I sat up for the rest of the night waiting for the law to arrive. They'd come close to finding me at the scene of crime in Terry's flat. It would have been a sweet collar if I'd been pulled standing over his body. I wondered who'd called the Old Bill in. Once again it didn't take a lot of imagination to guess.
I looked through the window and watched the dawn break through the drizzle. I mourned T S in my own way and washed his memory down with the remains of the gin I'd started the previous day.
I tried to work out a motive for his murder. He must have asked the wrong person about Patsy Bright. I couldn't think what could be behind so violent a crime. I could still see his corpse, and his dead eyes boring into mine. I promised myself that one day soon I would avenge this murder.
I should have shaved but I didn't want to look at myself too closely in the mirror, I didn't think I would've liked what I saw. I made endless cups of tea between the hits on the booze. The street outside became busy as people went to work, peaking at about eight thirty, then quieting down again as the rush passed.
I'd like to say I envied their normality, but to be honest, I didn't. I knew most of them led lives of quiet desperation. I'd seen too many babies battered to death by normal mothers, and wives dismembered by normal husbands. I could feel the depression building inside me as I gazed through the window, and wondered how good the cure for my breakdown had been.
My nerves were humming with stress and I guessed I'd better get busy before I cracked up again.
I felt grubby and itchy, but couldn't be bothered to change my clothes, so I simply grabbed my raincoat and hit the bricks.
I walked down to my office and let myself in. There was one solitary letter waiting for me. It carried no stamp, and must have been hand delivered. I opened it and read the typed message, printed on plain white, bond paper.
Sharman Mind Your Own Business Remember Your Daughter
It was unsigned of course. What did I expect?
At least the writer hadn't put ‘A friend’ at the end. That would have been too melodramatic.
If I thought I was stressed before the note arrived, after I read it, I knew what pressure was really all about.
The screws were being tightened down.
At that point I began to get really pissed off. Who did these people think I was? They seemed to think that they could follow me from place to place, kill my friends, and now threaten my family. And get clean away with it. However, there was one thing they were forgetting.
The only person that still mattered to me was my child. If they dared mess with her, they would see some serious shit go down.
I was sweating under my light raincoat. I shucked it off and checked my watch. Ten ten. I reached for the phone and dialled my ex-wife's new number from memory.
‘Hello,’ she said, after a few rings.
‘Laura, it's me,’ I said. There was a pause.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
She was as warm as ever. I didn't quite know what to say.
‘Come on, Nick. What do you want?’ she repeated.
‘I don't quite know how to put this,’ I said.
‘Put what? Spit it out.’
Spoken like a true lady, as always.
‘Is there somewhere you can go for a few days?’ I asked.
‘I am somewhere,’ she replied.
‘No, I mean somewhere else.’
‘Why?’ she demanded. I could tell she was losing her patience already.
I seemed always to have that effect on her.
‘I've had a letter about Judith.’
‘Who from? What kind of letter? What are you talking about?’ I could hear the old tone creeping into her voice, part fear, part anger.
‘I'm afraid it's a threat to her.’
‘What do you mean it's a threat? She's only eight years old for God's sake. How can anyone threaten an eight-year-old child? What have you got us into now? Have you told the police?’
She said the word ‘police’ as if it hurt her mouth.
‘Not yet, I've only just got the damn thing.’
‘What does it say?’
‘It's not specific.’
‘Oh, it's not specific,’ she interrupted. ‘What a shame. Not specific, then how do you know it's a threat?’
‘Laura,’ I said, ‘just listen, will you. It doesn't say anything in particular will happen. It doesn't say anything really. But I think I know who sent it, and these guys are serious. I want you and Judith out of the way where I don't have to worry about you.’
‘What guys?’ she demanded. ‘You mean you know these people.’
‘Not socially. We don't drink together. We're not arsehole buddies, if that's what you mean.’
I didn't want to be unpleasant, but since the breakdown of our marriage she always managed to bring out the worst in me. When I tried to be cool, and in control of a situation that was fast running away from me, she refused to let me be, or maybe it was simply that I wouldn't let myself be.
There was silence at her end of the line. Then in the background I heard Judith's voice.
‘Can I speak to Judith, please?’ I asked.
‘No you can't,’ Laura replied. ‘Haven't you caused her enough grief?’
I could hear the tears in Laura's voice.
‘Laura,’ I said, ‘do I have to beg to speak to my own daughter?’
She was silent, then said, ‘Alright, Nick. You win as always, but I'm going to fetch Louis.’
Win as always, it never ceased to amaze me how wrong her conceptions of my little life could be.
