He Died with His Eyes Open Page 6

  'Well, if it really fell off the back of a truck,' I said, 'it might as well go the distance and on down your throat. Nothing you can do about Newton's third law. But not for me, thanks.'

  'Newton's,' he said reflectively. 'Newton's. I worked as a driver for them lot of bastards once. Little firm up by Finsbury Park there, where you throw a left on Seven Sisters Road by the underground, you know the scene.'

  I knew it. Although I had asked him not to, he poured some of the nectar into my glass just the same, so I picked it up.

  'Well, here's luck,' he said, drinking. He looked at me more closely. 'Funny, you don't look like just any old size-nine turnip to me, you look like you'd got brains. Call me Tony,' he added, 'you might just as well. Tony Creamley's the name. If ever the law fires you, why not come to me for a job; you look as if you'd had some practice with a jamjar, ha, ha.'

  'Easy,' I said, 'that kind of joke tires me out rather fast.'

  'Oh, yeah,' he said, 'sure, okay. Nothing diabolical intended, Sarge.'

  'Nor taken.'

  'Luckily,' he said. The phone beside him rang and he answered it, waving an adorer aside and staring absently out of the window at a tramp trying to have a pee unseen on the pavement while chewing philosophically on a dead matchstick. He soon got tired of the voice I could hear quacking into his ear and said: 'No, you want Creamley Cars, darling, that's five oh one double three double four. This is Planet, son.' He listened for about three seconds more with his eyes shut and said: 'Now, don't give me a lot of blag—if you're not happy with your Creamley account, get in touch with their manager, that's what he's paid for. I should know, my boy pays him, sometimes, ha, ha. On your bike, get lost.'

  He slapped the phone down, turned to me, and said: 'Some people are born to moan, aren't they, born to moan. Now, Creamley Cars,' he added proudly, 'that's my son's—that's Clive's own outfit. Three Rollers e's got on the strength, three Mercs an a couple of bran-new four-door BMWs. Nice, nice little leasehold in Cannon Street.' He sighed. 'Smart lad, my Clive, bright as you like, 'n idle as a whore on a Monday morning— all he thinks about is goin off to Greece where he's layin this bit of local shirley temple. Yet e's got this sweet little business, pays off better'n any bird and it don't talk back—sweet's a nut, right under his feet, I set im up, I should know. E works the City, see, we works the West End here at Planet. Mind, there was the time he tried to muscle in on me, did Clive. "At least," I says to im dignified, "leave your old dad the bit where Planet got started." No—e thinks e's a ard man.' He shook his head; it wobbled like an oyster on the end of a drunkard's fork. 'Mind, Clive knows what's good for im, which side the old bread's buttered. Don't e, Eileen?' he said, looking over at one of the adoring girls.

  'Oh, yes, Mr Creamley,' she glittered, adoring away like mad.

  'That's how we operate here at Planet, see?' said Creamley with satisfaction. 'All one happy family, get it?'

  'I'll bet!' I said.

  'I don't play rough anymore,' he said, sucking his lips. 'No need, see? Not nowadays. Wait till they go into liquidation. Buy em up, don't rough em up, that's my motto. That's why you don't see no firm but Planet round here anymore. Not round here. Mind you—'.

  'Mind you,' I said, 'you're talking to a copper.'

  'Christ, so I am,' he said, smacking his forehead, 'it's funny, you don't come on like a copper somehow; you must be either a good one or a fucking bad one. Anyway, this boy you're here about, I know him from this snap of yours, that was Planet Two Four.' He took a deep draught of his Scotch and looked reminiscently at the photograph between us. 'I can recognize him, just,' he said, 'but Christ they din't half carve him up.' He exhaled and nodded introspectively several times.

  'My time's the taxpayer's,' I remarked, 'so I'm always in a hurry. I don't know who pays you for yours.'

  'Oh, that's the punters,' he said. 'I've got all my time, I've won it before I've got up.'

  'Bully for you, Tony,' I said. 'Can we get back to Two Four?'

