Nightingale picked up one of the packages and unwrapped it. It was a Glock, similar to the one he’d used when he was with CO19. He rewrapped it and put it back in the boot.
‘Too small?’ said T-Bone. A larger package contained a sawn-off shotgun with a stubby single barrel and a pistol-grip butt. ‘Takes five shells,’ said T-Bone. ‘Untraceable. It’ll blow off everything above the waist from six feet away. Bang!’
‘Maybe not quite as big as that,’ said Nightingale. ‘You know what I’d really like? An MP5.’
T-Bone sneered as he rewrapped the shotgun. ‘Nine mills don’t do no damage,’ he said. ‘Like the Glock. Nice gun, but most guys I know could take a couple of nine-mill slugs and keep on walking. You get shot in the face with this and you ain’t going nowhere.’ He put the package back in the boot. ‘Are you going to fire it?’
‘Am I what?’
‘The gun. You gonna fire it or just wave it around? Horses for courses, innit?’
‘I’m going to be playing it by ear.’
‘Here’s the thing. If you don’t fire it you can sell it back to us at fifty pence in the pound. You buy for five hundred and we’ll take it back for two-fifty. But if it’s been fired it’s on you because then it’s traceable.’
‘Unless it’s the sawn-off??’
‘You can fire that all day long and it’ll never be traced,’ said T-Bone. ‘But if you’re gonna be letting rip then you don’t want the Glock or the MP5 or the MAC-10 because you’re gonna be spitting out shells all over the place.’
‘Yeah, well, when Perry came after me I seem to remember the tinkle of casings hitting the pavement.’
T-Bone chuckled. ‘That was Reggie’s idea,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t concerned about getting his money back. They were brand new and he was planning to sell them on to a gang north of the river so that they’d take the heat for your hit.’
‘Nice,’ said Nightingale.
‘He was clever like that, all right,’ said T-Bone. ‘Too clever for his own good as it turned out. But if you’re planning to let fly you’d be better off with a revolver. Keep your casings.’
‘Fewer shots, though.’
‘See, you being a cop and all I’d be thinking you’d make every shot count,’ said T-Bone.
Nightingale smiled at the irony of a former member of a Metropolitan Police armed response unit being given firearms advice by a south London gangster, but everything that T-Bone said was right. Nightingale didn’t know how the evening was going to play out but if he did have to fire the weapon he didn’t want to be leaving evidence around. ‘So what do you have in the way of revolvers?’
‘I can do you a nice Smith amp; Wesson,’ said T-Bone, reaching for a second parcel.
Inside were two stainless-steel guns with black rubberised handgrips that looked very similar but Nightingale recognised one as the Model 627, a.357 Magnum that took eight rounds while the other was a Model 629, a.44 Magnum that held six rounds. The 627 had a four-inch barrel and the 629’s was more than an inch shorter.
‘Nice,’ said Nightingale, reaching for the 627. He checked the action and nodded approvingly.
‘You wouldn’t want to be firing at any distance,’ said T-Bone. ‘But with eight in the cylinder you’ve got more of a margin for error.’
‘How much?’ said Nightingale.
‘Twelve hundred quid.’
‘What? I only want the one.’
‘List price in the States for them both is about a thousand dollars. And we have to get them over here.’
‘Do I have “idiot” written on my forehead?’
‘I can’t see in this light,’ said T-Bone. ‘Maybe. But for a new gun that’s the price, innit?’ He took the 627 off Nightingale and wrapped it up. ‘How close do you think you’re getting to the target?’
‘Not sure,’ said Nightingale. ‘Why?’
‘The Smith amp; Wessons have both got short barrels. I’ve got something a bit longer.’ He rooted among the packages and pulled out the one that he was looking for. ‘It’s a Taurus 627,’ he said, handing the gun to Nightingale. ‘The barrel’s eight and a half inches so you can be accurate up to fifty feet without too much trouble, seventy-five feet if you’re lucky. Holds seven rounds, not too much of a kick, but again you know what you’re doing so that shouldn’t be a problem.’
Nightingale nodded, then looked along the barrel.
‘It’s a bit front-heavy so two hands are better than one,’ said T-Bone. ‘The grip’s a bit small but you’re not a big man.’
‘I’ve had no complaints,’ said Nightingale.
T-Bone wagged a gloved finger at him. ‘Funny man,’ he said.
‘How much?’ asked Nightingale.
‘It goes for about five hundred bucks in the States so you can have it for seven hundred and fifty.’
‘Dollars?’
‘You should do stand-up, Birdman,’ said T-Bone. ‘Quid. But I’ll throw in a box of rounds.’
Nightingale took out the envelope of cash, then turned his back on T-Bone while he counted out the notes. He heard T-Bone chuckling behind him but he ignored him. He turned round again and gave him the money.
T-Bone shoved it into his coat pocket without counting it, handed Nightingale the gun and then pulled a box of cartridges from the boot. He gave them to Nightingale. ‘Pleasure doing business with you,’ he said. He raised the door and daylight flooded in. ‘Like I said, return it unfired and I’ll give you half the cash back.’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ said Nightingale. ‘Whatever happens, I’ll dispose of it.’
‘Pity,’ said T-Bone. ‘It’s a nice bit of kit.’ He pulled the door down and locked it. As he straightened up he stopped smiling and looked at Nightingale with dead eyes. ‘If anything happens to this stash any time soon, your life won’t be worth living. You know that, right?’
‘I hear you,’ said Nightingale.
T-Bone took a step closer and glowered down at him. ‘Don’t let my pleasant disposition lull you into a false sense of security,’ he said. ‘Just because you were a cop doesn’t mean you can’t be hurt. And hurt bad. And if you fuck with us, I’ll be the one doing the hurting. Clear?’
‘Crystal,’ said Nightingale. He winked. ‘Be lucky, T-Bone.’
‘Yeah. You too, Birdman.’
Nightingale shoved the gun into his pocket as he walked back to the MGB.
62
Nightingale called Morris on his mobile when he was a few miles away from Fairchild’s house. ‘Are you ready, Eddie?’
‘I’m in the pub, about half a mile past the house,’ said Morris.
‘You’re not drinking, are you?’
‘You’re not my mother, Nightingale. And I’m the one doing the favour here.’
‘For a monkey. Let’s not forget the five hundred quid in my pocket. See you in a bit.’
Nightingale ended the call. He slowed the car once he got near the house, getting a good look at it as he drove past. It was a stone barn conversion with a steep roof that looked brand new and a dovecote at one end. There was a sweeping driveway leading from the main road and a two-car garage running at a right angle to the main house. Nightingale had phoned Fairchild’s Mayfair office and confirmed that the lawyer was in London, and a check of the electoral roll had shown that he lived alone in the house.
Nightingale parked at the side of the pub and found Morris at the bar drinking a bitter lemon. Nightingale ordered a coffee from the landlord. ‘I’m pretty sure the house is empty,’ he said. ‘There’s an alarm box on the side wall. That means there’s probably not a link to the cops, right?’
‘Sometimes they have both,’ said Morris. ‘But the nearest cop shop with twenty-four hour cover is thirty miles away so there’s not much point in a phone link. But I’ll be able to deal with it no matter what the system.’