Dead Flowers Page 9

  ‘Well, Wallace … Wally,’ I said, ‘now we’re on first name terms you can tell me where I can really find Grant.’

  Reluctantly he said, ‘He part owns a pub in Albany Road called the Druid’s Rest.’ I hadn’t got as far as going up Albany Road on my trips the previous week.

  ‘You telling me the truth this time?’ I said.

  A third nod.

  ‘You’d better be, Wally, or I’ll make a home visit and, I promise you, you won’t like that.’

  ‘I am telling the truth.’

  ‘I think I’d better go and see Mr Grant then.’

  ‘He ain’t in during the day much. He comes in later.’

  ‘Now you wouldn’t be lying to me, would you, Wally?’ I asked. ‘Again. Just to give Mr Grant plenty of time to line up a welcoming committee.’

  He shook his head this time.

  ‘Because if you are,’ I said, ‘and I come into any strife, some nasty men will make that home visit for me. Much nastier men than me, mate. And they owe me plenty. We’re friends see, and they don’t like their friend having the mickey taken. Get my drift?’

  ‘I got friends too,’ he said, summoning up a little spirit from somewhere.

  ‘You told me. Chris Grant.’

  ‘No. Other friends.’ He was getting bolder by the second.

  ‘The friends who were waiting for me on the Aylesbury, by any chance?’

  ‘’Sright.’

  ‘So tell me about these friends of yours. One wouldn’t happen to have a very gravelly voice by any chance?’ I was thinking of my first mystery caller of the previous afternoon.

  ‘Might’ave,’ said Wally.

  He was holding his glass in his right hand on the table, and I leant over, took it in mine and began to squeeze. ‘Tell me true, Wally,’ I whispered, ‘or else I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll break this glass in your hand and you’ll be wanking southpaw for the next few weeks.’

  He tried to pull away but it was no contest. I increased the pressure and fear flared in his eyes again. I smiled. ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you, but I warn you, you won’t like it.’

  I eased off and he slopped the Scotch as he raised the glass to his lips.

  ‘Another?’ I asked.

  He nodded. I caught the barman’s eye, twirled a finger and he started pouring. ‘Go on then,’ I said to Wally.

  ‘There’s two of them,’ he started to explain as the barman put the drinks on the counter.

  ‘Hold on,’ I said as I got up, paid for the drinks and brought them back to our table.

  ‘Mr Freeze and Adult Baby Albert,’ he continued, when I was seated again.

  ‘Stop right there,’ I said. ‘Mr Freeze. What, like in Batman?’

  ‘I dunno,’ replied Wally. ‘That’s just his name.’ Maybe he wasn’t very big in comic culture. ‘He’s the geezer with the voice what sounds like his throat’s been cut.’

  ‘And the other one,’ I said. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘He’s a scary fucker,’ said Wally, glancing round the bar. ‘Fucking radio rental.’

  ‘Adult what?’ I said.

  ‘Adult Baby Albert,’ he said, as if it was a perfectly normal name. Well, part of it was at least.

  ‘And what’s his story?’

  ‘He likes to dress up like a baby girl. A little frock and bootees and a nappy, and go to parties. Tea parties.’

  I couldn’t believe I was hearing this. ‘Tea parties,’ I repeated.

  ‘That’s right. There’s people put them on for people like him. That’s how he gets his kicks. Blokes changing his nappies for him.’

  I didn’t want to think about it.

  ‘And when he’s not at tea parties eating jelly and ice cream and shitting in his panties, he’s out dropping scaffolding on people. Is that it?’ I said.

  ‘Or sticking knives in them, or shooting them,’ Wally added.

  I had to laugh.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Wally. ‘Don’t laugh. Albert don’t like people laughing at him. He’s sensitive, see.’

  ‘Sure he is,’ I said.

  ‘You better believe he is. He’s got a bit of a weight problem like.’

  ‘Amongst others obviously. I can’t take this seriously.’

  ‘You’d better,’ said Wally. ‘If you want to live to be much older.’

  ‘And what’s dead flowers mean in all this?’ I said.

