirt, at a
table set for four at the rear of the restaurant. A waiter approached him and
Jimmy pointed to Butler's table and said: 'I'm meeting a friend.'
Butler
looked up as Jimmy approached. 'Punctual,' he said. 'That's good. I'm having a
GT. Join me?'
'Why
not?' said Jimmy and Mr Skinny bowed and left them. Jimmy pulled back a chair
and sat opposite Butler. 'Expecting company?' he asked.
'No,'
replied the white-haired man. 'I always get a big table in here. I like the
room.'
'Fair
enough,' said Jimmy, taking out his cigarettes. 'Mind if I smoke?'
'Course
not. That's a good thing about Italians. They don't care if you smoke and eat
at the same time. Very civilised. Not like some places these days, where they
bring out the fans if you light up.'
'I
wouldn't know,' said Jimmy, putting flame to the tip of his cigarette. 'Like I
said, I've been eating in for the last twenty years.'
'But
not any more,' said Butler, lowering his voice, although the opera playing
softly on the music system and their distance from the other occupied tables in
the restaurant would've made it impossible for anyone to eavesdrop. 'You did
well, Jimmy.'
'I
didn't enjoy it. You never said that bitch would be armed. She almost shot me.'
Butler
laughed, then noticed the skinny bloke returning with their drinks and touched
his lips with one finger.
Once
the glasses had been set in front of them, Skinny asked if they were ready to
order, and Butler shook his head. 'I'll call you, Luigi,' he said. 'There's no
rush.'