The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) (9 page)

As Harry left, Lesley Gore gave Peter a pull. “Who was that guy?” she asked.

“’Arry?” said Peter. “Don’t worry about him, lov. He’s as sound as a pound.”

“Yeah?” replied Lesley. “Nice arse, too.”

Harry Tyler drove his latest toy, an S-reg Golf, through the Rotherhithe tunnel, turning left towards Wapping. He pulled up at the first phone box and made his call.

“Hello, boss, it’s H.”

On the other end of the line Detective Chief Inspector Lenny Kent brusquely said, “About time,” then joked, “spent all the Commissioner’s money yet?”

“Only the bits that fold. Listen, guv, I’m in. I’ve just left Miller in the Ned doing my references for me. He told me he’ll be picking up the moody scores and tenners tomorrow.”

“Good work. The operational team want a meet tonight. I’ll get a DI to ring you in the next hour on your mobile. I want all deals on tape and as much smudged up as possible. Where are you now?”

“Limehouse.”

“Can you make your way over to Brentwood for the meet?”

“Yes, guv. I’ll be an hour, hour and a half.”

The meeting went ahead and the Bushwhacker was game on. From now on, all of his moves, all of his deals and all of his new chums would be filmed by DCI Susan Long’s team. DI Ryan Suckling would be his night and day contact and DCI Lenny Kent would sign the expenses. A new plague was about to descend on South East London, a plague called Justice. Only the righteous need have no fear.

Over the next seven days, with Peter Miller’s unwitting help, every lowlife in SE1 was doing business deals in Harry’s car, or in Harry’s box van, or in a bugged-up room (but never at Harry’s flat). Concealed cameras whirled silently, tapes turned. Every snide note, every knocked-off computer and every ounce of stolen Tom was recorded while the back-up team “housed” every thief and made due note of the future exhibits. Each day brought Harry an inch closer to the Bakers.

Gary McCourt, a long-standing friend of Miller’s, had put several small amounts of counterfeit currency in Harry’s direction, and was now so confident of his contact that he, along with Miller, was even offering up small parcels of fake designer clothes and moody notes to punters in the Trojan.

Harry had to give them a pull. “Knock it on the head, lads,” he’d warned. “Christ! You’re treading on serious toes over here.”

Miller was contrite. “Sorry, H,” he’d said almost tearfully, although that might have been the gin. He’d shaken Harry’s hand and hugged him. “Here’s my ’and, here’s my heart,” he said. “It won’t happen again, mate. My life.”

That night Harry made contact with DI Suckling who told him that the Church – the Customs & Excise – had seized a substantial quantity of wines and spirits from a Brummie
blade-runner
. The lorry driver had been captured with 20-foot of
tax-avoided
booze, when his ticket said “office equipment”.

“This could be the bait you need to raise the stakes,” Suckling observed.

“Isn’t it just,” Harry replied. “This is too big for Miller and McCourt.”

“So approach Johnny Baker.”

“Not yet, Ryan. Let the mountain come to Mohammad. I’ll dangle the hooch under Slobberin’ Ron’s greedy schnozz.”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“Too right I do.”

It was late Thursday morning at the Ned Kelly, just ahead of the rush. Harry Tyler perched himself on a stool near where Lesley Gore was serving, and flashed her a smile. “When you’re ready, luv,” he said.

She smiled back. “Be right with you, handsome.”

Doreen the cleaner was just leaving. “’Ere,” she said. “Did you see that Big Bruvva last night?”

“I would rather poke me eye out with a lit fag,” Slobberin’ Ron sneered.

“No, it’s brilliant,” said Lesley. “They’ve gotta chuck that Nasty Nick out soon.”

“Why do you want him out?” asked Harry. “Cos he’s one devious shit,” Lesley replied. “But ain’t that why it’s good telly?” said Harry. “I mean, I’ve only caught it once or twice, and to be honest I couldn’t give a shit if I never saw it again. But if you throw out all the bastards and eccentrics what are you going to be left with? It’s a soap, and soaps need villains.”

“Yeah, I s’pose …”

“I like that Caroline,” said Doreen.

“No!” exclaimed Lesley.

“What old Medusa chops?” said Ron. “Leave it out, Dor.”

“I feel sorry for her,” Doreen said defensively. “She said she needed to be ’eld last night.”

Slobberin’ Ron laughed. “I’d hold her all right, under bath water for about three hours.”

