‘What are you talking about? I don’t...’ Sonny began. Then it hit him.
That bloody clock. His stomach churned as he silently called himself all the fucking idiots in the world. That bleeding, blasted clock — and that friggin’ two-faced cunt that brought it in. He’d have her; he’d have the bitch. But deep down he knew the only person to blame was himself. They’d got him. They’d finally got him.
Then he threw up all over his evening suit.
Maureen sat by the phone, still wearing her new dress. She was done with waiting. And she was done with crying. Now she was just listening to the phone ringing at the other end and waiting for it to be picked up. She was surprisingly calm.
She thought it would be him, and was about to deliver the speech she had prepared, when she realized it was his sergeant, the little red-haired one.
‘Would you ask him to come to the phone? It’s important,’ she told him, her voice even, her tone polite.
‘He’s rather tied up, I’m afraid. Interviewing a suspect. Can I help at all?’
Fuller wiped his jacket sleeve, where some of Sonny Chizzel’s puke had splashed it, then rinsed out his handkerchief. His face in the washroom mirror looked drawn, but there was a glint of triumph in his eyes.
Reynolds pushed open the door, looking sheepish. ‘I’ve got a message for you, guv. From your wife.’
Reynolds saw the color drain from his boss’s face. He held the piece of paper out awkwardly. Fuller finished drying his hands, then took the note.
‘I don’t think she can be serious, guv,’ Reynolds said. ‘I mean, you know, cutting up all your clothes and chucking them into the street just because you’re missing dinner...’
Fuller read the note, then carefully tore it into pieces and dropped it in the bin. He pushed past Reynolds without looking at him.
‘She’s serious.’
Sonny took small sips from a glass of water. He no longer felt sick; just a terrible, hollow feeling inside.
At first, once the initial shock of seeing that damned clock had passed, he’d had a brief surge of hope. There was someone else who’d been in the shop when he’d bought it, who could testify that he hadn’t known the piece was stolen.
Gordon Murphy.
Then his little ray of hope had been extinguished. Gordon Murphy was the one person he couldn’t ask to help him. Not without revealing everything else. Sonny was caught in his own web. The problem was, he wasn’t the spider; he was the fly.
And all the time, the ormolu clock had been ticking away.
He knew if they did him for receiving stolen goods, he’d do time, and the thought of it terrified him. It was his recurring nightmare; he could smell the dankness of the cells, taste the awful food.
So in the end he grassed.
Saunders joined Fuller and Reynolds at the coffee machine. ‘So, Gordon Murphy. Never heard of him. You think Sonny’s still playing games with us?’
Fuller shrugged. ‘Could be.’
‘Better pick him up anyway, though.’
Fuller nodded to Reynolds, then looked at his watch. ‘On our way, sir.’
He wondered if Maureen would have started on his suits by the time he got home.
Gordon Murphy tried hard to remember the last time he had worn his evening suit. The problem was the bow tie, the clip-on velvet one. Always, always, when he took off his suit at the end of an evening, he’d slip the bow tie into the right-hand jacket pocket. Then he’d always know where it was.
Except that for some reason it wasn’t there, and now here he was, over an hour late, every drawer in the house and every pocket of every suit searched and still he couldn’t find it.
Murphy’s mum had tried to help, knowing her son was getting his temper up, but in the end she’d decided the best thing was to sit it out in the kitchen. She heard the drawers banging, the swearing. Twice the club had called to find out where he was. And she could see him getting closer and closer to violence. She hated it when he got like this. Not that he’d ever lash out at her — he’d never given his mother so much as a slap — but wardrobe doors often got his fist through them and he’d been known to make a nasty dent in a wall.
Murphy stomped into the kitchen, now sporting a small red clip-on bow tie. ‘I’ll have to wear this. I can’t find the other one. It must have been in the pocket when you had it cleaned. Those bastards have nicked it.’
‘It looks just fine,’ she soothed. She couldn’t understand why he was in such a state. ‘Plenty of people wear a colored tie with an evening suit these days.’ She saw his fist curl up in anger and busied herself looking at the Radio Times.
‘I’m late now,’ he grumbled. ‘You know how I hate that.’
She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he squinted at himself in the mirror over the fireplace.
‘You sure I look all right? It’s a posh do and I have to look smart. What do you think?’
His mum just smiled up at him, nodding. ‘You better get goin’. If they call again I’ll tell ’em you’re on your way.’
‘Sorry for all the shouting an’ that.’ Murphy leaned down and kissed her cheek, then turned on the TV for her. He always felt guilty about upsetting her. She’d suffered so much with his dad. And then there were all his stretches — and she’d always been there waiting when he came out, with never a harsh word, never a reproach. Murphy plumped up her cushions and kissed her again on the forehead.
‘Love you, Ma. God bless.’
Murphy checked out his bow tie one more time before leaving. He was still angry, angry at himself. Harry had made a point of telling him to look smart, with all the faces coming to the club that night. He wanted to make a good impression, and now that was all up the spout.
Murphy fished in his pocket for his car keys, then bent down to open the driving door.
Fuller gave Reynolds the nod, and the two men got out of the patrol car. Reynolds moved behind Murphy and placed his hand on his shoulder before cautioning him. But he didn’t even have the time to open his mouth. Murphy pivoted round and with one swing of his fist smashed Reynolds’ nose. Reynolds collapsed, with his hands to his face, blood spurting through his fingers.
It was Fuller who got Murphy over the bonnet of the car, right arm twisted up behind him, pushing him forward from the small of his back. Reynolds got to his feet and had the cuffs out in seconds and they managed to bundle Murphy into the patrol car before he could do any more damage.
Fuller was amazed how calm Murphy was, once the cuffs were on and they’d settled him in the back of the car.
‘Thought I was being mugged, your pal coming at me from behind like that,’ he said to Fuller. He leaned over in the car and gave Reynolds a pat. ‘No hard feelings, eh?’
After that, he didn’t say another word, just sat staring impassively out of the window. He didn’t even ask why he had been arrested.
Harry had now been given the thumbs-down by eight different men. He still had his temper under control, but only just. A nervous Micky was walking on eggshells as he ushered in Harvey Rintle, a six-foot-four Jamaican, with shoulders almost as wide as the door. Rintle was relaxed, his manner easy, but his eyes were like a cat’s, sly and wary. Harry knew Rintle’s history, knew he always worked solo, but right now he needed the big man. Fortunately, Harry also knew that Rintle wasn’t particular about who he worked for, so long as he got paid.
Harry told him about the robbery, leaving out certain key details, but giving him the general idea. All the while he was speaking, Rintle just stared at his black suede shoes, not lifting his eyes until he was sure Harry had finished. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, a trace of accent softening the vowels.