The ‘phone crashed down, then I heard the mumble of female voices and the receiver was picked up again.
‘Hello daddy,’ my daughter's voice said.
‘Hello sweetheart. How's my best girl?’
‘I'm fine daddy, but mummy's crying.’
‘I know darling. I'm afraid I might have frightened her.’
‘Why did you do that?’ Judith asked in a puzzled voice.
I didn't mean to, don't worry. She'll be alright in a minute.’
‘Promise?’ she asked.
‘I promise.’
I would try to keep the promise, but there are no guarantees in this life. Still, try and explain that to an eight-year-old.
‘When am I going to see you?’ she asked.
Everything was fine. Her mummy was going to be alright. Daddy had given his word. I hoped Laura would be placated as easily.
‘I don't know. I think you're going away for a while.’
‘On holiday?’
‘Yes, a little holiday.’
‘Oh good. Are you coming?’
I couldn't believe she'd asked that. What a little lunatic. As if the four of us could pop off together for a cosy weekend. I loved her so much. For the first time in days, I smiled, then laughed out loud. No-one would ever be allowed to hurt her as long as I had breath in my body.
‘What's the matter daddy?’ she asked. ‘Why are you laughing?’
‘It doesn't matter Judy. But I don't think I'll be coming along. You'll have a good time with mummy and Louis.’
‘Daddy?’ All of a sudden she was whispering. That meant secrets were in the air.
‘What?’
‘Mummy's gone to fetch Louis. Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course, what is it?’
‘Can I like Louis?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked back.
‘Can I like him? Will you mind?’
Another kind heart, I thought. How long will it be before yours is broken too?
‘Of course I don't mind,’ I said. I swear I felt a catch in the back of my throat as I said it. ‘You should like him, I know he likes you.’ I refused to say ‘loves’.
‘Does mummy really like him?’
‘Oh yes, she does a lot.’
I wondered why the admission hurt so much.
‘But you'll always be my real daddy.’
‘I know darling, and you'll always be my best baby.’
Until, I thought, you're eighteen with dope in your wardrobe and you've taken it on your toes.
‘I'm not a baby,’ she said indignantly. ‘You mustn't call me that. Mummy said so.’
‘I just can't forget what you looked like when I first saw you,’ I explained. ‘You were so tiny, I forget you've grown up.’
She took pity on me.
‘Alright daddy,’ she said conspiratorially, ‘you can call me anything you want.’
‘Thank you darling,’ I said. ‘Is mummy back yet?’
‘They're just coming now.’
‘Put her on please, and enjoy your holiday.’
‘Alright, goodbye now,’ she said. ‘I love you.’
Then she was gone. I said, ‘I love you too.’ To the empty air.
Laura came back onto the line. ‘Louis is here,’ she said.
‘Listen Laura,’ I said, ‘I appreciate that he's tops when it comes to dental hygiene, but I wonder if he's ready for this sort of thing. Couldn't you just take a few days, you and Judith. Somewhere where no-one knows you. A bit of holiday?’
‘Don't patronise me Nick. Louis goes where I go. Do you think I could keep a thing like this from him?’
She was crying again. Her sobs faded for a moment and then Louis came onto the line.
‘What exactly is going on, Sharman?’ he demanded.
‘Hello Louis,’ I said eventually, and repeated the facts as I'd told them to Laura.
He thought for a while, but thankfully not too long.
‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘we can get away for a while. But this whole thing is unforgivable, Sharman, and I hold you fully responsible. Can't you keep your messy business out of our lives? I can tell you that it doesn't please me to turn tail and run on your say so.’
‘This is not the bloody Alamo,’ I said wearily. ‘Just go where you're not known, and make sure you're not followed.’
‘I'm going to call the police first.’
‘I'd rather you didn't.’
‘Yes, I'm sure. But this is a civilised country and I demand protection for my family.’
‘They're not your family. They're mine,’ I said.
I think I would have said a great deal more if he hadn't hung up on me.
I looked at the dead receiver in my hand, and thought of Terry's murder.
I could tell Louis a thing or two about being civilised.
But at least my wife's new husband had listened, and was going to do something about it.
Next I telephoned John Reid.
I tracked him down at his home. I explained the situation yet again, being careful to say nothing about Terry Southall. John agreed that a few days away for my family was the correct solution to the unimplied threats in the letter I had received. He asked for Louis’ address so that he could liase with the local law on my behalf.
‘Just make sure they're not followed,’ I said finally.
‘OK, I'll contact their local station as soon as I put the ‘phone down.’
