held loosely in his hand. I looked at her, she shrugged, moved to my left. Neville sauntered over, almost lazily took a swipe at my knee. I was on the floor.
“Cat goes down easy.”
Kelly came over, licked his ear. “Let’s get the stuff, get the fuck out of here.”
He wanted to play, I could see it in his eyes. He drawled, “How about it, Leroy, you want to give us that famous stash you got, or you wanna go tough, make me beat the fucking crap outta you? Either is, like, cool with me. Yo, babe, this mother got any, like, beverages?”
I said I’d get the stash, and he laughed.
“Well get to it, bro, shit ain’t come les you go get it.”
I crawled along the carpet, pulled it back, plied the floorboard loose, Kelly was shouting, “Nev, you want Heineken or Becks?”
I shot him in the balls, let him bleed out. Kelly had two bottles in her hands, let them slide to the floor, I said, “You’re fucking up my carpet again, what’s with you?”
I shot her in the gut, they say it’s the most agonizing, she certainly seemed to prove that. I bent down, whispered, “Loaded enough for you, or you want some more? I got plenty left.”
Getting my shirt tucked into my pants, I made sure it was neat, hate when it’s not straight, ruins the sit of the material. I looked round, complained: “Now I’m going to have to redo the whole room.”
RIGOR MORTIS
BY S TEWART H OME
Ladbroke Grove
I ’ve been in the Mets all my adult life and I’ve spent most of that time pounding the mean streets of West London. After the war the area around Ladbroke Grove was known as the Dustbowl. This was where smart property developers came to make their mint. Back in the ’50s and ’60s, during those thirteen glorious years of Tory rule, anyone who wanted to could make a bomb from the slums. Houses changed hands over and over again, with their values being inflated on each sale. Before the introduction of ridiculously strict controls on building societies at the start of the ’60s, it was common for property speculators to off-load houses to both tenants and other parties with one hundred percent mortgages which the seller had prearranged. Despite the prices paid under such arrangements being above market value, ownership still proved cheaper than renting. Unfortunately, it was all too common for the new owners to take in lodgers to cover the costs of their mortgage, rather than working to earn their crust like a free-born Saxon. The resultant overcrowding bred crime and this law-breaking stretched police resources to the limit.
The investigation I’ve just completed took me back nearly twenty years to the early ’60s. I knew Jilly O’Sullivan was dead before I arrived at 104 Cambridge Gardens, and in many ways I considered it a miracle she’d succeeded in reaching the age of thirty-five. I’d first come across Jilly in 1962 when she was a naïve young teenager and I was a fresh-faced police constable. I’m still a PC because rather than striving to rise through the ranks, I long ago opted to take horizontal promotion by becoming a coroner’s officer. This job brings with it substantial unofficial perks, and I’m not the only cop who’s avoided vertical advancement since that makes you more visible and therefore less able to accept the backhanders you deserve.
Returning to O’Sullivan, when she arrived in Notting Hill she rented an upstairs flat on Bassett Road for five years before moving to nearby Elgin Crescent in 1966. The bed in which Jilly died was but a few minutes walk from her Notting Hill homes of the ’60s. I’d first called on her at Bassett Road after the force was informed that one of her brothers was hiding out there. My colleagues and I knew parts of the O’Sullivan clan like the backs of our own hands. The family was involved in both burglary and protection. Jilly and her brother had grown up in Greenock, but headed for the Smoke as teenagers. Jilly was doing well back in the early ’60s, making
“Cat goes down easy.”
Kelly came over, licked his ear. “Let’s get the stuff, get the fuck out of here.”
He wanted to play, I could see it in his eyes. He drawled, “How about it, Leroy, you want to give us that famous stash you got, or you wanna go tough, make me beat the fucking crap outta you? Either is, like, cool with me. Yo, babe, this mother got any, like, beverages?”
I said I’d get the stash, and he laughed.
“Well get to it, bro, shit ain’t come les you go get it.”
I crawled along the carpet, pulled it back, plied the floorboard loose, Kelly was shouting, “Nev, you want Heineken or Becks?”
I shot him in the balls, let him bleed out. Kelly had two bottles in her hands, let them slide to the floor, I said, “You’re fucking up my carpet again, what’s with you?”
I shot her in the gut, they say it’s the most agonizing, she certainly seemed to prove that. I bent down, whispered, “Loaded enough for you, or you want some more? I got plenty left.”
Getting my shirt tucked into my pants, I made sure it was neat, hate when it’s not straight, ruins the sit of the material. I looked round, complained: “Now I’m going to have to redo the whole room.”
RIGOR MORTIS
BY S TEWART H OME
Ladbroke Grove
I ’ve been in the Mets all my adult life and I’ve spent most of that time pounding the mean streets of West London. After the war the area around Ladbroke Grove was known as the Dustbowl. This was where smart property developers came to make their mint. Back in the ’50s and ’60s, during those thirteen glorious years of Tory rule, anyone who wanted to could make a bomb from the slums. Houses changed hands over and over again, with their values being inflated on each sale. Before the introduction of ridiculously strict controls on building societies at the start of the ’60s, it was common for property speculators to off-load houses to both tenants and other parties with one hundred percent mortgages which the seller had prearranged. Despite the prices paid under such arrangements being above market value, ownership still proved cheaper than renting. Unfortunately, it was all too common for the new owners to take in lodgers to cover the costs of their mortgage, rather than working to earn their crust like a free-born Saxon. The resultant overcrowding bred crime and this law-breaking stretched police resources to the limit.
The investigation I’ve just completed took me back nearly twenty years to the early ’60s. I knew Jilly O’Sullivan was dead before I arrived at 104 Cambridge Gardens, and in many ways I considered it a miracle she’d succeeded in reaching the age of thirty-five. I’d first come across Jilly in 1962 when she was a naïve young teenager and I was a fresh-faced police constable. I’m still a PC because rather than striving to rise through the ranks, I long ago opted to take horizontal promotion by becoming a coroner’s officer. This job brings with it substantial unofficial perks, and I’m not the only cop who’s avoided vertical advancement since that makes you more visible and therefore less able to accept the backhanders you deserve.
Returning to O’Sullivan, when she arrived in Notting Hill she rented an upstairs flat on Bassett Road for five years before moving to nearby Elgin Crescent in 1966. The bed in which Jilly died was but a few minutes walk from her Notting Hill homes of the ’60s. I’d first called on her at Bassett Road after the force was informed that one of her brothers was hiding out there. My colleagues and I knew parts of the O’Sullivan clan like the backs of our own hands. The family was involved in both burglary and protection. Jilly and her brother had grown up in Greenock, but headed for the Smoke as teenagers. Jilly was doing well back in the early ’60s, making
Similar Books
Seduced by Pain
Alex Lux
Songs of the Shenandoah
Michael K. Reynolds
The Future King’s Love-Child
Melanie Milburne
A Choice of Evils
Joe Thompson-Swift
Search for the Phoenix: Phoenix Series Book 2
Jim Proctor
Approaching Oblivion (Jezebel's Ladder Book 4)
Scott Rhine
Sudden Prey
John Sandford