Howard Linskey: The Drop

‘Sorry mate,’ he said simply, ‘not heard that one,’

Miller was pretty helpful though and I didn’t leave empty-handed. He gave me a sizeable list of names to look up and places to check. Surely one of them would have a lead on Geordie. The drive out here had been worth it.

‘Good luck,’ he told me, ‘and I mean it. Geordie Cartwright’s a gent. I hope he’s alright.’

‘So do I Mark,’ I said, ‘so do I.’

I spent the rest of the day and most of the night getting round Miller’s names with Finney. It was the same wherever we went. Nobody had seen Cartwright. Nobody knew what he’d been planning. We were drawing a complete blank.

More in hope than expectation, we called in on Jerry Lemon. I thought he must have heard something. He went back as far as any of Bobby’s crew, had known the big man for years, Cartwright too. He was one of Bobby’s originals. Unfortunately he was also a complete tosser but I was hoping loyalty to Bobby might prompt him to help me. I was badly wrong.

Jerry operated out of a pool & snooker hall, imaginatively named ‘Lemons’. There was a big wooden sign over the front door which had two crossed snooker cues and two lemons painted on it, above his name. Clearly Jerry was a marketing genius.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ he said loud and aggressively and a lot of people in the room started to pay attention, which was exactly what the big mouth had intended. The great man was holding court. He was dressed in a style of bleached jeans that went out of fashion around 1985 and a T-shirt with no arms that showed off his bulging biceps and fading tatts. He went back to his shot, missing an easy pot into the middle pocket, which made me realise he was pissed.

‘A quiet word, if it’s alright with you.’

‘No, it’s not alright with me. Can’t you see I’m playing pool? I thought you were supposed to be the clever one Davey. If you want to say something to me, say it now, I’ve nothing to hide.’

The place was half full of the old villains and apprentice wannabes Jerry liked to have hanging round in case he could find a use for them. He was a regular Fagin and his tales of the old days always had them hanging on his every word, which he loved.

‘I never said you did Jerry. I wanted to speak to you about our mutual friend,’ I wasn’t going to mention Cartwright’s name out loud in here.

‘ “Our Mutual Friend”, that’s Dickens that is,’ he was very pleased with himself, ‘bet you didn’t think I knew that. Well, you’re not the only one round here who’s read a book. You mean Cartwright I suppose. How long has Bobby given you to find his money eh, until Monday wasn’t it?’

‘Jerry,’ I said his name as a warning.

‘Don’t you try and shut me up in my own place,’ he told me, straightening and pointing his cue at me, ‘you’ve got no chance. You don’t know what you’re doing, you never have done. If you did you wouldn’t be down here wasting my time, you’d be out looking for the real guilty party.’

‘I know you don’t like me much these days Jerry, but can we not put that to one side while we try to find Cartwright?’

‘Correction,’ he told me, ‘I have never liked you son. I don’t even know who you are.’

‘You’ve known me for years.’

‘What do I know? That your name is David Blake and you appeared out of the blue one day and next thing I know you’re part of the crew. You set yourself up fair with Bobby while we weren’t looking. You kissed his arse and all of a sudden you’d risen through the ranks while better men made their money the hard way, on the doors of Bobby’s clubs. Well, we don’t want any of that whiz kid stuff around here. Cartwright’s gone missing? Tough, that’s your responsibility, you find him. The Drop’s gone? Tough, it’s your fault so it’s your arse on the line and when Bobby finally realises you’re all mouth and no action, no one will be laughing harder than me. You’re a plastic gangster and you’re going to get what you deserve boy. Your big words and your bullshit won’t help you. You’re shitting it aren’t you? Well you should be, you cocky little fucker. You’re gonna learn what it means to be a face in this city. It’s not just about wearing a sharp suit and getting the best table in the restaurant. I’ll bet Finney here can’t wait to get to work on you. Isn’t that right Finney?’

It would have been better for me if Finney had said something at this point, anything really – though I was actually hoping he would tell Jerry Lemon to shut his big mouth – but it didn’t happen. His silence told me everything I needed to know about the accuracy of Jerry’s little prediction. Everyone was waiting for Bobby’s cocky young protégé to come crashing down.

‘Thanks Jerry,’ I told him quietly, ‘you’ve been a big help,’ and I walked towards the exit, all the while wondering if he was going to break his cue over my head. Finney ambled after me. It must have looked like I was being followed by the Grim Reaper.

When I reached the door I turned back. Jerry Lemon was still watching me intently, every eye in the room was on me. I gave him what I hoped looked like a faintly amused, half smile. ‘I’m glad you like my suit Jerry.’

Eventually Finney left me on my own. So I went for a couple of drinks in Akenside Traders, right at the bottom of the hill on the Quayside. Miller was sitting at a table when I walked in. It could have been a coincidence but he knew I called in there for a pint sometimes, mainly because the place had nothing to do with us, so I wondered if he was hoping to bump into me. Maybe he had something else to tell me?

I walked over to the long bar, bought myself a pint and got him his usual diet coke before joining him. The place was pretty busy and it was a young crowd but we had a quiet table in the corner, ‘don’t know how you can be in a pub and not drink,’ I told him.

‘You get used to it,’ he said calmly, ‘I like the craic in pubs but I got to the stage where I didn’t like what the booze was doing to me. It made me into an angry person, so I stopped.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that,’ he confirmed. I admired him for that because he would have had to put up with a huge amount of shit from the lads for drinking pop in a pub but he had stuck to his guns, ‘been four years now.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ I said, sipping my bitter, ‘what brings you to town?’ I nodded at a group of twenty-something lasses on a night out, ‘looking for more gullible girls to photo in the buff?’

‘I pop in often enough. Got to make a couple of collections for Bobby later,’ Miller picked up protection money and loan repayments where real muscle wasn’t required, amongst other things. He was a veteran of the firm, who did the low-risk stuff for Bobby but it gave him a decent enough income, ‘I thought I might see you down here.’

Before I could ask him what was on his mind we were interrupted by a silver-haired old lady who’d come into the pub dressed in her Sally Army hat. She was selling ‘War Cry’ so I dropped a quid in her collecting tin but turned down a copy of the magazine.

‘How can you believe in religion or a god if you take just one minute out of your day to think about the universe?’ Miller asked me as he watched her doing the rounds.

‘Most people don’t take a moment to think about the universe mate,’ I told him, ‘most people are unthinking morons. They need to believe in a god because if they didn’t their whole meaningless existence would come crashing down around them. It would make them realise how bloody pointless they are. Not you though eh?’ I asked him, ‘you were always the philosopher in Bobby’s crew, the thinker. You were the only one I ever caught buying the Times .’