Guns of Brixton (2010) Read online

  Jack ran towards the open door of Morleys, but two coppers were waiting for him. When he saw his escape route blocked, he fired his gun twice at one of the huge plate glass windows of the store. It imploded in a cascade of broken glass. He jumped into the gap, kicking aside mannequins in scanty lingerie and, knocking aside anyone in his way, made for the back doors pursued by the two uniformed police officers. When he crashed out of the back entrance he was met by two more PCs, who had been alerted by radio. He raised his .38 and fired, hitting one of the uniforms in the side. Looking more surprised than hurt, the policeman leant up against a lamppost before sliding down into a sitting position. His oppo, who had expected to be well away from any shooting, drew and hurled his truncheon at the armed man, but missed. Jack turned on his heel and headed up a narrow alley between two high, brick walls. The two coppers from Morleys gave chase, whilst the officer who’d thrown his baton tried to staunch the blood from his mate’s wound and call an ambulance on his personal radio through transmissions that were threatening to overload the frequency. Jack kept running, the two coppers sweating in pursuit. He turned another corner only to come face to face with a handsome young plainclothes detective pointing an automatic pistol straight into his face. ‘Go on, son,’ said the officer, the line of his immaculate suit only spoiled by the radio in his jacket pocket that was quietly spewing out commands and counter-commands. ‘You like shooting at coppers, don’t you? Try me.’

  Jack thought for a second, then smiled and carefully placed his gun on the pavement as the two uniforms came round the corner behind him and pushed him head first into the wall, using their elbows and fists to constrain him as they cuffed him up and read him his rights. ‘You should’ve waited a minute,’ said the plainclothes policeman holstering his gun. ‘And I could’ve shot him in self defence.’

  Jack looked at the man over his shoulder and saw that he was deadly serious and that he had come closer to being killed than he liked. ‘Bastard,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Bastard Sir, to you,’ said the detective, and he hit Jack in the face. Not with his fist. He didn’t want to break his delicate knuckles. So he used the heel of his hand as some grizzled old copper had taught him when he first joined the force. Jack’s nose broke, and blood poured from his nostrils.

  ‘I’ll remember you,’ Jack said through teeth gritted with pain, shaking claret from his face.

  ‘That’s nice,’ said the young copper. ‘Do that. My name’s Nick. What’s yours?’

  When Jack said nothing in reply, the detective just grinned. ‘Take him away,’ he said.

  Dave, meanwhile, made a run for it across Brixton Road. He jumped over the barrier, dodged between cars heading out of town and headed towards Electric Avenue, where he hoped to lose himself in Brixton Market. But luck wasn’t running his way that morning. From the direction of central London, his nemesis in the shape of an ancient white Ford Transit full of plumbing supplies and tools, was heading his way. At the wheel was a plumber named Phil Hardy. Not that his name matters. Phil was late for a job on Streatham Hill. And when he saw the lights at the junction start to change he put his foot down. The old Tranny wasn’t in the best of condition and slightly overloaded, with rather less meat on the tyres than the law demanded. So when Dave ran out in front of him, and Phil Hardy slammed on the brakes, instead of a gentle deceleration, the truck broadsided, hitting Dave hard enough to leave a body-shaped dent in the dirty metal of the van. And also hard enough to split open the bag he was carrying over his shoulder and send the cash inside flying into the air, where it gently floated to the ground in a flurry of five, ten and twenty-pound notes. This naturally caused the good citizens of Brixton – who knew a result when they saw one – to stampede in a rush for the money.

  Dave Nicholls’s neck was broken by the impact, and he was dead before his body bounced on the tarmac. Jimmy Hunter had only been a few steps behind him, but he managed to avoid joining Dave as a Lambeth vehicle fatality statistic, as he body-swerved through the gentle rain of bank notes, dodging the vultures scrabbling for the money, and he was away. Jimmy hardly spared a glance at Dave’s body. He was out of the game. One down, three to go. No time for recriminations. Once the job was blown it was every man for himself. That was the code.

