Guns Of Brixton (75 page)

    'When
will Lee be missed?' asked Mark.

    'There's
a meet the day after tomorrow at Butler's place. We'll all be there.'

    'Perfect.
So your job is to put me up as the new driver.'

    'They
don't know you.'

    'But
you do.'

    'If
they find out…'

    'Then
put yourself as far away as possible, Gerry. Take the family on holiday. I hear
Florida's nice this time of year. But don't think about crossing me. Because I
swear, if you do, I'll come back from the grave to get you. Or someone will.
I've got friends. And anyway, you're in too deep to change your mind now.'

    'I
know that.'

    'Then
keep it in mind. I saved your life once before, Gerry. You and your women. Now
you belong to me.'

    Gerry's
stomach turned at the thought, but all he said was, 'OK, Mark, but you're
taking one hell of a risk.'

    'I
know. But I never was one for the quiet life.'

    Gerry
Goldstein almost vomited before going into the meeting. Lee was immediately
noticeable by his absence. 'Someone find him,' said Butler. 'And get the little
git in here. It's too close to the big day for anyone to start playing silly
buggers.' But of course, he was nowhere to be found. His car was neatly parked
outside his flat, and no one at the Drover's Arms or the local betting shop had
seen him since Saturday when he'd had a result on the horses. 'Won a bundle,'
said the betting shop manager. 'Maybe he's gone on holiday.' Someone entered
his flat without disturbing the dust. It was empty, and what food there was in
the fridge was beginning to spoil. That was it. Lee had vanished and a
replacement was needed.

    'I
know someone,' offered Gerry Goldstein. 'A red hot driver.'

    'Who?'
asked Butler.

    'A kid
called Steve. Just back from the Continent and looking for work.'

    'I
don't know him.'

    'He's
good.'

    'Shit.
That fucker Lee. Wins some money on a horse and vanishes. Typical. I never
should've rowed him in in the first place. Gamblers. They're worse than junkies
for doing a runner when you need them most. All right, Gerry. I'll take him on
your say so. Make a meet between this Steve bloke and Bob. If Bob says he's OK,
then we'll go with him.'

    The
meeting was arranged in an empty car park deep in the bowels of the city of
London, close to Goldstein's shop. Bob turned up with a Jaguar XJ. He tossed
the keys to Mark and said, 'Impress me.'

    Mark
got in behind the wheel and demonstrated every driving trick that Dev and Chas
had taught him. He threw the powerful motor from one end of the concrete floor
to the other, tyres screaming and smoking, as Bob held on to the passenger grab
handle with white knuckled fingers. Mark demonstrated one-eighties and
three-sixties, hand-brake turns, doughnuts, the lot. Ending up by using one-of
the ramps to flip the car up on to two wheels and do a perfectly balanced
circle of the garage with Bob's head only a foot or so above the floor, before
dropping it back with a bang. 'What do you reckon?' he asked when Bob had
regained his cool.

    'Where
did you learn all that?' asked the ex-soldier.

    'Here
and there.'

    'Gerry
tells us you've done this sort of thing before.'

    'Once
or twice.'

    'Don't
give much away do you?'

    'This
and that.'

    'All
right, Steve. You're on. You'd better come in for a briefing tomorrow.' And he
told Mark where and when.

    And
so Mark" Farrow joined the team as the wheelman on the second motor.

    That
night, Gerry Goldstein sat alone in the study of his detached house in Golders
Green with only a bottle of Remy Martin for company. Rachel was in bed in the
room where she slept alone, watching
ER
on TV, and their daughters were
out spending his dough clubbing. Rachel's hair was in curlers and she'd covered
her face with the latest miracle cream to keep it youthful. She'd already been
cut and tucked three times in a private hospital in Kensington, which had set
Gerry back the profit on his most recent foray into a life of crime. It just
wasn't fair. And now Mark Farrow was intent on screwing up a most lucrative
little earner. He could go to Daniel Butler and confess all. But where would
that lead? Mark had made it very clear that if Gerry blew the whistle, things
would get very unpleasant indeed.

    Gerry
poured another drink, slopping just a little on to the polished top of his
desk. He looked at the drops pooled on the wood and contemplated a life without
all the comforts he took for granted. Fuck them, he thought. Fuck Rachel and
the girls, and fuck Danny Butler and Jimmy Hunter and fuck Mark Farrow. Fuck
them all. I'll show them. And he opened the top desk drawer and took out a
small revolver. He checked the load of six tiny bullets, pushed the cylinder
home and cocked the hammer. Alone in his study, he drained his glass, then
opened his mouth, inserted the barrel of the gun and pulled the trigger.

    Upstairs
in her bedroom, Rachel Goldstein heard the shot, but only faintly. And as
County Hospital in Chicago was under siege by gang- bangers looking to put one
of their own out of his misery, with that handsome young Croatian doctor being
held hostage in one of the emergency rooms, she assumed it was one of many
gunshots on the soundtrack and ignored it.

    No
one missed Gerry until the next morning.

    Mark
Farrow waited until the Thursday before the bank holiday to put the next part
of his plan into action. He wanted enough time for Sean Pierce to organise a
police operation, but not enough time to check too deeply who was involved.

