London Calling - James Craig [80]
Carlyle was now four months into a stint working out of the station on Brixton Road. If anything, it was a rougher beat than his previous postings at Shepherds Bush and Southwark, but he was enjoying it immensely. In the locker room, someone had scrawled the legend ‘Twinned with Fort Apache, the Bronx’. A not unreasonable comparison considering this was the kind of place where everyone took pretty much in their stride the shooting of a local gang member in broad daylight in a residential street.
Even here in battle-hardened Brixton, the news that the gun that killed Larry Guthrie was a Browning BDA sent a frisson of nervous excitement through the ranks. The BDA was a modern, Belgian-made, 9 mm semi-automatic pistol, therefore a very fancy piece of kit indeed for a bunch of local hooligans to be using. Even more surprising was the fact that it been deliberately tossed away at the scene. Local criminals getting hold of guns was one thing; being well connected and well resourced enough to casually discard them once they’d been fired was another. At the station, the gossip was that this Guthrie killing threatened the start of a new round of drug-related violence that would have a posse of local and national politicians down on their backs in their usual search for easy answers and quick results.
At least it’s not my problem, thought Carlyle, as he stepped out of the station. It was just after six in the evening and he was looking good in his best grey and red Fred Perry polo shirt, a pair of black Levi 501s and a new pair of Doc Martens. With plenty of time to spare, he wandered slowly along Brixton Road, before turning into Coldharbour Lane in search of some food. He was standing by a set of traffic lights, waiting to cross the road, when he heard a nearby driver blast on his horn.
‘John!’
He looked up to see Dominic Silver leaning out of the driver’s window of a rather knackered-looking, copper-coloured Ford Capri. ‘Get in,’ Dom shouted, popping his head back inside and pushing open the passenger door. The lights changed back to green and the drivers behind Silver began noisily expressing their impatience. ‘Hurry up!’
Carlyle jogged over and jumped into the car. He pulled on his safety belt as Dom accelerated away from the crossing, while sticking one arm out the window to flip a finger at the drivers behind.
‘Good to see you, man!’ Dom said with a grin, returning both hands to the steering wheel. ‘Long time no see.’
‘You, too,’ said Carlyle, staring into the traffic ahead. He wondered what Dom wanted. More to the point, why had he himself been so quick to jump into his bloody car? They hadn’t seen each other for more than a year and this part of south London wasn’t anywhere close to Dom’s turf. With a sinking heart, Carlyle knew that this wasn’t likely to be merely a social call.
‘You OK for time?’ Dom asked, picking out a sign for Blackheath and heading east.
Carlyle made a show of looking for his watch. He had agreed to meet Helen back at Brixton tube station in just under two hours, as the film started half an hour later. ‘I’ve got about an hour,’ he said cautiously.
‘Perfect,’ Dom grinned. ‘Let’s go and have a little drink.’
The traffic was light for a Saturday evening. Less than twenty minutes later, they were sitting in the beer garden of the Railway Arms in Blackheath Village. Carlyle wasn’t much of a drinker but, at the end of a hard day, the cold lager tasted good. A couple of pretty girls in short skirts and skimpy T-shirts were talking animatedly at a table nearby, and he casually gave them the once-over. Nothing special, but worth a look.