  DC Farrow, who, despite his junior rank, had instigated the obbo on the bank, followed Jimmy closely across the empty northbound lane, over the barrier and through the traffic. He also avoided obstacles and injury. ‘James Hunter,’ he called to Jimmy’s retreating back. ‘Armed police! Stop or I’ll shoot.’ But, as so many folks were fighting for the cash in front of him, it was a vain threat.

  Jimmy ignored him and ran down the pavement between the buildings and the stalls on the edge of the road. He shoved early shoppers and traders out of his way, jumping over sacks of fruit and vegetables and boxes of cheap cosmetics and clothes, the bag of money weighing him down on one side, his shotgun on the other, clasped in his fist like an overgrown handgun.

  Billy Farrow followed closely, feeling the sweat beginning to form on him, half from the exertion of the chase, half from fear of what the desperate, armed man in front of him might do if he was cornered. He knew Jimmy, probably better than he should, and he was aware of what he was capable of.

  Then Jimmy Hunter was trapped.

  As he came out in Atlantic Road, a squad car skidded to a halt opposite the entrance to Brixton rail station, blocking his escape. Jimmy swore and turned back just as Billy Farrow came round the corner behind him. Jimmy lobbed the bag of money at Farrow which caught him on the chest and sent him tumbling into the gutter, dropping his weapon. Jimmy Hunter laughed and raised his shotgun to his shoulder. Suddenly he recognised the policeman and hesitated. ‘Christ. Billy Farrow, is that you?’

  ‘Yeah Jimmy, it’s me,’ replied Farrow.

  ‘Blue eyes, you fucking traitor. We trusted you.’

  ‘Give it up, Jimmy,’ shouted Farrow from the ground. ‘We know everything. We’ve got the other car. There’s no way out.’

  ‘Like hell, copper,’ said Jimmy, feeling his finger on the trigger. He knew it was all up, but he was determined that he was never going to go back to prison, where he’d spent so much of his life. ‘Like hell I say.’ He thought of his wife and two children back at home and what they were doing at that moment and what they’d be doing for the rest of their lives. Lives he would never see. So many birthdays and Christmases and anniversaries and good and bad times that he almost smiled as he tightened his finger further.

  He saw Farrow put up one hand as if by doing so he could prevent the inevitable, and as he looked down into the deep blue eyes that had got Billy Farrow his nickname, almost without meaning to, Jimmy pulled the trigger and the hammer on the gun started the short journey towards the rim of the cartridge. Just a centimetre or two in distance, and a split second in time, but a split second that would stretch for more than twenty years before its echoes and reverberations would finally end.

  ONE

  The wind blows cold off the Thames at Gallions Reach in January. Straight from Russia in the east, across Europe, the North Sea and the lowlands of Norfolk, Suffolk and Essex. That particular January morning the river was running high and fast, reflecting the leaden sky over Docklands, and the breeze whipped little white horses on its surface.

  The meeting was set for eleven. Sharp on the hour, a black left-handdrive Range Rover Vogue with French plates slid on to Barge House Road next to Royal Victoria Gardens. The car sat, its motor idling to keep the heat going inside, until it was joined a few minutes later by a navy blue Bentley Continental that drew up to it, closely followed by a black Mercedes saloon. The Range Rover was grimy from the road; the Bentley and the Mercedes were both highly polished, with tinted windows that kept the identity of their occupants secret. The cars sat together, faint white exhaust pumping from their tailpipes, until the front passenger door of the Bentley swung wide, and a tall, balding man of about sixty emerged. What remained of his white hair was cropped close
to the skull. He wore a navy blue overcoat with the dull sheen of cashmere, a navy scarf loosely tied that showed a white shirt and dark tie, navy suit trousers and highly polished black shoes. He closed the Bentley’s door with a discreet clunk, raised his hand to the Mercedes, indicating to whoever was inside that they should remain there, and walked towards the Range Rover. As he did so, its driver switched off his engine, opened his door and got out. He too wore an overcoat, but of a cheaper material, black this time with a velvet collar turned up against the cold, a long muffler, jeans and Chelsea boots with a slight heel. His hair was thick, dark as the sky, although slightly peppered with premature grey, and long over the ears. When he turned to look at the limousine, his eyes were almost as dark blue as its paintwork. No one ever forgot those eyes. As he approached he half raised his hand in greeting to the Bentley’s passenger, who reciprocated with a slight wave of his own.