‘At least Louis got the message and didn't panic,’ I said thankfully.
‘He sounds like a super chap, does old Louis,’ said John.
‘But as for you, you had to keep on didn't you? You had to mess with things that don't concern you.’
‘That's just my way,’ I replied.
‘And look where it's got you. Up to your kid's armpits in hot water.’
‘Sure, John, I think I get the picture.’
We were both silent for a moment.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I'm glad you didn't mention my name when you spoke to Fox the other night.’
‘Don't you mean when he spoke to me?’ I asked. ‘Anyway, I think he knew we'd seen each other.’
‘That's too bad. It's none of his fucking business. I'm just glad you didn't tell him.’
‘I'm a super chap too’.
‘Yeah, if you weren't you'd be on your own now.
Listen, check back with me later. I'll get straight onto this letter thing for you now. And don't worry, Laura and Judith will be alright. I guarantee it.’
‘Cheers, John,’ I said and put the ‘phone down It was then, as I sat alone in my office, afraid for my child's life, that I decided to get a gun.
I needed a weapon, and there was just one place I could think of where one might be available. Only it was a little too early in the day to make an appearance at that particular venue, seeing as the proprietor was famous in his neck of the woods for never showing his face until the streets were aired, as it were. So I went and collected the Pontiac and made my way to Clapham to have a few quiet beers in a little pub I know there. I had a lot to think about. I knew I wasn't being particularly smart. As a private investigator, I'd probably make a reasonable window cleaner, and earn more. I was hardly the Philip Marlowe of the inner city. I probably wouldn't be able to find the mean streets, let alone go down them.
Everyone had told me to get off the case, and everybody was probably right. But it just seemed too pat. I felt as if every move I made was pre-ordained. I was being manipulated at every turn, and I couldn't see where the manipulation was coming from. I felt like Pavlov's dog without a biscuit for my troubles.
Patsy Bright must have made some pretty heavy friends, or enemies; which, I didn't know. But I was determined to break the chain. Because only by doing so could I solve the mystery in which I was involved. I sat and drank, and came up with theories, and had another drink, and discarded them. Finally the bell for last orders interrupted my tangled thoughts. I finished my last drink and left the pub. I got into the car and drove to Clapham Junction. I parked the heap on a yellow line close to the market and walked through the crowds to Emerald's Club.
Now, a little about Emerald's. It's not the kind of establishment that you'd take your old mum to visit, unless of course your old mum is a raving piss artist. It's a rough little drinking club down at the end of a seedy alley close to the Junction station. There's only one reason to go there, and that's to get an alcoholic drink outside licensing hours. Apart, that is, to fence a little bent gear, get laid by one of Emerald's young ladies, connect for some dope, plan a little villainy in private, or, as in my case, to purchase a gun without the formality of the license required by the law of this fair country of ours. It is not a nice place, believe me.
I made for the alleyway where the club was situated and walked down towards the blind end. The blank front of the crooked old building gave no indication that there was a jolly little afternoon drinking club within. An open door led to a flight of stairs that disappeared down into the basement. Once at the bottom there was another door. I could just make out the steady beat of music through it. Emerald's was open for business. Leaning against the second door was a huge black man dressed in a maroon track suit. His muscular arms and legs stretched the fabric almost to splitting point. He sported a modified afro and a gold earring. I showed him my most fetching smile.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said cheerfully.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ he demanded. Which was hardly the warm welcome I'd expected.
‘I want to see Emerald,’ I replied.
‘Who?’
‘Emerald,’ I repeated.
‘Never heard of him.’
‘I think you have, and I think he's in there,’ I said. Emerald had been holding court in his bar between three in the afternoon and eleven at night for the last twenty years to my certain knowledge. Although he would occasionally pop out for some nefarious business during that time, I didn't think he'd ever missed an opening or closing. The black man poked my chest with a forefinger the size of a small cucumber. I noticed that his fingernails were bitten down to the quicks.
‘If I say I've never heard of him, I've never heard of him. You'd better believe me white boy. Now get the fuck away from here. We don't want you around.’
‘Listen,’ I said, still smiling. ‘All I want you to do is to go inside and tell Emerald that Nick Sharman is here. Nick Sharman, got it? If he doesn't want to see me, fair enough. I'll turn right round and leave. But I do need to see him urgently, and I'm not going until he knows I'm here.’
‘And if I don't?’
I looked at the huge man. His arms were as thick as my legs. I knew I had less chance of forcing my way past him that I had drinking soup with a fork. I was just fed up being pushed around. I wanted to push back a bit.
