Authors: Mark Timlin
'You're
as old as you feel,' said Jimmy. 'And with these beauties, I feel about
fourteen.'
'Fair
enough.'
Jimmy
reloaded and practised with the guns until the range, even with its extractors
on full blast was full of smoke and the stink of used gunpowder overpowering.
'That's
enough,' said Bob. 'You'd better get off. Leave those guns. I'll get them
cleaned for you. You can pick them up on the day.'
'Cheers,'
said Jimmy, who'd never cleaned a gun in his life, just used them and slung
them.
The
two men went back upstairs. Toby Lee was sitting in the ballroom, waiting with
a cup of tea and a cigarette. 'There you are,' he said. 'I was about to give
up.'
'Sorry,'
said Bob. 'Jimmy was getting used to his weapons.'
'S'all
right,' said Lee. 'Racing doesn't start 'til this afternoon.'
'Toby
likes a flutter,' explained Bob.
'Too right,'
said Lee. 'It's a curse. If I'd saved all my all money all my life, I'd be
living in clover now.'
'But
think of all the fun you'd've missed,' said Bob.
'And
all the porridge I wouldn't've eaten.'
Bob
took leave of them at the front door. 'Later,' he said. 'I'll be in touch.'
'See
you,' said Lee.
Jimmy
gave a half salute and he and Lee watched him walk back into the house.
'Not
a bad bloke,' said Toby. 'Ex-army.'
'Thought
so,' said Jimmy.
'Saw
a lot of action in Northern Ireland and in the Gulf, first time around.'
'Good
man to have on our side.'
'I
bloody hope so. This one could get hairy.'
'Oh,
well,' said Jimmy. 'Better than signing on.'
Lee
grinned. 'It was Walton, wasn't it?' said the little wheel-man.
Jimmy
grinned back. 'I was there.'
'Thought
so. Category A, right?'
'If
you say so.'
'I
knew it. I was doing time for a little tickle in Acton. Jewellers. Those were
the days.'
'Sure
were,' said Jimmy. Despite himself, he was beginning to warm to the little man.
Old school, he thought. Just like me.
He
and Lee went out into the early morning air. It was just beginning to get
light. A faint line of gold painted the eastern horizon as Toby led him to a
three-litre Capri, with a powerbulge on the long red bonnet. 'This is mine,' he
said. 'Great motor.'
They
climbed inside, strapped themselves in and Toby Lee started the engine, which
caught with a roar. He grinned, slipped it into gear, gunned the motor and set
off in a shower of gravel. They shot down the drive and through the gates that
had opened in front of them, turned right with a squeak from the tyres and
roared down the lane. Jimmy held on to the grab handle and he saw Lee grin as
he worked through the gears, pushing the car too fast over the narrow strip of
tarmac. 'Don't worry,' he yelled above the engine noise. 'I've never had an
accident yet.'
There's
always a first time, thought Jimmy.
So
everything was falling into place. Summer was coming and for everyone involved
in the robbery, things were going well. But that was about to change.
Mark
phoned Gerry Goldstein on a fine, bright morning. The trees were in full bloom
and the birds were singing, but his mood was anything but spring-like.
'So?'
he said.
'So?'
replied Gerry, his hand sweating on the receiver.
'So,
how's it all going?'
'Well.'
'Got
a date yet?'
Gerry
hesitated. 'Come on,' said Mark. 'Spit it out.'
'Bank
holiday Monday.'
'That's
only a week away. Why didn't you tell me?'
'I
just did.'
'But
why didn't you tell me before?'
'I
just found out. Honestly, Mark.'
Gerry
Goldstein to honesty was like George Bush to world peace, but Mark didn't push
it. Instead he said: 'I need an in.'
'To
what?'
'To
the job,' said Mark slowly, not believing the way the jeweller was jerking him
around. 'Come on, Gerry. Don't fuck with me, or things could get nasty.'
'But
how can I get you in?'
'That's
the whole point of me being here, Gerry,' said Mark.
'You're
in on this and I need to be too.'
'I've
told you all I know.'
'In a
pig's ear. Christ, there must be some way of getting me on the inside.'
'Only
if someone drops out.'
'So
someone will have to drop out, won't they?'
'I
hate it when you talk like that, Mark.'
'You're
too squeamish, Gerry. John always said you were.'
'It's
just my way. I abhor violence.'
'Especially
when it's directed against you, eh?' said Mark, leaving the rest unsaid. 'We
need a meet,' he added after a moment.
'What,
again?'
'Have
I got BO? Is that the problem?'
'I
just don't want to be seen with you.'
'Tough.
Shall I come to the shop?'
'No. You
never know who's about. Once was enough. I'll come to you.'
'All
right. There's a nice little boozer on Anerley Hill. The Spread Eagle. You
can't miss it. It's next to the station. I'll be there tonight at seven.'
'I
don't know about tonight… Rachel will have dinner ready.'