  When they were close, the balding man took off the black leather glove from his right hand and they touched palms, then hugged each other without embarrassment.

  ‘Uncle John,’ said the man in the black coat when they separated. He was in his early thirties, but his face was lined, the skin tanned, a dusting of a day’s worth of dark beard covering his cheeks.

  ‘Mark. It’s been a long time. Too long. How’ve you been?’

  ‘Not too bad. You?’

  ‘Not great, I’m getting old, son.’

  ‘Aren’t we all.’

  ‘You, you’re just a baby,’ said John Jenner. ‘You still look like a bleedin’ kid.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Mark and took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He extracted a cigarette from the packet and lit it with difficulty in the wind with a brass Zippo. Before he put the cigarettes away John Jenner took the packet from his hand and examined it. ‘German?’ he said.

  ‘Last of the duty frees,’ Mark explained.

  Jenner looked at the Range Rover. ‘French plates. You get around.’

  ‘I do. But I’m back now.’

  ‘Where you living?’

  ‘Here and there. Nothing grand.’

  ‘Nice car.’

  ‘Belonged to someone I met,’ said Mark.

  ‘And he gave it to you.’

  ‘Didn’t have much choice.’

  ‘Like that was it?’

  ‘You know how it goes.’

  The older man nodded. ‘Let’s walk,’ he said.

  The pair went down to the river’s edge where the wind lifted the skirts of their coats and flapped them around their legs. Jenner put his glove back on and Mark sunk his bare hands deep into his overcoat pockets, cigarette in his mouth, and turned his back to the water.

  ‘Who’s in the Mercedes?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Some blokes.’

  ‘What kind of blokes?’

  ‘Just a bit of security.’

  ‘And you have to hire security now. What happened to the rest of your firm?’

  ‘Dead, dying, retired, lost their bottle. Times change.’

  ‘They do that.’

  ‘I’m glad you called,’ said Jenner.

  ‘I heard you wanted to see me.’

  ‘Who from?’

  Mark shrugged. ‘Word gets around, you know how it is. I try and keep up with things. Lay a little money out and people keep me advised on what’s happening.’

  ‘I’ve got some problems.’

  ‘I heard that too.’

  ‘You hear a lot.’

  ‘Like I say, I try and keep up with things.’

  ‘You didn’t keep up with us.’

  ‘Dev always knew where I was if I was needed.’

  Jenner shook his head more in sorrow than in anger. ‘Bloody Dev. He would. You two always were as thick as thieves. He never said.’

  ‘I asked him not to.’

  ‘He’s a law unto himself.’

  ‘That’s why I chose him to keep in touch with him. I knew he’d never let on.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  ‘You know you don’t mean that. He’s a good bloke. Taught me a lot.’

  ‘Like how to get hold of nice motors like that one,’ said Jenner, indicating the Range Rover with a nod.

  ‘No danger.’

  ‘Bloody Dev,’ said Jenner. ‘I never knew.’

  ‘I thought it was for the best, John,’ said Mark. ‘After all that happened.’

  Over to the south towards Kent, black clouds gathered like an angry mob waiting to do mischief and Jenner sunk his neck into his collar. ‘Might get some snow later,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘It’s bloody cold whatever. Dunno why I stay in this rotten country,’ said Jenner.

  ‘So go. What’s stopping you? Spain’s nice at this time of year, so they say.’

  ‘And you’d know.’

  ‘You said it. I get around.’

  ‘So what brought you back, if not us?’

  ‘You know. He’ll be out soon won’t he?’

  Jenner nodded.

  ‘And I’ll be waiting, like I always said I would,’ said Mark Farrow as he flipped his cigarette end into the freezing water.

  They were silent for a minute, and only the sound of the river washing up against the pylons of the dock beneath their feet, and a distant police siren touched their thoughts. ‘So, Uncle John,’ said Mark. ‘What’s it all about?’