  Wally nearly dropped his glass. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘You had some of those?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Then you are as good as dead, mate.’

  ‘So why didn’t they finish me off last night?’

  ‘Fuck knows. Maybe they thought they had, or maybe they were disturbed. You just be thankful.’

  ‘Oh, I am,’ I said.

  I suddenly had a thought. ‘Do you know where Sharon Miller is? The girl in the picture I showed you. Maybe you could save me the trouble of meeting your friends altogether.’

  ‘She could be anywhere,’ he said.

  ‘Is she with Grant?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘What the fuck does that mean, Wally? She either is or she isn’t.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Spill it then. Come on.’

  ‘The pub isn’t his only business.’

  ‘So.’

  ‘He runs birds.’

  ‘He does what?’

  ‘He runs birds.’

  It began to dawn on me. ‘Like whores,’ I said. Well it wasn’t going to be budgerigars, was it?

  Wally gave me a fifth nod.

  ‘He’s a pimp,’ I said. I wanted to be sure.

  Wally nodded again. You could have put the little cunt on the back parcel shelf of your car.

  ‘But I thought Sharon was his girlfriend?’

  ‘They all start like that. He pulls birds easy. He’s a good-looking fella.’

  Wally sounded jealous, and the way he looked himself I imagined that if he wanted female company it was quite possible he had to pay. Possible. It was probable. Definite maybe.

  ‘And then?’ I pressed him.

  ‘And then he makes sure he’s got something they need, and they have to do what he says to get it.’

  ‘Something like …’

  ‘With her it’s smack.’

  ‘Charming bloke.’

  ‘You have to make a living.’

  ‘And has he got Sharon strung out?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘And you don’t know where she stays?’

  ‘No idea. He’s got places all over.’

  ‘Lovely,’ I said, and thought what Ray Miller would make of all this.

  Wally shrugged, and the temptation to hit him again and keep on hitting him until he was the late Wallace Baker was overwhelming. ‘The more I see you, Wally, the less I like you,’ I said. ‘Maybe you’d better get out of my sight before I decide that you deserve more than a bloody nose.’

  ‘Is that it then?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s it. But I think we’d both better forget that this conversation ever took place, don’t you?’

  Another nod.

  ‘OK, Wally,’ I said, folding the envelope and putting it the pocket of my jacket. ‘That would seem to be all. For now. But don’t forget what I’ve said. You haven’t seen me today. Capiche?’

  He nodded for a seventh time and wailed, ‘You gonna keep my Giro?’

  ‘That’s right. For the address, you know.’

  ‘But I’m skint.’

  ‘Wally, Wally, Wally,’ I said. ‘What about the monkey I gave you last night?’

  I copped his look. ‘No, I haven’t forgotten about that. I could reasonably ask for its return, don’t you think?’

  ‘It’s gone. I owed a geezer.’

  ‘I bet you’re always owing geezers, aren’t you, Wally? You look the type. But then I suppose you’ve earned it. If you’ve told me the truth this time.’

  ‘I have. Honest.’

  ‘I bet you don�
��t know the meaning of the word. But that’s by the by. And then there’s the money Grant paid you.’

  ‘I told you, I done him a favour.’

  ‘Big on favours, are you, Wally? Sorry, mate, you’ll have to report your Giro lost or stolen. But then, loath as I am to disbelieve a man of your demeanour, I reckon if you weren’t holding, you’d’ve cashed this the moment the post office opened. So I think you’ll make out. And if you don’t – tough. I’m off now, Wal, and remember to keep well schtum about this little meet, otherwise something very bad will happen to you.’ And abandoning the dregs of my pint I got up and left.

  At the first telephone box I came to, I phoned directory and asked for the number of the Druid’s Rest public house in Albany Road, and after a robotic voice told me, I dialled it. A male voice answered, almost inaudible against the sound of David Rose’s version of ‘The Stripper’ in the background, so right away I got the ambience of the boozer.

  ‘Chris Grant,’ I said.

  ‘Won’t be in till after seven, try then,’ and the phone went down hard.

  Bad manners, I thought. Well, we’d soon see about all that.

