Clifford nodded and then looked directly at John. ‘You take care of him, understand me? I want him taken good care of – don’t want the smell of paint gettin’ on his chest, do we?’ He gave a crackling laugh, and then looked round the room.
‘Do you need anything, Dad?’ John asked.
‘Yes, son, a nice hot tart.’ Again he laughed, then with the roll-up now just a small thin wet paper he flicked it into the ashtray.
As the visit continued he asked John about Sandra and if they were going to get back together or divorced. John said he didn’t want to even try to move back in with his wife: he’d had enough of her whining and moaning and was better off unattached so he could plan for the future.
His dad frowned. ‘So, John son, who are you shaggin’ now?’
David sat silent, still rubbing at his throbbing leg. To him John and his dad were not like father and son, but more like two blokes swapping sexual banter and conquests. He’d always known his father had other women and never really even attempted to hide it from their mother. John was laughing about a woman who ran a local brothel in Chatsworth Road and had two black chicks who were turning tricks faster than a greyhound out the traps. The prison officer passed by their table and their father gave him a cordial nod as he leaned close to his sons, whispering that the bastard was on the take as he had a wife and four kids to support. He rubbed his thumb and fingers together to indicate the officer took money for illegal goods.
David was eager to leave and glad when he heard the bell, indicating that visiting time was over. They watched their father strutting away, turning to wave to them as the officers herded him out with five other inmates. You could tell by the way the other inmates gave their father distance that he was a king pin inside. God forbid if any of them nudged him or invaded his space.
John took hold of his brother’s arm and helped him out of his seat to the security gates where he was handed his walking stick. It wasn’t until they were sitting in the van that John opened the box of matches his father had so cleverly switched. The Izal toilet paper was folded and refolded into a thick wedge under a row of matches. John eased out the paper and David glanced at his dad’s small neat handwriting as his brother slipped the note into his breast pocket.
‘Ain’t you going to read it?’
‘Not here, I’ll wait till we’re home. We can pick up a few beers with fish and chips on the way… yeah?’
David nodded, staring from the window. John didn’t mention the ‘decorating job’ but spoke about football and his favourite team, West Ham. David wasn’t really listening, he was just thinking about ‘the job’ and it made his stomach churn.
John slowed down and pointed across the road. ‘There it is.’
David looked up: it was as if his brother had read his mind. He was frozen to the spot, his eyes transfixed on the small Trustee Savings Bank in Great Eastern Street.
‘That high-rise car park there has a 360 view from the top… You don’t mind heights, do ya, Dave?’ John said, and smirked as he drove on across Great Eastern Street and turned the van radio on.
Somewhat ironically the DJ announced the Adam Faith song ‘What Do You Want’. John looked at his brother and began to sing along, deliberately substituting one of the words:
John had a big grin on his face as he turned and looked at David, who couldn’t help but smile as well.
Everyone on the murder team gathered together in the incident room and listened attentively as Bradfield brought them all up to speed concerning the discovery of Eddie Phillips’ body and the post-mortem.
‘As you can see, exactly how he died is still up in the air and we need to bottom it out fast.’
The detectives in the room looked surprised and DS Gibbs spoke out.
‘We’re busy with the Collins case and strapped for staff already, guv – can’t another team take the Phillips case?’
‘I’ve said exactly that to DCS Metcalf, Spencer, but he says we’re to investigate both cases as in his opinion they are linked, but he’s giving me five more staff.’
‘It’ll be like a sardine tin in this poky office,’ one detective said, to Bradfield’s annoyance.
‘If you don’t like it, son, then piss off back to uniform and deal with shoplifters!’
