domestic chores.
‘There appear to be bullet holes in your vehicle, sir,’ he said, totally deadpan, like he was telling me I had toothpaste round my mouth.
‘I live on a rough estate, officer.’
The other one now opened the back passenger door and began inspecting the stains more closely. ‘What happened here?’ he asked. ‘This looks a lot like blood.’
‘It’s red wine,’ I told him. ‘I spilled it in there yesterday. It’s a right bastard to get rid of.’
‘Would you mind stepping out of the car, sir,’ said the first one, opening the door for me.
‘No problem,’ I said wearily, and got out. Still holding the handle, he shut it behind me at just the moment I delivered a ferocious uppercut that sent him flying. He landed on his back, absolutely sparko, narrowly missing the traffic in the next lane, and his cap rolled off, only to be immediately crushed by a passing minibus full of pensioners.
‘Oi!’ shouted his partner, going for his extendable baton.
There was too much traffic to cross the road before he caught up with me so I ran round the front of the Range Rover, mounted the pavement, and charged him before he had a chance to actually extend the baton. I punched him full in the face, knocking him off balance, then got my leg round his and tripped him up. He went down, his nose bleeding badly, and I ran back round to retrieve my keys.
But cars were stopping all over the place now to watch the drama unfolding and the lights had gone red again. A well-built workman was getting out of his van and glaring at me, looking worryingly like he was about to carry out a citizen’s arrest. Then, from up the street, I heard the sound of a siren. It meant a quick decision.
Run for it.
So that’s what I did, and as I tore off at a rate of knots in the opposite direction to the siren, past the surprised expressions of passing civilians, it struck me then that however bad I thought my predicament was ten minutes ago, it was now a hundred times worse.
If anyone ever wanted to kill Johnny Hexham, he would not be a difficult man to find. Every lunchtime between one and two, as regular as clockwork, he was in the Forked Tail public house, a mangy dive off Upper Street, gossiping with his lowlife cronies and plotting his next poxy moneymaking scheme. Sometimes he’d be there earlier, sometimes he wouldn’t leave until the early hours of the following morning, but, without fail, he was always in residence for that one hour. I got there at ten to two, and waited in the doorway of a boarded-up shop across the street, trying to look inconspicuous. As it was a Friday, I guessed that the lazy little shit would be in for an all- dayer, but, like the creature of habit he was, I thought he’d probably whip out for a few minutes to place some bets on the horses, having picked up some tips from the Paddy barman. I didn’t much want to approach Johnny in the bar where there were too many people with big ears, but I would if I had to. Things were not going well for me and I wanted some answers quick.
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.