  31

  I went home then and considered my options over a glass of JD on ice and a cigarette. I assumed Chris Grant knew what I looked like and had latched on to me when I’d been making enquiries up and down the Old Kent Road. Obviously one of the bar managers or staff I’d talked to knew him well and had told him I was looking. They were a close-knit lot round there. Then he’d got Wally to lure me up to the block of flats, and the two comic-book freaks Wally had told me about had tipped the scaffolding down on me. They obviously didn’t care if I lived or died. Or maybe they thought I had died; or possibly the arrival of Matty and Maddie had scared them off. But from the way Wally had described them, a pair of young girls – sorry, young women – would’ve been just an appetizer. Maybe they had more powerful medicine than I realized.

  But there was one thing Grant hadn’t considered. By getting that rodent Wally to set me up, he’d also set himself up. Now I’d have to find out if Wally was more scared of Grant or me. I’d lay odds it was Grant, but then Wally might not want to tell him that he’d really grassed up his true location and the identity of his two murderous pals. And then there was his story about Sharon. That was a tough one, if Wally was to be believed, and there was no reason why he shouldn’t be. So that was Grant’s game. Find a young woman, spin her a tale. Wine her and dine her. Make her fall for him and promise her the world. Then get her hooked on one kind of narcotic or another and turn her out as a whore. It wouldn’t be the first or last time something similar had been done. No wonder he could afford a new Mercedes.

  But I felt so sorry for Ray and Liam and Sharon’s mother. Which was why I couldn’t tell any of them until I was sure.

  I was looking forward to meeting Mr Grant. Not a great deal, but enough.

  I was in a quandary, but then, when wasn’t I?

  I looked at my watch. It was nearly three, and this time I was going in armed. I remembered only too well looking up and seeing that scaffolding coming down. I could’ve been killed.

  I went to my hidey-hole and dug out a highly illegal stubby .38 Colt revolver. Ten years it is now for owning a handgun, but I was prepared to take the risk. In fact there were more pistols around on the street than ever since the government banned them. Fuck me, Old Bill loved it. In came all those beautifully cared for revolvers and semi-automatics through the front door, and out they went through the back with the serial numbers filed off and a quick dip in a pan of paraffin to clean off any fingerprints. Then Mr Plod could afford a couple of weeks in Florida with the ever-loving and the dustbin lids on the profits, and who gave a fuck if a gun he’d supplied was used to bump off one of his colleagues back home? Just the luck of the draw.

  I’d bought mine at the back of a block of flats in East Dulwich soon after the ban came into force. It was new, boxed and thick with grease, and it cost me three hundred and fifty quid. A bargain at twice the price.

  I cleaned and loaded it with shiny new cartridges and stuck it down the waistband of my jeans, at the back, then drove down to my office to see if there was anything interesting in the post and to kill some time.

  It was just the usual tax forms and junk mail, so I put the lot in the rubbish and sat back playing with a pencil, waiting for the evening to come.

  And that bloody pencil saved my life. As I was tossing it into the air and catching it, I missed a catch, and as I bent to pick it up, the new window in front of me imploded, covering me with shards of glass, and something lethal thumped into the wall behind me.

  I hit the floor, dragged out the .38, tried to get closer to the desk than a sausage to its skin, and waited for more incoming fire.

  But there was none, and the next thing the door burst open and I heard Teddy’s unmistakable voice shout, ‘Nick! Nick! You all right?’

  I put my gun away, stuck my head up from cover and replied. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘What happened, man?’ he demanded.

  I knew, but I wasn’t telling. Someone had fired a single shot from a gun with a silencer, probably from a passing car, but all I said was, ‘Just those damn kids again.’

  32

  It was the same copper and the same glazier. ‘Someone doesn’t like you too much, Mr Sharman,’ said PC Plod.

  ‘Looks that way,’ I replied.

  ‘What happened to your eye?’

  ‘Walked into a door.’

  ‘Careless.’

  I nodded agreement.

  ‘And the window was broken by the same method as the last time,’ said the copper.

