Her Last Call To Louis MacNeice (4 page)

I took his word on that.

Neither of us smoked so we ensured we dropped butts on our exit and all over the abandoned motor. One raid, Doc procured insulin and left the half-empty phial under the seat. That made it to CrimeStoppers. Kept our mouths tight shut. No braggin’, no hints, nada.

Things got hairy too. An old dear had a heart attack on our Hatton Cross job. Doc wanted to send flowers and cash. I lost it.

‘The fuck you saying …? You want to be Robin Hood, is that it … have the public love us. Jeez, mebbe we could cut a record. We’re in this for cash, not friggin’ sentiment.’

He sent the cash anyway. I could have sent the flowers.

Arnold L. White. Is that a name or wot. Our accountant. I wasn’t going to prison for
VAT
or any of that sneaky crap. He had an office in Camberwell. I had to ask, ‘What’s the L for?’

‘Leopold.’

‘You’re winding me up.’

‘Do I look like a kidder, as if humour is my forte?’

He didn’t.

Looked like a sour priest and hey, that’s how it should be. Money is a sacred business. He had a cheeky secretary named Iris, a pushy blonde, all mouth and nastiness.

I gave her one. Call it duty, to keep tabs on Leopold. She was the worst kind of leg-over … loud, came roaring and shouting as if I’d murdered her. The French call orgasm the little death. Guess they hadn’t heard of Iris. No doubts with that lady, she knew what she wanted and rode the daylights outa me. After, she’d say, ‘I’d kill for a bacon butty.’

She’d had a husband, Patrick, from County Kerry who’d gone
MIA
. The worst criminal ever to come outa Camberwell. Not dangerous, just useless. He’d attempted to rob a Pakistani shopkeeper, using a replica. The man near split his skull in two with a brick … a real one. Patrick got ten years. Prior to that, he’d been in a pub one night. A fella named Mick had given him a ferocious hiding. All Patrick remembered was the name. So, he packed a meat cleaver in an Adidas holdall and returned to the pub.

No sooner had he ordered, when the barman roared to a customer heading for the loo, ‘How’s about ye Mick.’

Patrick followed, missed with the cleaver, it was embedded in the wall. Mick and five of his mates then attempted to fit the cleaver to Patrick’s arse-hole. After she’d told me this, she added drily, ‘I said to ’im, you pathetic wanker, you like sex and travel so fuck off outa here.’

What Arnold also provided was information. Of the banking variety. Doc had a chat with him, suggested it would be mutual if the skinny on obscure banks were available. Their days for ‘holding’.

Arnold was yer classic accountant. He asked no questions but one, a highly indignant tone, ‘You think I can be bought?’

Doc named a figure.

He was bought.

Networking. Wot a lovely word:

Hip

Contemporary

Sassy.

Arnold networked a series of clerks in the major banks. Not too many, but sufficient to provide the dates without arousing suspicion.

It had risk … sure. The old fall-out factor, but it worked. Plus too, a clerk blew the whistle he was on the bank ‘suss list’. Banks don’t rate loyalty, only profit.

I’d put a portion of map on the wall, let the Doc have a look.

Asked, ‘See anything you like?’

‘Never heard of that Bicester, means we’d pass thru Morse country.’

‘Put the wind up Sergeant Lewis, eh.’

Thursdays were best as the payrolls would be in but we didn’t want to establish a pattern. Sooner or later though, you had to figure on getting a tug. I’d only recently moved to Meadow Road, was burning money with the decorators. Jeez, what is it with those fucks, all that shouting. I’d said, ‘Hey … this isn’t the Grand Canyon, you don’t have to check for echo. Let’s keep the damn shouting to a minimum. How would this be … if a roar has to be made, and I don’t dispute the necessity, I’ll do it … OK I’m paying, so I’ll be roaring.’

Which I think put it across rather well. An informed and civilised outlay of the rules. They listened almost attentively and then continued roaring.

‘Hey Joe, where’s my hammer? … Cyril, wot’s gonna win the 3.30?… That Dettori ain’t worth shit … Three sugars and a sausage sarnie …’

Yeah, like that. I was contemplating a short stay in a hotel but I liked to keep an eye on the fucks. The doorbell rang. Would one of the decorators answer? Course not …

‘Not in my portfolio mate.’