  'Oh, sure.' He drew a bead on a French spotlight with his forefinger. 'Not much of a driver, Two Four—always behind with his rent and his drops. Didn't know how to present himself to a customer, neither. Nor the motor. I asked and asked him, went down on my bleedin knees, but e wouldn't even wear a peaked cap and dicky for a wedding. I said to him: Look, you know how it is, Two Four, you gotter say lick your arse, sir, touch the hat, bit of the abdabs, morning madam, fine day, carry your bags, then stick the old hand out for a bit of the dropsy. But no, Two Four wasn't into any of that. We ad some right complaints about Two Four back ere at the office. First off, I recall, e'd got this big old banger rented him, a Renault 16, so e got a few airport jobs—e'd race out to Heathrow, undred mile an hour, frighten the punter half out of is wits. Mind, the geezer always caught is plane—usually with a bit too much time to spare for is liking. E used to leave em gaspin, did Two Four. But e wouldn't chat em up the way you've gotter if you want a good tip. I mean, they're only business cunts and that; they only want to be made to feel they're somethin special while they're on their way out to the plane, don't cost the driver fuck all to feed em a bit. Other way round: the driver scores an the punter thinks, that firm Planet, they've got a bit of class. But no, Two Four'd only talk to the punters who din't wanter talk, and even then it was all about France an such. Yes, we lost a few nice accounts down to Two Four; folks used to ring up an complain to me personally something rotten.'

  'A bit eccentric.'

  'I don't know what that word means,' said Mr Creamley frankly, 'but anyway, in the death we ad to get rid of him. Busy afternoon it was too, a Friday. This woman come stormin' into the dispatchers looking for Two Four. "Where is he?" she says to Smitty. Threatens him, like. He's only a young lad—Brownie and my head dispatcherine, ugly bird with a Harper's Bazaar voice, were off on the river ooze. "Where's who?" says Smitty." Well, you call him Two Four," she says, "but I know im better as my husband." Dreadful state she was in, cryin an er face all in a mess. Pity—she wasn't a bad-lookin tart at that; I'd ave let er ave One Eight and the 220D (though not Three Three an the Roller), all on credit. "E's gone off with some whore," screams this bird, "is little kiddie and I aven't seen im for a week, I've ad no money from im an I'm at my wits' end." "Look," says Smitty, "I've got work to do, I've got four phones ringin here case you can't ear em, missis, an the rest of the mob as fucked off." E was only obeying firm's orders, see? A lot of our drivers don't use their right names—we do all cash here at Planet, an the last thing a driver wants is to work is cogs off an still get done by the Inland Revenue. Also, you get a lot of funny folks come lookin for the drivers, ex-girlfriends, creditors, writ-servers an the like, an some of em don't half tell artful stories. Anyway, come to a rub, Smitty sends for me—I'd bin listenin in over the intercom anyway. I din't really fancy avin to deal with this boiler; I'd bin playin dealer's choice all night up at Whipps Cross. My ead felt like a bladder flattened between two bricks an I'd a mouth like St Paneras Station. So I sent for two of the van drivers (we do a nice van ere at Planet), One Seven One an One Eight Five, they're from Mile End and fairly heavy, an I ad em give er the arries. But not before she'd gone ahead screamin as ow she'd find im, she was is missis an all, an what was e gointer do about supportin the kiddie an all.'

  'You see him again?'

  'Two Four? Not a chance. One of the drivers, Four Nine probably, marked is card and that was the end of that. It's a story we've all heard before ere at Planet. You'd be surprised how many of the drivers ave their little problems. And,' he sighed, 'don't we all, my life?'

  'Okay,' I said. 'Is that all?'

  'That's all.' He burped with difficulty, rubbing his hands across his wiry stomach. 'Too much eggs is very bindin, Sarge, don't you find? But I got this passion for em.'

  'You want to get out and about more.'

  'Ah, fuck it,' he said, 'I don't greatly care for walkin, not when I can ride, what's the use? I never was a great one for the plates of meat, not since the army. An since I was
in the cats meats gaff a year back for my piles, I find walkin any distance brings a pain on you know where.'

  'We've all got a pain somewhere,' I said. 'It's this case with me.'

  'Yeah, well, I'm sorry about Two Four,' said Mr Creamley, 'I really am. E wasn't so bad. I used to ave im up to my place at Epping to teach my youngest girl to speak proper. She ated him. I used to get im out of there in the death, give im a Scotch, push im a ten, an tell im to fuck off—" You'll never get a place like this, Two Four," I used to tell im, "not with its swimmin pool an all, an in its own acre of ground." An they liked im ere, the lads did, even if e did rabbit on a bit.'