'Tell
her something's come up. What are you, under the cosh? Just be; there.' And he
hung up.
Gerry
phoned his wife and made up some story about a special customer wanting to see
him out of business hours, but in fact she didn't seem that worried. Lately,
she didn't seem to care whether he was around or not. As long as the credit
card bills were paid promptly every month, his presence seemed more and more
irrelevant. He wondered if she was having an affair. He wondered if he really
cared. He decided he didn't, much.
He
closed the shop early and drove his BMW down through the jams of rush hour
south London, found Anerley with some difficulty, and parked up by the Spread
Eagle just after seven. Mark was waiting in the lounge bar with the evening
paper and a pint of lager. 'You look stressed, Gerry,' he said. 'Have a drink.'
'Brandy,'
replied Goldstein as he looked around the bar. It was half full of unhappy
commuters just off their trains, who couldn't face the rest of their journeys
home without a drink. He knew how they felt.
He
sat at Mark's table and idly glanced through the
Standard.
It was full
of the usual stories about how London was falling apart, and he pushed it
aside. Mark came back with two more drinks and got straight to the point. 'I
want to know the plan.'
'Jesus,'
said Gerry.
'I
thought you lot crucified him.'
'They'll
bloody crucify me if they ever found out I'd talked about it. And what about my
profit? It was going to be my pension.'
'Put
some money into Abbey Life,' said Mark. 'Look, Gerry. This job is fucked
whatever way you look at it. I'm going to make sure of that. Jimmy Hunter isn't
going to retire rich. He's going to retire permanently.'
'Then
why don't you just kill him? You've done it before, haven't you, killed
people?'
'Yes,
I've done it before. But that's too easy. This is my swan song, Gerry. I intend
to take him and Butler down with me.'
'But
why?'
'Because
I can. Now tell me.'
So
Gerry Goldstein did. The whole plan. He knew what Mark was capable of, and he
had never been a particularly brave man. And as he told the story, he saw his
future dissolve in front of him. He was too old, too tired for the life he'd
been living. It was a young man's way, and his youth- had gone.
'I
get it,' said Mark, when Gerry finished. 'Simple really. Tell me about the
drivers.' And Gerry did that too.
'I
don't fancy driving that truck,' said Mark, when he'd finished. 'I want to be
with Hunter. What about the bloke driving the car?'
'Toby
Lee. He's one hundred per cent.'
'So
what would happen if he disappeared?'
'They'd
have to replace him.'
'So,
I'll make him disappear. Simple. Like you said, I've done it before.'
For
all the villains he'd known in his life, Gerry still found it hard that Mark
could talk so casually about killing someone, especially in the lounge bar of a
quiet public house in Anerley.
'So
where do 1 find him?' asked Mark.
'He
lives down Hammersmith way,' said Goldstein.
'Big
place, Hammersmith.'
'On
that council estate by the river. He drinks in a pub called The Drover's Arms,
on the towpath.'
'Regular?'
'As clockwork.
Drives this souped-up Ford Capri. Bright red. Loves it. Never goes anywhere
without it.'
'Easy
to find then. What's he look like?'
'Little.
Flyweight, he was for a bit, but he didn't like getting hit, so he took to
crime.'
'And
he's a good wheelman.'
'The
best.'
'Married?'
'No.'
'So
he won't be missed.'
'No.
Only by Butler and the rest.'
'So
they'll need another driver sharpish, if this one goes missing. The job just
being a week or so away.'
'Of
course.'
'I'll
have to meet Mr Lee, the driver, then.'
'If
you say so.'
'I
do.'
'And
then?'
'And
then I'm afraid, the driver comes to the end of the road. Sad, but true.'
'This
is getting out of hand.'
'No,
Gerry. I've got it all sorted.'
Mark
drove to Hammersmith the next afternoon. The Drover's Arms was on the
riverbank, close to Hammersmith Bridge. It was one of those boozers that
couldn't make up its mind if it was an old fashioned local or an up market
eaterie. There was a pool table and Sky Sports in the public bar and seared
tuna in the restaurant tacked on to the side. Mark parked his car on a meter a
few yards up the road and checked out the pub's tiny car park. There was an old
but beautifully maintained red Ford Capri in one corner.
He
pushed through the door to the saloon bar and ordered a pint of lager. Across
the counter, he saw a little man with a broken nose in the public side. He was
wearing a leather jacket and had a pint glass and a sandwich in front of him,
one eye on the racing pages of the
Standard
, the other on the TV.
Mark
grinned, lit a cigarette, sipped his drink and made for the other bar. He found
a stool one away from the little man, who'd looked up at his entrance, then
returned to the racing form.
'Got
anything good?' asked Mark.
Toby
Lee looked up again, then around to see who Mark was talking to.
'The
geegees,' said Mark, gesturing at the paper.
'No,'
said Lee. 'Hopeless.'
'Just
like me then.'