I flung the door open, the hammerin’ behind me a decibel louder. Two men in raincoats, the hard-eyed look. You knew when they weren’t flogging double glazing or Mormons. Coats were too cheap.

‘Mr Cooper.’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr David Cooper.’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry to trouble you Sir, I’m Chief Inspector Noble and this is Detective Sergeant Quinn, might we have a word?’

‘Not a quiet one I’m afraid.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

I gestured behind me. Noble gave a tight smile, humour not even distantly touching it. In his fifties, he’d the recent health of an ex-drinker and the tension it bestowed. I looked at my watch, said, ‘Down the road, there’s The Roebuck … very quiet at this hour, would that do … are ye allowed … fraternise in … public houses.’

A look passed between them said … ‘got a friggin’ live one.’

Quinn was thin, in his thirties. He’d the face of a grey-hound gone rogue, a rabid light in his eyes. This guy liked to sink his teeth and never let up. The worst kind of cop, it was always personal with him. Noble said, ‘In the line of duty, we could force ourselves I think.’

‘Okey-dokey then, you lads scuttle on down there, I’ll get my coat and be with you … in say … five, how would that be.’

‘That would be fine, five minutes.’

I went and got my leather jacket, a Georgio Armani and it knows it. Leather so soft it croons, goes out by itself. I swear it wept when Brazil stole the World Cup. I’d met women who wanted an evening with the jacket. Makes me feel good and I needed that. Had figured they’d come but now, I didn’t know was I ready. My body said. ‘No you’re not’ and sweat made lakes on my torso. Ever have one of those situations, like the following. You’re moving along the footpath, see a person coming towards you. In this instance, a woman in her late twenties, bit of a looker. Not earth shattering but cookin’. There’s only the two of you, not another punter on the path. Bags of time to move easily by. Yet … and here’s the fuck of it. Ye begin the manoeuvres early so as not to collide. Despite all the rules of gravity, you end up nose on nose, flappin’ uselessly as ye attempt to get by. I smiled, one of those knowing world-weary jobs to say, ‘Oh … silly us.’ She gave a loud sigh of aggressive annoyance, said, ‘Oh get out of my way for heaven’s sake.’

I grabbed her arm, hissed, ‘Hey, don’t pissin’ sigh at me lady, I’ll break yer bloody face … hear me.’

Didn’t affect her, as she moved on she shouted, ‘Damn Yuppie.’

I guess it was the jacket.

I arrived in The Roebuck, up for it. The two were sitting at a corner table, untouched glasses of orange like prayers before them. I opened: ‘On the old Britvics eh.’

‘But let us not curtail … your inclinations.’

This from Noble, again the dead smile. I sat opposite them. The barman shouted, ‘What’ll it be guv?’

‘Same as these chappies.’

He brought it over and it sat with the other immobile glasses. I said, ‘Ah, the juice.’

Noble gave me the long look, said, ‘Nice bit o’ leather, expensive was it.’

‘Are you in the market for one, that it?’

‘Alas, a policeman’s salary wouldn’t run to such an item.’

The juice looked forlorn, I extended a finger, said, ‘Eeny, Meeny, Miny … Mo.’

And Quinn spoke, South-East London hard, but inroads of Irish, ‘Catch a blagger by the toe.’

Noble added, ‘Quinn here is a plastic Paddy … second generation, he hates blaggers.’

‘And who would blame him?’

‘Precisely David. It is David isn’t it … You don’t mind if I call you that, or are you more comfortable with Davy or Dave even?’

‘Cooper is fine.’

‘Touch hard is it not, are you a hard man Dave?’

‘Not according to my old mum, bless her heart.’

Quinn leaned over, ‘You’ve got form Davy boy.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And keeping clean, are yah?’

‘With the decorating, it’s not easy.’

His dog face was working up to it.

‘Not hurting for the readies … business good, was it?’

I knew I could go either way. Kiss ass and have him enjoy it or, ‘Ever keep greyhounds Quinn?’

‘That’s sergeant to you. Wotcha mean?’

‘Oh nothing, you remind me of White City, I thought perhaps yer Dad was into them, know wot I mean?’

Noble cut in, but first a glance at Quinn that said ‘Jeez, he
does
look like one!’

