The Drop

around my ears, I was beginning to feel mightily pissed-off. There was no sign of Sharp, so I was left standing there, hands thrust deep in my pockets, shivering under the Angel of the North, wondering what could be so important he had to see me straight away but not so urgent he couldn’t just tell me about it in Rosie’s.
    Like most people from my city, I held a hypocritical view of the Angel. When it first appeared I thought it was an expensive and pointless monstrosity, representing the very worst excesses of modern art, two hundred tonnes of metal, part man, part aeroplane, neither one thing or another, signifying nothing. Now though, I had to admit to a grudging affection for its rusting presence. As usual, it stood tall, upright and broad-chested, like it was particularly proud of itself. I sat down between the tapered metal strips at its feet and waited, looking out at the surrounding fields under a clear blue sky. It could have been summer if it hadn’t been so typically cold.
    A shape in a dark raincoat emerged from the woods on my right and walked quickly towards me. There was no one else around and my first thought was Sharp had set me up for a hit. I was about to leg it when I realised the shape was him. He was out of breath by the time he reached me, ‘too many fags,’ he gasped.
    ‘Was this really necessary?’
    ‘Maybe not. But it makes me feel better. I can see people coming from here.’
    I looked around. There were some figures in the field behind the monument now. ‘I can see four kids and a kite,’ I told him, ‘I haven’t got a lot of free time at the moment Sharp, what is it?’
    ‘Something that couldn’t wait.’
    ‘I’m listening.’
    ‘It’s Jerry Lemon.’
    ‘What about him?’
    ‘He’s dead.’
    ‘Dead? Jerry Lemon’s dead?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Jesus,’ I said trying to take it in. It was only forty eight hours earlier that Jerry was on the train with us and now he was dead? ‘What the hell happened? I’m guessing it wasn’t suicide.’
    ‘No,’ he said, ‘he was shot in the head’. He was still panting. I wondered how he ever caught villains, ‘we got a call last night from some shit-scared anonymous pervert who’d been out by a truck stop, walking the dog, you know.’
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘Walking the dog,’ he said again, like I was an idiot, ‘only he didn’t have a dog, they never do.’
    ‘What are you going on about?’
    ‘Dogging, he was dogging. They call it that because when we catch them they always say ‘I was walking the dog’ and when we say ‘where is it then?’ they always go ‘oh, it must have run off’.’
    ‘What has dogging got to do with Jerry Lemon?’
    ‘That’s what he was doing when he was killed.’
    ‘You’re joking me.’
    ‘No,’ he assured me, ‘I take it you had no idea he was into that sort of thing.’
    ‘Course not, but then it isn’t the sort of thing people usually talk about is it? I mean if you ask somebody what they did last night they usually say ‘watched the match’ or ‘went to the pub’ not ‘went dogging’. Bloody hell, it’s not my idea of fun either if I’m honest, standing there with a bunch of strangers all wanking over some fat, married lass while her husband watches. Jesus, his missus will be fucking devastated when she finds out.’
    ‘Er… No… She won’t.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I’m afraid she was the fat, married lass and he was the husband watching all the blokes getting off. Well I assume he was, it’s not like we can confirm that exactly but I don’t s’pose he was just doing it for her pleasure.’
    ‘Bloody hell. You’re telling me Jerry’s missus likes… ’ I couldn’t find the words.
    ‘Being spunked on by strangers? Yeah, by all accounts.’ He reached for another cigarette, lit it then said, ‘I mean she used to like it. She’s dead an’ all.’
    ‘Christ, what happened?’
    ‘At first we thought some sicko was on the prowl, randomly shooting dogging couples. You know, a religious nutter cleaning up the city in the name of the baby Jesus or something. Then we got the name of the victim and it turned out it was Jerry Lemon and his not-so-good lady. So, then everyone said “oh it’s a gangland war”.’
    A gangland war? What an odd phrase. Did I live in gangland? I supposed I did, according to the tabloids. Tomorrow they’d be writing up the story of Jerry Lemon and his moll, coldly assassinated by a ruthless, underworld hit man.
    ‘It