And bang, like an assassin’s dream, there he was, coming out of the door, already filling out one of the betting slips he always carried with him. I looked at my watch — one minute past two — and crossed the street, coming up behind him.
‘Johnny Hexham. Long time no see.’ And it was, too. Getting close to six months.
He swung round and clocked me straight away. He didn’t look too pleased but worked hard to hide it. ‘All right, Max,’ he said, coming to a halt. ‘How’s it going, mate?’
I walked up and took him casually by the arm. The grip was light but firm enough to let him know I wasn’t fucking around. ‘Not good, Johnny. Not good. There are a few questions I need answers to fairly urgently, and I think you might be able to help.’
‘What’s the Bobby, then?’
‘Eh?’
‘The Bobby Moore, score.’
‘It’s about a certain Mr Fowler.’
‘Fuck,’ he said. ‘I knew he’d be trouble.’
‘You don’t know the half of it.’ I let go of his arm and we walked down in the direction of Chapel Market.
Johnny looked at me nervously. We might have been old schoolmates but he was switched on enough to notice that that wasn’t going to count for much in this conversation. I am a man of compassion but, to be honest, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of me.
‘What happened, then?’ he asked.
‘You put this bloke, Fowler, on to me. Why?’
‘There was nothing bad about it, honest. I just thought the two of you could do some business. He needed some security-’
‘How do you know him?’ I had to remember not to use the word ‘did’.
‘I don’t really. It was Elaine who put me on to him. Elaine Toms.’
‘Jesus. Is she still around?’
Elaine had been in the same year as us in school, way back when Duran Duran were the kings of the rock world and furry pixie boots were all the rage. She’d always been the girl the boys liked because, without exception, she fucked on the first date, the first date only ever meant buying her one drink, and she was nice to look at. Which you’ve got to admit is something of a rare and joyous combination. Not that I’d ever managed to get her in the sack. There’d always been too much of a queue in front of me. And I’d been a bit of a skinny runt in school, too. Like decent wine, I’d matured with age. I hadn’t clapped eyes on Elaine in getting close to fifteen years, probably longer, and briefly wondered what she looked like now.
‘Yeah, Elaine’s still around. She’s the manager of Fowler’s club.’
‘The Arcadia.’
‘That’s the one. I still see her now and again because I drink down there sometimes. Not often, like, cos it’s a bit too young for me, all these kids jumping about, out of it on all sorts, but it’s worth a Captain Cook. Anyway, she told me that Fowler was having trouble with some people and he needed protection. She asked me if I knew of anyone who might be able to assist and so, you know, I thought about it for a couple of minutes, then your name popped up. I know you’re into all that shit. I thought you could do with the business.’ He turned and gave me his trademark boyish smile, the one I knew had got Elaine Toms into bed on more than one occasion back in the old days. Johnny Hexham, the loveable rogue.
But it didn’t work. Not today. ‘It was a bad move, Johnny.’
He looked worried. ‘Why? What happened?’
We turned into Chapel Market and made our way down the middle between the two lines of stalls. As usual, it was noisy and crowded. I decided against giving him the whole story. Johnny was no grass and probably wouldn’t go to the law if his balls went missing, but it was best to err on the side of caution.
‘I almost got killed. That’s what happened. These people Fowler had trouble with, they weren’t messing about.’
‘Blimey, Max, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you in the Barry. I thought it was routine stuff.’
‘Who are these people? And what’s the trouble he’s been having, exactly?’
‘I don’t know. Honest. It was something to do with the club. That’s all I was told.’ He exhaled dramatically. ‘Fuck, this is bad news. What’s happened to Fowler?’
I glared at him. ‘Forget Fowler. And forget you ever put him in contact with me. OK?’
Johnny’s head went up and down like a nodding dog. ‘Yeah, yeah. Of course. No problem. Consider it done.’