‘Davy, we have a problem, there’s been a string of bank jobs, all over the bloody shop. Two-man outfit, very pro, very classy. Would you know anything about these?’

‘Can’t help you there, repo is what I do.’

Noble sighed.

‘I feel it in my water Dave that you could help us, wouldn’t do for the nick to repossess you.’

The barman came over, asked, ‘Is the orange off or wot?’

Quinn didn’t look up, said, ‘Fuck off.’

He did.

Noble stood and gestured to Quinn, who kept his eyes locked on me, said, ‘We’ll be in touch Dave, I just know you’re going to be a big help.’

When they were gone, I carried the glasses over to the bar, said, ‘Sorry about those wankers, mebbe you could recycle these.’

He slung ’em down the sink, said, ‘Naw, they’re friggin’ contaminated, am I right.’

‘Absolutely.’

Three days passed, no sign or light of Cassie. Doc had the heavy word out but no show. I began to relax, figured she’d headed for higher ground. Kept thinking of her though, the leather sex, the bloody chemistry of the crazy bitch. But I knew I was better off without her. The hell of it is, trouble is so exciting and I’d been sliding along, not bored but heart not beating rapid either. The repo business was doing good and I’d gone to Brixton to suss out a major job. Done that and drifted into the big pub on the corner. Ordered mash and a banger, half a bitter. Found a table at the window and dug in. Never heard her till she sat opposite, she glanced at the food, said, ‘No shit Cooper, but is that phallic or wot.’

I cut the sausage, hefted a wedge and she licked her bottom lip, whispered, ‘Give it to me big boy.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘You want me to haul ass.’

‘Yeah … and give me back the bloody gun.’

‘Aw-righty,’ she said, and opened her bag.

‘Jeez, not here, what … are you outa yer tree.’

‘Well outa federal jurisdiction. I wanna make up.’

‘Make up, like stories is it?’

‘I’m hot for you Cooper. I could service you now, under the table. You just go on eating your vitals, all your appetites satisfied together.’

‘Go away’

She touched her hair, asked, ‘Do I look like Jennifer Aniston?’

‘Who?’

‘Oh Gawd. Don’t you watch TV … like, you never heard of
Friends
?’

‘I’ve got the Doc.’

‘
JES-US
… like get real. It’s a comedy series, like mega. A million women copied Jennifer’s style. There’s even a cult called “The Holy Tabernacle of Aniston The Divine”.’

‘Don’t mean shit to me but yer hair … is … I dunno … circa Cathy McGowan … the 60s … like that.’

She rolled her eyes and that closed the hair rap. Said, ‘I bought you a present.’

‘Keep it.’

‘Please Cooper just let me explain. I was jealous, it makes me crazy, I never met a man like you. Mind if I smoke.’

‘And you’ll refrain if I do.’

She took out the Camels, soft pack and crushed, shook one free, asked, ‘Can you light me?’

A couple in their twenties, laden with food, approached and asked, ‘Might we share your table?’

Cassie’s head turned, spat, ‘What, you goddamn blind, we look like we’re receiving company? Can’t you see we’re having sex here.’

I jumped up, said, ‘Sure, we’re all finished.’

And strode out. She was right on my heels as I hit the path, shouted, ‘Don’t leave me, what about the children.’

You can do just about any weird shit in Brixton and no one gives a toss. Ain’t nothing new. But she got attention, maybe it was the bloody Yank accent. A group of the brothers were hanging outside the blues music shop, one of them said, ‘No way to treat a lady, man.’

I said, without breaking my stride, ‘That’s no lady, it’s the shoplifter from hell.’

As I moved fast into Coldharbour Lane, her voice carried: ‘I love you David and Louis MacNeice.’

I dunno if it meant Louis loved me too but I doubt it. Got the car keys out and my hands were shaking. Half expected her to start shooting. The engine revved and I burned rubber, sweat dancing on my upper lip.

Back home I got right on the phone, called a mate, asked, ‘You still fitting locks?’

‘Sure.’

‘OK, can you do a rush job, like now?’

‘Naw, we’re booked solid, no can do old son.’

‘If I throw in a few ponies for yourself’

‘What time would suit you?’

‘And shoot the works OK, deadbolts, state-of-the-art shit, top of the line.’