Reap the Whirlwind

1 White Light/White Heat – The Velvet Underground This all happened between then and now. It was a short hot summer that year. Just a few weeks, but it seemed longer. Hotter than ’76. Reservoirs dried up, hosepipe bans arrived, birds dropped out of the sky, and fluttered into the shade to recover. Good natured shopkeepers put bowls of water outside their shop fronts for thirsty dogs. The general public were advised to share bath water with a significant other. Sadly, I didn’t have one. I made do with a punk rock rubber duck with a Mohican and studded collar that my daughter had left in my bathroom. The city was baking, like beef stew in a slow cooker. At first it looked like a simple job. Just a bus ride up to Holborn. Drop into the office of a legal firm. Leave an envelope with one of the partners, get a signature, then lunch at a little Japanese restaurant I knew, a bus ride home, two hundred sovs in the bin. Job done! But let’s go back to the very beginning. A very good place to start. It was yet another boiling morning. Eighty degrees by eight o’clock, and not a hint of a breeze. The sky was a tight blue skullcap over London, and the sun was a red-hot poker, from which there was little escape. Humidity was up, and the barometer was down. Even with the heatwave, I tried to stay fit. Every morning I did my usual run to Brockwell Park, up to the old house, then back to my office. Well, more like run there, limp back. I was dripping when I let myself in, so I went back to the small shower I’d had fitted after a good result, stripped my wet gear off and stood under cold water for five minutes, dried off, then got dressed in t-shirt and shorts. If anyone happened to drop by and want some private detecting done there was a navy blue, lightweight Cecil Gee suit hanging on the back of the door, with a white shirt, a serious tie, and on the floor a pair of black slip-ons with clean socks tucked in. The Venetian blinds in the window were closed, the door was open just to let the world know I was still alive, I had a Silk Cut in the ashtray, there was a glass of iced coffee courtesy of my new, expensive espresso machine. One of a pair I’d bought after another bit of a result recently. One for home, one for away, and the air was being slowly moved about by a small electric fan. The stereo was softly playing some kind of mod jazz compilation with plenty of Hammond organ. The current account was healthy, and all was right with my world. I should have taken a holiday, business was so quiet. I could have been sitting by an infinity pool, smoking a blunt the size of a baby’s arm, drinking New England iced tea or something similar, served by topless Nubian maidens whose only desire was my pleasure, and only pleasure was my desire. Trouble was, I was so bone idle I couldn’t rustle up the energy. That was all about to change when the phone rang. I picked up the instrument. ‘Sharman,’ I said. ‘Good morning,’ said a male voice. Husky, with no special accent. ‘Are you available for a job?’ ‘Depends on the job,’ I replied. ‘An easy one. A distant relative of mine died. Her will is in probate. The solicitor requires some extra paperwork that I hold. I’m in the south of France on important business and can’t get back. All I need is someone to take an envelope to the solicitor, get a signature, and that’s that.’ ‘Where is the solicitor.’ I asked. ‘Just off High Holborn.’ ‘Why not put the stuff in the post, or use a courier?’ ‘I want it signed for, and the receipt returned to me. I favour the personal touch.’ Me too, I thought, but said nothing. ‘I’ll pay you two hundred pounds,’ he added. ‘Cash.’ Now he was talking. Cash is king. ‘How did you find me?’ I asked. Always nice to know. ‘A recommendation.’ He mentioned a name that I knew. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Get the stuff to me.’ ‘Your address is still Station Approach, SW2?’ I confirmed that it was. ‘Expect a registered delivery.’ ‘I will Mr…? ‘Martineau. M-A-R-T-I-N-E-A-U. Harry Martineau.’ ‘OK, Mr Martineau. I’ll keep a lookout.’ And I did. The postman bought a bulky registered parcel the next morning. Inside was a brown A4 envelope, sealed with red wax. Old school! On the front, in black ink, was written: For the attention of: Mr Leonard Stowe-Hartley Senior Partner, Mssrs Gyre & Gimble, 37 Highcross Street, Holborn, London W.1. Also enclosed was a smaller envelope containing two hundred quid in brand new sequential twenty pound notes. Plus a handwritten note with the telephone number of the solicitors and Stowe-Hartley’s extension. Also inside was a receipt for the papers and a pre paid, addressed envelope with a PO Box number in London for the receipt. Nothing more. Later that morning I rang, got his secretary, explained my task, and got an appointment to call the next morning at eleven. Perfect for a quick half before lunch. The next day dawned hot again. So hot that The Sun newspaper had fried an egg on the pavement outside their office. Next morning I skipped my run. Then dressed to impress, in a pale blue Oxford button down shirt, a somber tie, a two button, single vent mohair whistle, black socks with pale blue clocks, and black Chelsea boots polished to a high shine. So, showered and shaved, come 9.45 I set off to catch a number 68 bus on Norwood Road. The bus was empty so I went upstairs to the front seats, just like I did when I was a nipper, with my mum and pretended I was the driver. Both front windows wound halfway down, so I cracked them both, took off my jacket and enjoyed the breeze. The bus meandered through Herne Hill, Camberwell, the Elephant, over Waterloo Bridge and dropped me off opposite Holborn tube at quarter to eleven. According to my A-Z, Highcross Street was two streets along High Holborn, then two more north. And it was. At five to eleven I turned into one of those streets that hadn’t changed for a hundred years or more, lined with four storey terraced town houses painted sparkling white and smelling of old money well looked after. Number 37 was smack dab in the middle of the terrace on my right, and at eleven o’clock precisely I climbed the four steps that led between two columns to the massive front door. Next to it was a shiny brass plate with Mssrs Gayle & Gimble writ large. At least I was in the right place. In the middle of the black lacquered door was a big bell push with another brass plate that said RING AND WAIT. Figuring I had no choice, I did so. Almost immediately the door opened and a middle aged man in a sergeant’s uniform covered with gold braid and medal ribbons stood in front of me. Blimey, I thought. A doorman. How posh. I introduced myself, and he ushered me in, stood me in front of his desk and called through on the telephone. Once convinced I was expected, he showed me to an old fashioned accordion fronted elevator and sent me skywards towards the third floor where I was met by a young blonde in a severe two piece suit who showed me into Stowe-Hartley’s office. And very tasty it was too. All dark, polished wood, thick carpet, with a desk as big as my office. Completely clear except for two phones. The air conditioning was on high. It felt like paradise after the street outside. Behind the desk was the man himself, I supposed, who rose as I entered and stuck out his hand. ‘Mr Sharman,’ he said. ‘Stowe-Hartley. You’re very punctual.’ ‘The politeness of princes,’ I replied. ‘Or so my old granny used to say,’ as I took the extended mitten. He was a big man, tall, middle forties I guessed, beautifully suited in Savile Row’s finest, and a starched white shirt and patterned tie in a Windsor knot. His dark hair was swept back and greased down, and his smile and voice were so sincere I immediately took a dislike to him. Don’t ask me why. It was just something about him that made me think of a basking shark waiting to make a kill. ‘So true,’ he said back. His handshake was firm and dry, and his voice was sincere as hell, but I was still tempted to count my fingers when he let go. ‘Do sit,’ he said and indicated a comfy looking leather chair in front of his desk. I did as I was told and put the envelope from Martineau on his desk. He broke the wax seal, opened the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of papers. He flicked through, then grinned a shark-like grin and said, ‘Excellent. This seems to be all in order.’ ‘Good,’ I said ‘Now if you’ll just sign this receipt.’ I passed that over too. ‘Of course.’ He took the proffered linen and made a show of a complicated signature with a massive gold fountain pen. He passed it back. ‘Thanks,’ I said and stood up. He stood also, and I made my leave, found his secretary in the outer office, who showed me back to the lift which creaked down to the sergeant’s lair, and out through the front door to the big, wide world, and a world of trouble.