‘There'll be a row,’ I said. ‘And the last thing I really want right now is a row, especially with you. But I promise you, if there is one you'll regret it. I'm not leaving unless Emerald says so.’ The black man stared at me. I stared back. I thought he was going to smack me right in the mouth. There was nothing I could have done about it if he did, except fall over.
‘What do you want with him?’ he eventually asked.
‘That's my business, but he'll want to see me,’ I said, I hoped the bouncer was convinced, because I wasn't. He kept staring, then shrugged and turned and knocked heavily on the door. After a moment it was opened by another, equally large black. That one had dreadlocks to his waist and wore a green, orange and black sweatsuit. Behind him I could clearly hear Ramsey Lewis belting out of the juke-box.
‘Tell Emerald that Mick Sharman wants to see him,’ the first bouncer said to the second.
‘Nick,’ I said.
The door was slammed shut on us and I heard a bolt click. The first black man pushed past me and looked up the stairs.
‘This isn't a raid,’ I said. He ignored me. The bolt clicked again on the other side of the door and it slowly opened. The second bouncer beckoned me to enter, and I passed into the inner room.
Emerald's club consisted of one huge cellar, which smelled in equal parts of clamp, cheap perfume and the odour of fish and chicken being cooked in the kitchen behind the bar.
The bar itself was L-shaped and made of polished mahogany. It ran for three quarters of the wall opposite the door which I entered. In the centre of the room was a pool table covered in blue baize. Against the right hand wall sat a massive Wurlitzer juke-box. It used to contain one of the finest sets of singles in London. There had been many a long afternoon spent feeding coins into its slot and listening to Otis and Aretha and their soul brothers and sisters wailing their hearts out. Along the left hand wall was a bank of fruit machines, the old fashioned kind with hundred pound payouts. None of the new electronic trash, where you need a degree in advanced electronics to win three nicker. These were one armed bandits, battered and chipped with use. Where there was room on the floor, a few lino topped tables and wobbly wooden chairs were clustered to form an eating area.
In the gap formed by the right angle of the bar, stood the other seats in the place. Two tall wooden bar stools with thick, red plush covers. The one nearest to me was empty, on the other perched the gross form of my old friend Samuel Watkins, aka Emerald, aka Em the Gem. In front of him, on the bar stood a white, push button telephone. Next to the telephone was a folded newspaper.
As it was early in the afternoon, there were few customers in the place. A man sat trying to eat fried chicken and smile at the same time and two Rastas were playing pool for their giro cheques, watched by a third one leaning against the juke-box and minding the stakes.
The second bouncer who had allowed me to enter, tossed his dreads like a debutante and closed the door behind me. The pool match stopped and the chicken eater paused with his mouth agape to check me out.
I walked over to where Emerald was sitting. He was a huge man. Quite how big, I'd forgotten, or else he'd been eating too many of the cook's fish dumplings since we'd last met. When Emerald stood, he was a shade over six foot tall and must have weighed close to twenty stone. His bulk was shoe-horned into the tightest, baddest, most stylish suit this side of the Motown Revue, 1964. It was a single breasted, grey, shot silk affair. The jacket was button free and very short with two tiny hacking vents at the back. The trousers were suffocatingly cut and were short enough to show an inch or two of black sock. His feet, which were incredibly small for such a big man, were laced into tiny, patent leather, pointed toed shoes. His shirt was violet with a tab collar with which he wore a narrow dark grey tie. On the little finger of his left hand was a gold ring that contained the biggest green stone I'd ever seen. Hence his nick-name.
‘Still sharp, Em,’ I said as I reached the bar.
He spun on his seat and opened his arms as if to embrace me. ‘My man Nick,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘Suffering, Em, suffering,’ I replied.
‘So you've come to Emerald's for some solace. A wise move my friend.’ His face took on a serious expression. ‘I've heard that bad things have happened to you Nicky. Why have you stayed away so long? I thought that friends stuck together in times of tribulation.’
Emerald's mother was a Baptist. She'd brought her boy up strictly by the good book. When he was drunk, Emerald could quote great chunks of the scripture verbatim. His speciality was the Book of Revelations. In another life he would have been a preacher, and a good one at that. ‘Into every life a little rain must fall,’ I said. ‘And I'm fucking drowning.’
He laughed a good deep laugh.
‘How's your little Judith?” he enquired. He'd had a soft spot for my little girl, since, when she'd been no more than a toddler I'd bought her up to see Father Christmas at a West End Store. On the way home I'd stopped off at the club for a well deserved drink, being trampled on by hordes of weeny-boppers not being my idea of a fun afternoon.