  Jenner reached inside his coat and fished out a long cigar, found a windproof gas lighter in his pocket and took his time getting it lit to his satisfaction.

  ‘I thought you gave up smoking years ago,’ said Mark.

  Jenner grinned through a mouthful of smoke that was whipped from his open mouth as he spoke. ‘I started again,’ he said. ‘What’s the point of prolonging the agony? You see, that’s one of the problems I mentioned.’

  ‘Whaddya mean?’ asked Mark, and he frowned.

  ‘I’m fucked, mate.’

  ‘Uncle John?’

  ‘The big C.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Wish I was. I’m rotten with it. Dev never told you that, did he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘’Cos he doesn’t know. Only me, Martine and Chas do. Apart from you now, and half the bloody consultants in London by my reckoning.’

  ‘How long have you known?’ asked Mark.

  ‘A while. Long enough.’

  Mark touched his hand to his forehead, as if by doing so he could replay the conversation a different way. ‘But these days…’

  ‘No,’ said Jenner, cutting him off. ‘The quack says it’s inoperable.’

  ‘Second opinion?’

  ‘This is the fourth opinion as it goes. And I’m fed up with geezers I don’t know fiddling about with my private bits. And that fucking chemo screws you up, so I knocked it on the head.’

  ‘Christ, I’m sorry, John,’ said Mark, and he touched the older man on his arm.

  The clouds were getting closer and the first flurry of snow as Jenner had prophesied hit the water and vanished as if it had never existed. ‘Really sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Mark.’

  ‘How can I not worry?’

  ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘But still…’

  ‘Instead of worrying about something you can’t do anything about, do something for me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Later. I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘So what’s the prognosis, Uncle John?’

  ‘How long have I got, you mean?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t exactly have put it like that.’

  ‘You don’t have to be squeamish, or dance around the subject Mark. A year maybe. Maybe a bit longer. I’ll never get my bus pass now.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mark. I’ve come to terms with it. Even joke about it. It’s the breaks. I’ve had longer than a lot of people I know. Better people too. Life’s not fair, but then no one ever said it was.’

  Mark hugged Jenner again, and there
were tears in his eyes.

  ‘You keep doing that and people will think we’re a pair of poofs,’ said Jenner, but Mark knew he didn’t mean it, and besides, there were no hostile witnesses on that bitterly cold day on the side of the freezing waterway.

  ‘I dreamt about Hazel last night,’ said Jenner, changing the subject suddenly. Hazel had been his wife who had died ten years before of heart disease. ‘I dream about her a lot these days. Cor, she was just the same.’

  He brushed at his eyes with his glove. His eyes were wet too. ‘Bloody wind,’ he said. ‘Making my eyes water.’ Mark nodded, but they both knew the truth.

  ‘I could actually touch her,’ said Jenner, his gaze looking miles beyond the far river bank where the Millennium Dome loomed, large and empty. ‘She was all warm, just like she used to be.’

  ‘She was a great woman,’ said Mark. ‘She was like a mother to me. We had some laughs, didn’t we?’

  ‘Laughs. You remember that bloody laugh of hers? It was like a bloody corncrake.’

  Mark smiled. ‘And could she drink.’

  ‘You and me both under the table,’ said Jenner. ‘But that’s not why we’re here.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Things are going mental over there,’ said Jenner, taking in southeast London again with a sweep of the cigar in his hand. ‘Something’s going to give, and I’m too old and fucked up to sort it.’

  ‘Like what? What’s going to happen? Tell me.’

  ’It’s all going to go off soon, I know it. Come back with me. It’s been too long since you visited. Sort things out. There’ll be blood on the streets if you don’t. My blood. And I want what little time I’ve got left.’

  ‘Jesus. But will I be welcome?’

  ‘You’re always welcome, you know that. Except you never come.’

  ‘You know why.’

  ‘But that’s all in the past now.’

  ‘Is it?’ Jenner nodded. ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Mark.

  ‘You do that.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Just tell me why you never got in touch before.’

  ‘Oh come on, Uncle. You know. Christ, you better than anyone.’

  ‘But me, Mark. I can understand anyone else. But why blank me?’