  'This woman that came in,' I said. 'You don't know her name, I suppose?'

  'Well, yes, funny you should ask that,' he said, 'she left it, I think. Delia love,' he called over to an adorer, 'get me that woman's address out of Two Four's file, will you?'

  Eventually Delia came across with a piece of paper and stood holding it uncertainly between us.

  'Well, go on, darling,' said Mr Creamley, winking with impatience, 'give it to the gentleman, e won't bite you.'

  He looked at it with me. 'Christ, there's even an address,' he said. 'Fancy!'

  I got up. 'Thanks a lot,' I said.

  'Any time. Always a pleasure to see the law. Nother drop of the Illegal?'

  'Not today,' I said. 'I'd rather have a cab in a hurry. You can trust me; the taxpayer always pays cash.'

  'Don't I know it,' said Mr Creamley sickly. I left him rubbing his belly again with a shiny hand.

  I tried the address they had given me, but needless to say she had moved.

  11

  It really is a dreadful nuisance his dying like this,' said Staniland's bank manager. 'He had an eleven-hundred-pound loan account, don't you know, and there's the interest owing on it.'

  'An unsecured loan?'

  'Well, not quite—there are a few equities. But equities are performing miserably at the moment, as you probably know.'

  'No, I don't own any shares,' I said. 'I don't know.'

  'The bank stands to be several hundred pounds out on this affair,' said the manager. 'Several hundred.'

  'We're talking about a murder.'

  'I daresay. Even so, it's very awkward.'

  He was small and pink, and at first sight looked too young to be a bank manager. He had a harassed expression and a smile that was meant to be nice. He produced it with the practised ease of a conjuror.

  'Head office cleared the loan. But I was against it.'

  'Oh? Why?'

  'Not a very stable individual, Mr Staniland.'

  'Did he tell you what he wanted the money for?'

  'No. Or rather, he told me some story or other, but I didn't believe it. I don't think he did himself.'

  'Did he borrow all the money at once?'

  'No, he borrowed five hundred; then, three months later, another five. I reminded him how steep the charges would be at today's rates, but he said he was going to be earning so that that didn't worry him.' He coughed. 'It worried me.'

  He opened Staniland's file, and I looked at it over his shoulder. 'Most of the cheques are drawn Self, you see. He drew the entire loan amount right down to this very last payment for three hundred a week ago. We let it go through, though it overdrew him, but that was when I wrote to him—'

  'Yes, I've seen the letter,' I said. 'It was with his property.' I got out my notebook. 'I'd just like to take the details of these cheques. I suppose you can tell me the banks they were cleared through? You know the codes.'

  'We're not really supposed to do that, you know.'

  'No, I know you aren't. But this man was actually murdered, Mr Bateson, and I am rather keen to catch the people responsible. I appreciate that you don't want to get yourself into trouble with your head office, but speed is vital.'

  'Oh, yes,' said the bank manager. 'Oh, very well, then.'

  12

  Stanilands room was one of the most putrid I ever saw. I should have been round there already, and I would have gone if Bowman's people hadn't covered it. Romilly Place was off the Lewisham end of the Old Kent Road near the clock-tower; the houses were three-storey tenements and filthy. It was a dangerous bloody district too, especially for someone like Staniland—what we call mixed area, a third unemployed skinhead, and two-thirds unemployed black. It was a cul-de-sac, and in the warmth of the spring evening the air was filled with screams as kids and teenagers raced round the wrecked cars that littered the pavement. There were about twenty houses, mostly with broken windows and vandalized front doors. Some idiot on the council had had the idea of putting a public callbox on the corner; it now contained no telephone, no glass and no door—a directory leaf or two skittered miserably about in the breeze. The house I had parked by had been gutted by fire; the front had been shored up with timber, and there were sheets of corrugated iron where the windows had been; the chimney toppled inwards at a ridiculous angle to the blackened masonry. A youth saw me looking at it and came up. He was only about seventeen, but he had a very old face like a concentration camp inmate. There was a faint stubble on his long whitey-green skull that a flea couldn't have hidden in. 'Six geezers cindered in there,' he informed me, and added: 'But they was all black.'

  'I'm looking for number seven,' I said.

  'It's the one behind you,' he said, 'but everyone's fucked off. They say one of the ice creams that lodged there got topped over Acton way.'