She'd totally taken over the place. The language from the punters would have graced a Sunday school outing. The girls had fussed over her like a princess and Emerald had sent out for enough toys and sweets to sink the Titanic. At first Judith had been wary of the big black man. Then he'd shown her the ring he wore on his finger. I've never seen him take it off before or since, but he gave it to the child to hold. She was fascinated by the way the stone reflected a thousand lights into her eyes. Within thirty minutes she was curled up asleep in Emerald's lap grasping the ring in her tiny fist. Before we left I had to prize it from her. Of course Laura had gone crazy that I'd taken Judith into ‘a den of thieves’ as my dear wife described the club. But when I remembered how my little girl had looked snuggled up against the big man's jacket, I knew I could trust her with him any time.
‘She's not so little now,’ I answered. ‘And she's fine.’ I didn't want to go into details for a while.
‘It's good to see you, Nick. But I can tell you are very troubled,’ Emerald said.
‘You're right Em,’ I replied. ‘I've got a few problems.’
‘You know I'll help if I can, but first let me get you a drink. I find a drink in my hand always helps with mine, and believe me, I've got plenty too.’
I looked over at the dread-locked bouncer who was leaning, arms crossed by the door.
‘I see you've bought in some muscle to help you solve them,’ I said. ‘You used to be more discreet in the old days.’
‘I need obvious muscle these troubled times. Things have changed around here since we last met. Now, what about that drink?’
‘What've you got?’ I asked.
‘Same old stuff.’ Emerald's had never been noted for its long wine list. I opted for a light rum and Coke. Emerald gestured to the girl behind the bar, who was hovering just out of earshot. No-one liked to be accused of eavesdropping on the boss of Emerald's.
‘White rum and Coke for my friend, and the same for me,’ Emerald called. She brought us two large drinks then moved back to the far end of the bar and began polishing glasses whilst watching the pool game that had recommenced. I walked over to the juke-box and picked out a few good tunes to keep the noise level up, so that Em and I could talk in private. I chose some Four Tops, Thelma Houston and a selection of Blue Note 45's that Emerald had picked up somewhere. The opening bars of ‘The Preacher’ helped to lower my stress level a little. Then I went back to join the big man.
‘Nice stuff, Em,’ I said. ‘Been going round the jumbles again?’
‘French imports,’ he replied. ‘Expensive, but worth every penny.’
The sound of Jimmy Smith's Hammond swirled through the club.
‘Still the old mod, aren't you?’ It was as much a statement as a question.
‘Always, my friend, always,’ he replied with a giant grin.
We sat for a while in silence, as old friends can, sipping our drinks and listening to the jazz. I leaned over and picked up the paper lying on the bar. It was the early edition of that day's ‘Standard’. It was folded back to the racing pages. I re-folded it so that I could see the front page. T S's murder was headline news.
‘HEADLESS BODY HORROR’
read the banner headlines. I carefully placed my hands face down on the bar to still the shakes. I scanned the story. The hard information was sparse.
Apparently an anonymous call had been made to Scotland Yard. It must have been just after I arrived. The nameless girl was in hospital suffering from shock. The police were waiting to interview her. One unidentified man had fled the scene on foot. That must have been me. Terry's past had been dredged up briefly. Fashion designer, fashion photographer, war correspondent, a smattering about his capture, then the fact that he was a GLC funded drugs counsellor. Finally the reporter started guessing. ‘Drug murder.’ ‘Ritual slaying.’ Because the killing had taken place in Brixton all sorts of innuendo was allowed. I ignored it, I knew better. Only the last sentence worried me. It read:
‘Police are anxious to contact Precious Smith, who worked at the drug centre with Southall. It is understood she may have relevant information about the murder.’
I guessed Precious had done a quick runner. She hadn't struck me as someone who'd welcome police enquiries. Stay away Presh, I thought, and if they do catch up with you, forget I ever existed.
I folded the paper again and tossed it across the bar. When I looked up Emerald was staring hard at me.
‘Don't ask, Em,’ I said.
‘I won't,’ he replied. ‘But I thought I recognised the name.’
‘Put it out of your mind.’
‘He's been here, yeah? With you?’
‘Forget it.’
‘Bad news.’
‘You said it.’
We sat in silence again, but a subtly different silence. The bar was beginning to fill up as the afternoon progressed. I sat and watched as the crowd grew and drank and gossiped and checked out the only white man in the place. Finally Emerald broke the silence again. ‘Nicky, my boy,’ he said, ‘you've been absent for a long time. Now you've come in all uptight and trying to be cool and hide it.’