Reap the Whirlwind

5

5

Dinner with Drac – John Zacherle

But first I needed to speak to my old best of enemies, Detective Inspector Jack Robber.

I called him on my land line as the cops had also nabbed my mobile. Not that there was anything incriminating on it. Not as far as I knew, but I hadn’t known about the cash. I hoped the most interesting would be the Russian ladies looking for a date, a free ten quid go on the Mirror bingo, and a special offer on blue jeans from the Levi’s site.

He answered after three rings. ‘Robber.’

‘Hello Jack, it’s me, Nick.’

‘Oh Christ! What the hell do you want?’ I knew he’d be glad to hear from me.

I explained what had happened and he laughed out loud. ‘Jesus, but you attract trouble like s**t attracts flies. Burke and Dixon. I know them. One’s Burke by name, Burke by nature. The other one couldn’t find his d**k in a light fog. Burke and Hare more like.’

‘They found me.’

‘You’re easy to find.’

It’s always nice to be compared with s**t and a copper’s p***s.

‘So what do you want, as if I didn’t know?’ he asked.

‘If you hear anything…’

He laughed out loud again. ‘What are you like? The National Bank job. You are coming up in the world.’

‘It’s not funny, Jack.’

‘It is from where I’m sitting.’

‘So will you listen out?’

‘Course I will. I wouldn’t miss out on this for the world. We’d better meet. Same time, same place. Tomorrow.’

My heart sank. That meant seven thirty at the Dog and Dart public house in Loughborough Junction. Or, as I called it, the dog it was that died. A boozer that stuck to the old school idea of the perfect pub. No music, fruit machines or karaoke. Where the idea of fine dining was two slices of white doorstep bread, a slab of orange cheese, and a pint of bitter, and the most miserable landlord unhung. ‘No Fackin’ Kids’ Robber would growl. That probably meant anyone under forty. So, while all around, pubs were going sport, gastro or being converted into flats, the Dog and Dart proudly faced the past.

‘I’ll be there,’ I said.

‘And bring money. But nothing that can be traced.’ He laughed again and cut me off. Always nice to catch up with an old friend. I knocked up a quick fried egg sandwich for my dinner, then made yet another mistake in a week that seemed to be full of them. I phoned my ex-wife and asked to speak to my daughter. ‘She’s not here,’ came the reply.

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s horse riding.’

‘Blimey. When did that start?’

‘A while back.’

‘I didn’t know anything about it.’

I think she wanted to say it was none of my business, but didn’t. Instead she said pointedly, ‘If you called more often, she might have told you herself.’

She was right, of course. ‘So why didn’t you consult me?’ I asked.

‘Why should I?’

I was halfway in a hole, and should have stopped digging. ‘What happens if she falls off and hurts herself?’

‘She’s a big girl now, Nick. Children grow up faster these days. And she has an experienced rider with her.’

‘And I suppose it’s expensive?’

‘We can afford it.’ By we, she meant her and Louis, her new husband.

‘So that’s it, I suppose,’ I said, retiring hurt from the fray. ‘Tell her I called, will you? And ask her to give me a bell.’

‘I will,’ she replied, and cut me off without another word.

I spent the rest of the evening drinking and smoking in front of the TV. Not the most productive use of my time I’ll admit, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do.