Chapter 21
‘That’s Goldie Hardman, that is,’ Buckby said. ‘I’d recognise his yellow syrup anywhere.’
Poe mentally translated. ‘Syrup’ was cockney rhyming slang for a wig. Came from the shortened form of the laxative, syrup of fig. Syrup of fig, wig. Esmerée had said the guy in the clip had hair like Johnny Bravo, but Poe hadn’t given him much thought. He was looking for the woman. ‘You know him?’
‘Of ’im,’ Buckby said. ‘He’s been around a while, has old Goldie. Didn’t think he was still working. He enjoyed smelling ’is key a bit too much, if you know what I mean.’
‘I do.’
‘I don’t,’ Bradshaw said.
‘It’s slang for snorting powdered cocaine, Tilly.’
‘Gosh.’
‘This is a newish film, so he must have got ’imself clean,’ Buckby continued. ‘And lots of the pre-V’s are still getting work as they can deliver the money shot to order.’
‘Pre-V’s?’
‘Pre-Viagra. Guys like Goldie were in demand back in the day. There was an old industry saying: go soft, go home. The ones who could perform under hot lights for hours at a time with a load of hairy-arsed geezers eating sandwiches and farting next to them earned their money. And one of the things they needed to do was finish when the cameras were all set to catch it. Lots of the post-Viagra lot can’t do that.
Means the crew are there all hours waiting.
It’ll be why Goldie’s still able to get work despite being a bit of a bloater.
You tell the pre-V’s you’re ready for the money shot, and most of ’em can deliver within a two-minute window. ’
‘What’s the “money shot”?’ Bradshaw asked.
‘It’s when—’
‘Do not answer that question,’ Poe said quickly.
‘Anyway, that’s how you find your mystery woman, Mr Poe,’ Buckby said. ‘You find him.’
‘Is Goldie Hardman his real name?’
‘Doubt it, mate. None of them use their real names. They all use nom de blooms.’
Poe ignored the malapropism. It wasn’t the worst one he’d heard.
It wasn’t even the worst one he’d heard that day.
Their Euston cabbie had moaned about the ‘gazpacho’ police ‘fragrantly’ violating his rights during the first COVID lockdown.
Poe assumed he meant the Gestapo police had been flagrantly violating his rights.
Then again, he was in London. Perhaps they did have gazpacho police.
For when it was served hot instead of cold.
He said, ‘Who might know his real name?’
‘I’ll give me mate a bell.’ Buckby picked up his iPhone and searched through his contacts. Pressed call. It was answered immediately. ‘Hullo, John—’
‘Gotta new motor?’ Poe said without thinking.
Buckby gave him a look.
Poe said, ‘Not an Alexei Sayle fan then?’
‘… Nothing, mate, just some northern monkey,’ Buckby said into his phone.
‘… Yeah, they do, don’t they? Anyway, listen, I’m trying to track down Goldie Hardman.
You know anyone who ’as his number? … Yeah, that’s ’im.
Used to have a massive yellow barnet. When it fell out, he started wearing that stupid syrup …
’ They chewed the fat for a few minutes, then said their goodbyes.
‘OK, mate, nice one. Speak soon.’ He threw his phone back onto the table.
‘He’s gonna text me Goldie’s old number.
Thinks it might be out of date, but it’s somewhere to start. ’
And somewhere to finish, Poe thought. Bradshaw had found people with a lot less than an out-of-date mobile phone number.
While he waited for Buckby’s text to arrive, he called Estelle.
He got her voicemail. Probably still showing Esmerée the best way to fold down someone’s face before you sawed off the top of their skull.
Poe never knew how to talk to voicemail.
A year or so ago, Estelle had played back one of his messages.
It sounded like English wasn’t his first language. He kept it simple this time.
‘We might be late tonight,’ he said. ‘The case is breaking.’
Then he called back and added, ‘Oh, and it’s Poe, by the way.’