the funeral. “Use this instead.” As I handed it to him I happened to notice that there was writing on the back. It said:
As of midnight tonight the police will allow access to Jerry’s house. You can go there first thing tomorrow morning and look through that collection we’re selling. You can have first refusal on all the jazz.
Tinkler was flapping his big pale hand in the air, trying to get hold of the paper, which I had snatched back. I fended him off and passed it to Nevada. “Let me have it,” he said. “I need to complete assembly of this torpedo.”
“Quiet, Tinkler,” she said as she read the handwritten message. She lowered the paper and looked at me. “We have to go immediately. Tonight.”
I looked at her. “Tonight?”
“At midnight. As soon as the police are gone.”
* * *
It took three phone calls to track down Kempton, and the keys to Jerry’s house. Kempton lived in north London, about half an hour from Jerry’s. We arranged for Clean Head to drive us around to his place and collect the keys at half past eleven sharp. I apologised for the ungodly hour, repeated the story we’d cooked up—I was going on holiday, this was my only chance to look at the stuff—a lie that was beginning to take root in my mind as some ghostly semblance of the truth.
I told myself if we found the record, my first order of business would be to indeed go on holiday to celebrate and so it wasn’t really a lie at all.
Kempton handed the keys to me with some evident reluctance, despite our earlier conversations on the phone.
He said, “If you find anything you want, just leave it there with a note, all right? Don’t take any records away.”
“Of course not,” I said. Although if I did find
Easy Come, Easy Go
nothing on earth would stop me taking it immediately into safe keeping and removing it from the premises. But equally, if I did find the record, I had every intention of seeing that it was paid for in full. Or, rather, that Nevada paid for it in full. I took the keys, warm from the long time they’d spent clutched in Kempton’s reluctant hand, and headed for the taxi.
He watched me unhappily from his doorstep as I climbed on board and Clean Head started the engine.
Sitting beside me in the back, I could feel Nevada literally quivering with excitement. “Did you get the keys?” she said.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Tally ho!”
The taxi roared through the dark streets towards Primrose Hill. All the way Nevada drummed her fingers impatiently on the window, staring out. As if in a continuation of the day’s funeral theme she was dressed in a black roll-neck sweater, black ski pants and all-black Converse sneakers.
The drumming of fingertips was winding me up. “By the way,” I said, “what’s with the ninja assassin get-up?”
She stopped drumming and turned to look at me. “You said it was a dirty business grubbing through these records. I’ve dressed for dirty business.”
“You look like a cat burglar.” She turned away again, sulking. “A very high class cat burglar,” I added. This seemed to mollify her.
We were making good time, as per Clean Head’s usual driving, and only hit traffic once, on Belsize Road in St John’s Wood. I was worried about getting to Jerry’s before the police had a chance to clear out, but even though we were there at fifteen minutes to midnight, they were already evidently long gone. The only sign of them was a piece of blue and white police tape hanging limply from the doorframe.
“Maybe they knocked off early,” I said
“Not too early I hope,” said Nevada. “I’d hate to think anyone had a chance to ransack the place before we did.”
She paid and the taxi hummed off into the night, leaving us standing on the pavement. We looked at the house. It was a thin, handsome semi-detached Georgian. The front garden was covered with cracked concrete, a slender but flourishing plum tree rising triumphantly from a dark patch of earth in the middle.
As of midnight tonight the police will allow access to Jerry’s house. You can go there first thing tomorrow morning and look through that collection we’re selling. You can have first refusal on all the jazz.
Tinkler was flapping his big pale hand in the air, trying to get hold of the paper, which I had snatched back. I fended him off and passed it to Nevada. “Let me have it,” he said. “I need to complete assembly of this torpedo.”
“Quiet, Tinkler,” she said as she read the handwritten message. She lowered the paper and looked at me. “We have to go immediately. Tonight.”
I looked at her. “Tonight?”
“At midnight. As soon as the police are gone.”
* * *
It took three phone calls to track down Kempton, and the keys to Jerry’s house. Kempton lived in north London, about half an hour from Jerry’s. We arranged for Clean Head to drive us around to his place and collect the keys at half past eleven sharp. I apologised for the ungodly hour, repeated the story we’d cooked up—I was going on holiday, this was my only chance to look at the stuff—a lie that was beginning to take root in my mind as some ghostly semblance of the truth.
I told myself if we found the record, my first order of business would be to indeed go on holiday to celebrate and so it wasn’t really a lie at all.
Kempton handed the keys to me with some evident reluctance, despite our earlier conversations on the phone.
He said, “If you find anything you want, just leave it there with a note, all right? Don’t take any records away.”
“Of course not,” I said. Although if I did find
Easy Come, Easy Go
nothing on earth would stop me taking it immediately into safe keeping and removing it from the premises. But equally, if I did find the record, I had every intention of seeing that it was paid for in full. Or, rather, that Nevada paid for it in full. I took the keys, warm from the long time they’d spent clutched in Kempton’s reluctant hand, and headed for the taxi.
He watched me unhappily from his doorstep as I climbed on board and Clean Head started the engine.
Sitting beside me in the back, I could feel Nevada literally quivering with excitement. “Did you get the keys?” she said.
“Yes. Of course.”
“Tally ho!”
The taxi roared through the dark streets towards Primrose Hill. All the way Nevada drummed her fingers impatiently on the window, staring out. As if in a continuation of the day’s funeral theme she was dressed in a black roll-neck sweater, black ski pants and all-black Converse sneakers.
The drumming of fingertips was winding me up. “By the way,” I said, “what’s with the ninja assassin get-up?”
She stopped drumming and turned to look at me. “You said it was a dirty business grubbing through these records. I’ve dressed for dirty business.”
“You look like a cat burglar.” She turned away again, sulking. “A very high class cat burglar,” I added. This seemed to mollify her.
We were making good time, as per Clean Head’s usual driving, and only hit traffic once, on Belsize Road in St John’s Wood. I was worried about getting to Jerry’s before the police had a chance to clear out, but even though we were there at fifteen minutes to midnight, they were already evidently long gone. The only sign of them was a piece of blue and white police tape hanging limply from the doorframe.
“Maybe they knocked off early,” I said
“Not too early I hope,” said Nevada. “I’d hate to think anyone had a chance to ransack the place before we did.”
She paid and the taxi hummed off into the night, leaving us standing on the pavement. We looked at the house. It was a thin, handsome semi-detached Georgian. The front garden was covered with cracked concrete, a slender but flourishing plum tree rising triumphantly from a dark patch of earth in the middle.
Similar Books