  I nodded. I’d found a brick out in the desolation at the back of the building, left it on the floor and covered the bullet hole in the wall with a photo of Princess Di I’d torn out of a magazine. This was my fight, and I was getting angrier by the minute.

  ‘Doesn’t look like a brick did it to me,’ said the mouthy glazier.

  I gave him a tight-lipped smile. ‘How do you mean?’ asked Plod.

  ‘The way the glass has shattered. I’ve seen glass broke in all kinds of ways, and this looks like something with a high velocity did it. Like a bullet.’ He grinned then. Happy fucker.

  The copper looked at me. ‘Could it have been a bullet?’ he asked.

  ‘It was a brick,’ I replied. ‘And there it is. Dastardly, I agree. But a brick nevertheless.’

  ‘And you saw no one?’ said the copper.

  ‘I was thinking,’ I said.

  I could see he wanted to say more but he left it. ‘Very well, here’s another incident number, Mr Sharman. And if you do think of anything, get in touch with me at the station.’

  ‘You’ll be the first to know,’ I replied, and with a frown he left.

  ‘I’ll block off the window again and get back tomorrow,’ said the glazier. ‘Or maybe I should just leave it. Looks like you don’t have a lot of luck with glass.’

  ‘I don’t have a lot of luck with anything,’ I retorted. ‘But maybe that’s about to change.’

  33

  After they’d left I sat at my desk pondering what had happened, and I wasn’t happy about it. I hated being target practice for someone and I couldn’t wait to see Chris Grant and communicate my unhappiness to him.

  It was about then that I had a pair of visitors.

  I didn’t see them arrive because of the wood that covered the remains of my window, and the first indication I had of their presence was when the door to my office was rudely shoved open and they hustled into the building.

  They were both big. Well over six foot tall. But one looked to be just as wide, and he had to turn almost sideways to get through the door. He came in first, dressed in a suit made from enough material to clothe a small army, and underneath the jacket he wore a pink shirt with some sort of weird appliqué around the collar. But it was his trousers that really got to me. They were massive, each leg wide enough to fit an elephant and with something underne
ath that I couldn’t quite figure out. Like maybe he was wearing half a dozen pairs of underpants on top of each other. But before I could think too much about that his mate followed him in, and if I’d ever seen an uglier man it must’ve been in a nightmare. He had a face like something hewn out of the side of a quarry, and I’ve got to tell you these guys gave me the willies big time.

  ‘Help you?’ I asked.

  ‘Sharman?’ said the first geezer, in a voice that quavered around the contralto range and didn’t sound like it should’ve emitted from a frame his size.

  ‘That’s my name, don’t wear it out.’

  ‘Funny bloke,’ said Quarry Face, and his voice was exactly the opposite, seeming to reverberate like it came from the bowels of the earth. Despite myself, I shivered and felt for the reassuring weight of my pistol in the waistband of my pants. It was my mysterious caller from the previous day. Mr Freeze. Which made the other one Adult Baby Albert, and what he was wearing under his jacket was a little girl’s dress in size XXXL, and under his trousers, a nappy. Simple. When you know what you’re looking for.

  Quarry Face closed the door and leant against it, darkening the room as he did so, and Fat Boy pulled up a chair and balanced one enormous bottom cheek on it. ‘Had some trouble?’ he asked, looking round.

  ‘Not my week for plate glass,’ I replied.

  ‘You were lucky by the looks of it. You could’ve had a nasty accident.’

  ‘You’re not wrong.’

  ‘We rarely are, as it happens.’

  ‘So, who are you?’ I asked and my hands were sweating. I just wanted to check.

  “My name’s Albert,’ said Fat Boy. ‘And my friend here is called Mr Freeze.’

  I looked over at the other geezer. ‘Like in Batman comics,’ I said. I seemed to have had this conversation before.

  ‘No,’ said Albert. ‘Like in if you don’t start minding your own business you’ll end up in a freezer down the morgue.’

  ‘Now don’t frighten me,’ I said. ‘I might shake right out of my shoes.’

  ‘We heard you were stupid,’ said Mr Freeze. ‘But don’t make a career out of it.’