‘Things are going down the shitter and fast.’
‘You’ll come home with me.’
‘No… no, I don’t think that’s too clever. Noble’s on the prowl and why make it easy for the bastard.’
‘Ah don’t mind him, the scut, he’s like a boy whistlin’ in the dark.’
‘He’s about to blow the flamin’ whistle on me.’
Doc pushed in beside me, put his arm on my shoulder, said, ‘Coop, listen boyo, they still need the oul reliable called evidence and there’s not a bit of it. C’mon, I’ll buy you a pint.’
‘I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch tomorrow, we’ll finalise the job details, OK.’
He gave me a worried look, ‘Are yah up to it? I mean, have yah the stomach for it now?’
‘Yeah, but the point is, do I want to. What worries me is Noble has minty breath.’
‘So bloody wot?’
‘A man who chews mints is an observer. They miss nothing and their agenda is not what’s on display.’
‘’Ary, you’re reading too much into it. He’s probably covering up the smell of booze.’
I stopped into the 7-Eleven and stocked up on essentials – toothpaste, coffee, milk, soap – siege supplies.
I’d decided to crash in the warehouse for a few days, let the dust settle. Prison teaches you to move in small spaces, to need almost nothing. Before settling on the army cot, I rang Letterman.
‘Yo – talk to me.’
‘David, it’s Cooper.’
‘What’s happenin’ bro’?’
‘My home’s been burned.’
‘And you wanna know is it Cassie, am I right.’
‘There are other candidates, would she risk that.’
‘Oh yeah…’
‘How do I go about finding her?’
‘She’ll find you when she’s ready for the next stage.’
‘Fuck.’
‘That too.’
‘OK, I’ll keep in touch.’
‘Adios amigo.’
Next morning I woke with an aching back and couldn’t figure where I was, said, ‘Jeez, where am I.’
The warehouse looked like shit and I complemented it. Course I’d no razor and the electric kettle went on the blink. Took a cold shower and froze my balls off. Invigorating, they say, which is not the term that sprang instantly to mind. And, I’d need clothes, not to mention a whole new life.
Sat and wrote out the hooker manifesto, had to word it just right. Then rang the number Jim had given me. She was home and arranged a meet for three in the afternoon. Next up was the bank, to withdraw a shit-pile of money. The cashier looked worried but then, that’s what they’re paid for. She said, ‘Excuse me a moment.’
‘Why?’
‘I need verification.’
‘Take my word for it, it’s my money.’
She gave one of them banking smiles, all teeth and malice.
‘It’s a rather large amount.’
‘No one said that when I lodged it.’
‘I’ll just be a sec.’
And off she went.
I looked round, professional interest. Maybe I’d return and do this one for spite, take a hop outa the cashier. Back she came with an older guy. He didn’t have a sign that read,
‘I mean business, very serious business
and I just know you’re not it.’
But he had the look, said, ‘If you’ll step over here a minute Mr Cooper.’
I did… and waited. He began, ‘Might I suggest with such a large amount that we consider other alternatives.’
‘No.’
He faltered; then rallied, ‘Of course Mr Cooper, any advice I can offer.’
‘Give me the money.’
He did. I don’t think my attitude had been covered in customer relations.
From there I went to the markets and bought three pairs of jeans, six shirts, three formal slacks, underwear, three pairs of shoes, and two hold-all jackets. Even at market prices, it burned a hole. Back to change and in the new gear I felt, if not renewed, at least ready. Said aloud, ‘Let’s burn a cop,’ and picked up the phone. Got the number of Scotland Yard, dialled, asked for the serious crime division. Put on hold, then a gruff voice: ‘Can I help?’
‘I dunno, you might want to hear that a detective named Noble, outa Carter Street, was helping an accountant named Arnold L. White. Mr White has been behind the series of bank raids up and down the country.’
Silence. What did I expect… glee? When a cop is ratted out, they like it as much as duty in Brixton, then, ‘And your name is…’
‘Concerned Citizen.’
Snort!
Which sound seemed appropriate to hang up on. I didn’t expect they’d rush out and nick Noble but, with the hooker’s call later, I wanted to muddy the water. Give the bad fuck something to suck mints about.
My hands were wet from tension. I should have known that a call like that wasn’t going to be simple. When they own you for two years, the automatic responses never fully fade. Like walking into a snake pit having previously been bitten and saying – ‘it won’t hurt so bad.’ Dream on sucker.
Almost immediately the phone rang and I jumped – ‘bloody hell,’ they’re on to me already?! Picked it up, said tentatively, ‘Yeah.’
‘David.’
‘Cassie.’
‘You recognised me lover, that’s promising.’
‘How’d you find me?’
‘In the book.’
‘Oh.’
‘You met my brother.’
‘Jeez, what is this – you have private investigators on me?’
‘You’ve a high profile honey. So, has he been shooting you a line, telling you I’m whacko and stuff.’
‘He’s concerned – where are you?’
‘I’m real close baby, but you get the hell away from him. You hear what I’m saying?’
‘Or wot… you’ll burn my house down…’
The line went dead.
The hooker, Sharon, lived at Waterloo. Those small houses near the bridge, like a real Coronation Street. Rang the bell and she answered immediately. In her mid-forties, she was a brunette with trowelled on make-up. Carrying weight that looked like it was going to increase and wearing a lurex tracksuit, she said, ‘Jim’s mate, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You seem disappointed, was I supposed to brassen up. I thought this was other biz, not a shag call.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Sure darlin’.’
And she sounded like a hooker then. A husky voice that was only part fake. Led me into a living room, it looked cosy like a home and she noticed my approval, said, ‘You were expectin’ a bordello.’
‘I expect very little.’
‘Can I get you something – tea, a drink.’