  I could have asked him how he knew that, but I would have lost him if I had. It would have made me smell of law, and I wasn't in a district where the law gets much cooperation. So I said: 'Oh, yeah? Well, I'm just looking around.'

  'Why?'

  'For a room.'

  'What, in there? You must be bleeding mad. The place was rotten with fuzz only day before yesterday. You on wheels? That Ford over there? The Escort?'

  'That's right.'

  'They don't half go, them Escorts. Got a player in it? Any good tapes? You like to take me an my mates for a ride?'

  'What's in it for me?'

  'Well, I could get you into number seven easy, see, if you wanted to squat.'

  'Yeah, that's what I wanted,' I said. 'For four of us. Looks nice and cheap.'

  Some more youths had gathered round while we were talking. I let the skinhead pick his team for the ride, then ripped them round Lewisham clock-tower a few times.

  'Where you get this jam?' the skin said enviously when we got back, walking round it. 'It's nice. You nick it?'

  'What the fuck's that got to do with you?'

  'All right, all right, dad—no need to go bleedin bananas.'

  One of the youths standing around said: 'I could get you into that house if you wanted.' He hadn't been asked on the clock-tower trip; he was Asian, though I knew from his accent that he was South London born. 'You want to shoot up, dad?' he murmured. 'Pot? A sniff?'

  'Why not a fix?' I said. 'But not now. Later, maybe. When it's dark.'

  'Why when it's dark?' said the Asian.

  'I just prefer doing it when it's dark,' I said. 'Why? Is it against the law or something?'

  They laughed. Then the skinhead said: 'Where you from anyway, dad? You ain't from round here.'

  'I never ask questions like that,' I said. 'In fact, I hardly ever ask questions at all.'

  Someone said: 'Yeah. Bad habit.'

  'I reckon e's got a job on,' said the Asian boy. 'That right, dad?'

  'Well, if I had,' I said, 'I wouldn't go round telling people like you about it.'

  'Look at this,' said the Asian boy suddenly. He had a knife in his hand quick as a gust of wind; then with another gust it went stuck! into the balk of timber that shored up the burned-out house. I hate knives; I've always hated them—I hate them worse than guns. The Asian boy looked at me to see if he'd got any reaction. But I said: 'I'm off to the pub.'

  'Which pub?' said the skin.

  'You will keep asking questions,' I said. 'You will keep doing it, won't you?'

  'A
ll right, dad.' He was needling me. 'Keep your syrup on.'

  I was getting sick of being called dad. 'And don't call me dad,' I said. 'I'm not old enough to be your dad.'

  'You look old to me,' said the skinhead.

  'Anyone would look old to you.'

  'You tryinter ave a go?' said the skinhead incredulously. 'You? At me? You must be bonkers, dad.'

  'Ah, drop it, Scar,' said the Asian. I could see he wanted to make his sale.

  'What pub again?' one of them said.

  'The Agincourt.'

  'Then you are bonkers,' said the skinhead called Scar. 'No one but a mad geezer'd go in there. Not at night.'

  'Well, I'm going in,' I said.

  'Meetin' someone?'

  'That's right,' I said. 'Malcolm Muggeridge. He's an old mate.' I turned to the car.

  'That's all right, dad,' said the skinhead. 'Listen, don't bother gettin' in, just throw us the keys. No sweat, I don't want to have to hurt you, but it's a nice motor.'

  'You want the keys,' I said, 'you'll have to come and get them.' The Asian boy said: 'Ah, come on, Scar, turn it up.'

  'Why don't you shut your black gob?' said the skinhead, and to me: 'Are you giving, dad, or am I coming?'

  'Looks like you're coming,' I said, 'you little maniac.'

  There were a lot of heads at the windows now, and the street had suddenly gone quiet. The last window was still opening when Scar came in fast with his left hand out flat in front of him; there was a length of bike chain in his right, and he was flailing it. There was something about his eyes that looked wrong as he came in. I blocked the chain with my left forearm; it cut straight through my anorak and marked the skin. I stamped very hard on his right instep. Now you're not going anywhere, I thought, and gave him my head up his nose. I caught the chain as he dropped it and slung it over a roof, feeling where he had filed the links sharp. I stamped on his other foot, cupped my hand under his chin, and threw him at somebody's front door. He went through it. After a while he crawled back out onto the doorstep and started to feel himself all over, trying not to cry with the pain in his feet.