An Act of Kindness: A Hakim and Arnold Mystery (Hakim & Arnold Mystery 2) by Barbara Nadel Page A
Authors: Barbara Nadel
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than he should. Occasionally he went out onto Green Street for a fag. The rest of the time he chatted to various people he knew both on and off the manor. A lot of them were old men, mates of his late father, plus the odd West Ham fan and someone Lee knew to be one of Vi Collins’s snouts, a bloke in an electric wheelchair called ‘Murderer’ Noakes.
Wilf Cox, one of Lee’s dad’s old friends, bought Lee a Pepsi and himself a pint of bitter. As he walked over to the table where Lee sat flicking through the
Observer
, he looked over at Noakes.
‘Dunno who’s supposed to be looking after Murderer these days,’ Wilf said, as he put Lee’s drink down in front of him. ‘But he smells of piss.’
Lee knew that Murderer had carers in twice a day, or he always had done.
‘Shouldn’t let him out smelling like that,’ Wilf said. He satdown and looked idly at a bit of Lee’s paper. ‘Bleedin’ country’s going to pot. Run by rich boys for rich boys. But no-one cares about the poor anymore do they? Look at old Murderer. I mean I know he was in that bike gang—’
‘The Hells Angels.’
‘Yeah, but now he’s a cripple and nobody wants to know!’
In principle Lee agreed with what Wilf was saying. He hated the cuts the government was making to public services, he hated the resultant unemployment and the complete absence of punishment for the big City financiers who had brought about the economic crisis in the first place, but Murderer Noakes was hardly the epitome of want. He’d come off his bike back in 1979 while riding to some Angels orgy out in Hertfordshire. He’d had every benefit and perk the State would give him. On top of that was the money Vi Collins bunged him from time to time for keeping his ear to the ground. If Murderer smelt of piss it was possibly because he wanted to.
Wilf read the cookery section of the
Observer
while continuing to witter on about politics. Lee’s own thoughts were still with the events of the previous night. Mumtaz had been right about Sean Rogers. Something needed to be done about his business practices. Sean, Marty and their silent partner Yunus Ali had been abusing their tenants for years. There were loads of stories about how they put young girls out on the streets, how they gave them as presents, and rumours about orgies, drugs, protection, and their occasional spats with the Asian Sheikh brothers organisation. Years ago, Marty’s wife Debbie had allegedly cut girls for failing to please their customers. Now it seemed Sean took the lead. But how to get either Wendy Dixon or any of the tenants of Rogers and Ali to grass on the bastards was a puzzler. There wasn’t enough property on the manor as it was and so the poor werepushed into ever smaller and more squalid spaces for more and more money.
The door from Green Street burst open and everyone in the pub looked up. Framed in the doorway was a middle-aged woman holding a roll-up in her right hand. She was swaying. ‘I need a light for me fag,’ she said. ‘Anyone got a light for me fag?’
Wilf said, ‘Christ,’ but Lee stood up and took his lighter out of his pocket.
‘You can’t smoke in here, Cheryl!’ Maureen the barmaid yelled.
‘Yeah, I know that, I …’
Lee braved the hum of cheap cider that always came off Cheryl’s clothes and led her outside. She was, as usual, arse’oled. ‘I went to Mass, but they chucked me out,’ she said.
‘Stick your fag in your gob,’ Lee said, ‘and I’ll light it.’
Once Cheryl had had kids, a husband and a life. But then her husband had lost his job, then she’d fallen out with him, then they’d lost their home and Cheryl had gone on the booze. Now she was homeless and drunk while her husband and her kids lived in some damp flat in Barking. She put her roll-up in her mouth and sucked hard as Lee lit it.
‘Ta, darling.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he said.
He was just about to go back into the Boleyn when she said to him, ‘You know they found a dead
Wilf Cox, one of Lee’s dad’s old friends, bought Lee a Pepsi and himself a pint of bitter. As he walked over to the table where Lee sat flicking through the
Observer
, he looked over at Noakes.
‘Dunno who’s supposed to be looking after Murderer these days,’ Wilf said, as he put Lee’s drink down in front of him. ‘But he smells of piss.’
Lee knew that Murderer had carers in twice a day, or he always had done.
‘Shouldn’t let him out smelling like that,’ Wilf said. He satdown and looked idly at a bit of Lee’s paper. ‘Bleedin’ country’s going to pot. Run by rich boys for rich boys. But no-one cares about the poor anymore do they? Look at old Murderer. I mean I know he was in that bike gang—’
‘The Hells Angels.’
‘Yeah, but now he’s a cripple and nobody wants to know!’
In principle Lee agreed with what Wilf was saying. He hated the cuts the government was making to public services, he hated the resultant unemployment and the complete absence of punishment for the big City financiers who had brought about the economic crisis in the first place, but Murderer Noakes was hardly the epitome of want. He’d come off his bike back in 1979 while riding to some Angels orgy out in Hertfordshire. He’d had every benefit and perk the State would give him. On top of that was the money Vi Collins bunged him from time to time for keeping his ear to the ground. If Murderer smelt of piss it was possibly because he wanted to.
Wilf read the cookery section of the
Observer
while continuing to witter on about politics. Lee’s own thoughts were still with the events of the previous night. Mumtaz had been right about Sean Rogers. Something needed to be done about his business practices. Sean, Marty and their silent partner Yunus Ali had been abusing their tenants for years. There were loads of stories about how they put young girls out on the streets, how they gave them as presents, and rumours about orgies, drugs, protection, and their occasional spats with the Asian Sheikh brothers organisation. Years ago, Marty’s wife Debbie had allegedly cut girls for failing to please their customers. Now it seemed Sean took the lead. But how to get either Wendy Dixon or any of the tenants of Rogers and Ali to grass on the bastards was a puzzler. There wasn’t enough property on the manor as it was and so the poor werepushed into ever smaller and more squalid spaces for more and more money.
The door from Green Street burst open and everyone in the pub looked up. Framed in the doorway was a middle-aged woman holding a roll-up in her right hand. She was swaying. ‘I need a light for me fag,’ she said. ‘Anyone got a light for me fag?’
Wilf said, ‘Christ,’ but Lee stood up and took his lighter out of his pocket.
‘You can’t smoke in here, Cheryl!’ Maureen the barmaid yelled.
‘Yeah, I know that, I …’
Lee braved the hum of cheap cider that always came off Cheryl’s clothes and led her outside. She was, as usual, arse’oled. ‘I went to Mass, but they chucked me out,’ she said.
‘Stick your fag in your gob,’ Lee said, ‘and I’ll light it.’
Once Cheryl had had kids, a husband and a life. But then her husband had lost his job, then she’d fallen out with him, then they’d lost their home and Cheryl had gone on the booze. Now she was homeless and drunk while her husband and her kids lived in some damp flat in Barking. She put her roll-up in her mouth and sucked hard as Lee lit it.
‘Ta, darling.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he said.
He was just about to go back into the Boleyn when she said to him, ‘You know they found a dead
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