    He
rang Streatham Police Station mid-morning from a callbox in Crystal Palace, and
got put through to the CID office. A woman answered, 'CID, DC Webb speaking.'

    'Is
Sean Pierce there please?' asked Mark.

    'Yeah.
Who's speaking?'

    'Steve
Sawyer. He doesn't know me.'

    'Concerning?'

    'I've
got something for him.'

    The
phone went down with a bang, he heard voices and then it was picked up again.
'DS Pierce,' said Sean.

    'Sean
Pierce?'

    'That's
right.'

    'I've
got some information for you.'

    'What
sort of information?'

    'Important
information.'

    'About?'

    'Not
on the phone.'

    'Do I
know you? Sawyer, is it?'

    'I
told the DC you don't.'

    'So,
why are you talking to me?'

    'I
heard you were a decent copper,' replied Mark. 'Someone I could trust.' 'Who
are you?'

    'Like
I said, someone with information.'

    'If
you're not going to tell me-'

    'Don't
blow it, Sean,' interrupted Mark. 'This could be the making of you.'

    'Oh
yeah?' But Mark could tell he was interested.

    'Yeah.
We need to meet.'

    'I'm
a busy man.'

    'We're
all busy, Sean. I could always take this elsewhere.'

    There
was a pause. 'OK, where and when?'

    'No
time like the present. How about in an hour. Do you know the Beehive pub in
Streatham?'

    'Course
I do.'

    'Eleven
thirty.'

    'All
right. How will I know you?'

    'I'll
know you.' And Mark hung up.

    He
was already at the pub when Sean entered. Mark was wearing his shades and
gloves. It was an old trick for a copper to pick up a drinker's glass and check
his prints for identity. But the last thing Mark wanted was for Sean to know
who he was. Although he'd never been convicted, Mark's prints were on file, and
he assumed lodged somewhere in the Police National Computer. Maybe, maybe not,
but he wasn't about to risk it. And only God knew what he'd find if he checked
on the Continent.

    Sean
looked round the almost empty bar and Mark raised one hand. The young policeman
came over and stood by Mark's table. 'Sawyer?' he said.

    'That's
me.'

    'Right,
I'm here. What's this all about?'

    'It's
all about you making inspector,' replied Mark. 'And this will take a while. Sit
down. Drink?'

    'I'll
get my own,' said Sean who went to the bar and ordered an orange juice.

    When
he'd returned and sitting in front of Mark, he said: 'I don't have long. What
is it you've got to tell me?' 'There's going to be a robbery soon. A big one.'

    'Yeah,
sure.'

    'Take
my word.'

    'And
how do you know?'

    Mark
lit a cigarette and saw Sean's look of thinly veiled disgust. Pious fucker, he
thought. 'Because I'm part of it.'

    'And
you want to blow the whistle.'

    'S'right.'

    'Why?'

    'Personal
reasons.'

    'Why
me?'

    'Sorry.'

    'Why
tell me? Are you sure I don't know you?' He studied Mark's face carefully.

    This
was the moment Mark was dreading. All those years ago when Mark and Linda had
been having their illicit relationship, he had mostly managed to avoid her
family. No one but Linda had known who he was, and, more importantly, who his father
had been. Even so, there had been times when Sean had spotted them together. It
was inevitable. But after all this time he couldn't possibly remember. Could
he?

    •Mark
took off his glasses and looked Sean in the face. 'I don't think so,' he said. He
looked him straight in the eye with his contacts in place and saw no sign of
recognition.

    'OK,'
said Sean. 'So, why me? I'm just a DS.'

    'I
told you why,' said Mark. 'I heard you were something rare. An honest cop.'

    'Where
did you hear that?'

    'Around.'

    'OK.
So you've got information about a big robbery, or so you say.'

    'Why
should I lie?' asked Mark.

    'There's
a million reasons. Maybe I've put a friend of yours away and you're winding me
up. Trying to make me look a fool. Or maybe this is a gag on behalf of the boys
at the station.' 'Or maybe it's true,' interrupted Mark. 'Christ. I'm giving
you this on a plate and you think it's a wind-up.'

    'It
wouldn't be the first time.'

    'Shit,'
said Mark. He could hardly believe this. Here he was with the information of
the year and the dozy fucker wouldn't believe him. 'Have you ever heard of
Daniel Butler?'

    'Danny
Butler?'

    'That's
right.'

    'He's
retired. Gone to live in Essex.'

    'Retired
fuck,' said Mark. 'He's the architect. He's got a bunch of heavy duty villains
in to do the job.'

    'Where?'

    At
last, thought Mark. 'Docklands,' he replied.

    'When?'

    'Bank
holiday Monday.'

    'Next
Monday?'

    Top
of the class, thought Mark. 'Next Monday,' he echoed.

    'And
you know the full story?'

    'Sure.'

    'Would
you be prepared to meet a more senior officer?' Mark shook his head.

    'No,'
he said. 'I'm taking a big enough risk meeting you alone. These fuckers are
serious. They're armed with automatic weapons and they're prepared to use
them.'

    'And
what's your part in all this?'