I took his arm again, this time squeezing harder. He turned to protest but I stared him down. ‘Are you sure you’re telling me the truth, Johnny? You know nothing about that club that might help to explain why people are getting all trigger happy with Fowler?’
‘No …’
‘Because if I find out you do know something, anything at all, then I’m going to hunt you down and I’m going to kill you. Understand?’ Harsh words, but definitely necessary under the circumstances.
‘Fuck it, Max, I’m telling the truth. I know there’s some dealing goes on down there, charlie and all that, but that’s about it.’
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. I slowed right down and stared straight into his. But the windows were dirty and I couldn’t tell whether he was bullshitting or not.
‘That’s all I know, I swear to you. Look, Max, I’m sorry. I really am. I was just trying to help.’
I let go of his arm, and managed a brief smile, though God knows what there was to smile about. ‘Well, it’s a brand of help I can do without in the future. And remember, say nothing about seeing me to anyone. OK? Including Elaine Toms.’
‘No problem. My lips are sealed.’ He gave me a concerned look. A mate to a mate. ‘Everything’s all right, though, isn’t it, Max?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I told him, turning away. ‘Tickety-fucking-boo. See you around, Johnny.’
Gallan
I didn’t have to work that night but, with my home life being as non-existent as it was, I decided to stay late in the incident room and catch up on paperwork. Berrin wasn’t so keen and took off bang on five-thirty, something I duly noted. There was an all-units out on the car I’d spotted with the bullet holes in it. Two of the station’s uniforms had stopped it and there’d been an altercation with the driver, who’d fled the scene on foot, having assaulted and injured both officers. Suspected bloodstains had been found in the vehicle, which was registered in the name of Max Iversson, an exsoldier with no previous record, who matched witness descriptions of the driver. Thankfully, it was nothing to do with me any more, but I was pleased that my observance had paid off, even if the uniforms who’d done the stopping and who were now off sick probably weren’t.
It was ten to nine when I left the station. I went to a cheap Italian off Upper Street I occasionally frequent and had a bowl of pasta and some garlic bread, washed down with a couple of welcome bottles of Peroni now that I was off duty. I suppose you could say it was a lonely way to spend a Friday evening, and you’d be right, it was, but I was beginning to get used to it. This time barely a year ago, it had all been a lot different. I’d been a DI at another station south of the river, heading up through the ranks in the direction of the DCI slot, with three commendations under my belt. Crime down there was bad, the hours were tough … Paradise it wasn’t. But it wasn’t a bad life and, unlike alot of my colleagues, I still had a stable domestic situation. A wife of fifteen years, an eleven-year-old daughter, a decent house in an area where the weekly mugging tallies were still in single figures …
Then, on the night they brought in Troy Farrow, it all changed.
Troy Farrow was a seventeen-year-old street robber who specialized in making victims of schoolkids my daughter’s age, relieving them of their mobile phones and pocket money, and old ladies, who he liked to pick off on pension day, sometimes breaking a few frail bones in the process. He had nine convictions altogether but had only spent a total of three months inside, so the law didn’t exactly have him shaking in his Nike trainers. He was shouting and cursing and threatening all sorts as the arresting officers booked him in for what was likely to be his tenth conviction: the violent removal of a mobile phone from the ear of a young secretary foolish enough to have been walking down a busy street early evening without keeping her wits about her. Unfortunately for him, the street was under surveillance by officers in plain clothes and he was caught within minutes. I was detailed to interview him, along with a DC, because we were interested in getting information from him regarding the near gang rape of an eleven-year-old by a group who’d also robbed her of her mobile and the bag of sweets she was carrying. We didn’t think Farrow had been involved — it wasn’t his style to molest his victims, and the suspects had been described as being aged between twelve and fourteen — but we were pretty sure he would know who was. There wasn’t much that went on in Farrow’s estate, crime-wise, that he wasn’t aware of, and kids like that would almost certainly have bragged about what they’d done.