“You’re a pig, Ron Sullivan,” said Doreen, walking out.

Harry grinned. “Pork scratching, Ron?”

Slobberin’ Ron furrowed his brow. “Wouldn’t that be cannibalism?”

The two men laughed.

“You’re wicked to her, Ron.”

“Never mind,” he replied. “Worse things happen at sea.”

Harry leaned over the bar and gripped Ron’s forearm. “Listen, Ron,” he said. “Can I have a quick word while it’s quiet?”

Lesley moved down the bar. “Fire away, son,” said Ron.

“You be interested in a case of Johnny Walker at three sovs a bottle?”

Ron looked at him blankly.

“Pukka Johnny Walker,” Harry went on. “The real deal, nothing snide … I can get me hands on plenty.”

“Whoa!” said Ron. “You’re knocking on an open door, H. How much you got?”

“Lorry-load.”

“Three quid a bottle? That’s a done deal, my son.”

“Nice one.”

“How soon can you deliver?”

“Three hours?”

“The money will be waiting. We’ll break one open to taste?”

“Goes without saying.”

The two men shook.

“Oi, Les,” Harry shouted. “I’m holding folding. Fancy helping me celebrate tonight?”

“What have you got in mind?”

“Knife and fork, somewhere nice?”

“OK, as long as it’s not an Indian.”

“Would I insult my favourite girl by taking her to the local curry khazi? I was thinking of this Chinese I know, off the manor.”

“I can be ready by eight.”

“Make it ’alf seven and I’ll throw in a bottle of Asti.”

“You know how to spoil a girl.”

“As it happens, darling, I do.”

Harry winked and left. Slobberin’ Ron watched him go and said, “That is one diamond geezer.”

“Yeah,” said Lesley. “But I ain’t gonna sleep with him tonight.”

“Course you ain’t.”

Home for Johnny Too was a three-bedroom detached Victorian house in Bermondsey. He’d got up late and stuck on a
Sopranos
video while Sandra rustled him up an HP The Full Monty tinned meal on three toast.

She brought it in to him on a tray with a mug of sweet tea. Johnny was going through the morning post. He was poring over a letter from an estate agent as she came in.

“Look at this place, Sands,” Johnny said excitedly. “Electric gates, swimming pool, a Jacuzzi, two acres of grounds, a sauna, a five-a-side fuckin’ football pitch. It’s a gaff of a gaff.”

“Where’s that?”

“Chislehurst, just past the Bull.”

“I’ve told you, Johnny Baker, I am not moving to Chislehurst.”

“But look at this place, treacle. It’s a dream house.”

“But it’s not local, John.”

“It’s half an hour away.”

“More like an hour and a half in the rush hour.”

“Come on, doll. People like us deserve somewhere decent. Nice people live out there, bank managers, businessmen. What has Bermondsey and Rotherhithe got that Chislehurst hasn’t? ’Cept for a dawn chorus of fuckin’ car alarms going off.”

“It’s got my friends, it’s got my mum.”

“‘It’s got my mum’,” he mimicked. “This place has got a granny annex, we can take the old cunt with us.”

“Don’t you talk about my mother like that. I am not moving to fucking Kent.”

“Well, fuck you, Sandra. Fuck you fucking sideways.”

He flung the tray up in the air. The tea went over the floor, the Full Monty splattered the settee. “Johnny!”

“Fuck you.”

He stormed upstairs and got dressed. “Where you going?”

“Out.”

“Where?”

“Business.”

“You said you were spending the day with me and the kids.”

“Yeah, well maybe there ain’t nothing here I want to spend time with, all right?”

“JOHNNY!”

The front door slammed. Right on cue, the kids started to scream.

An hour and a half later, Johnny Too was studying the property details again, although now he was flat on his back in Geraldine’s bed with her at his side basking in a post-coital glow.

“That is a lovely house, John,” she said. “Isn’t it just?”

“Can you afford it?”

“Don’t insult me, darling. I’ve just put an offer in. One and a half mill.”

Geraldine smiled. “A bloke like you should have a place that reflects how well he’s done for himself.”

“That’s exactly right.”

“I mean, you’ve made a success of yourself. Why not enjoy the proceeds? I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with the people you grew up with, but you must feel sometimes they’re holding you back.”

“I’ll say.”

She kissed him lightly on the forehead. “You’re a workingclass hero, Johnny.”

“Working is stronging it a bit, darlin’.”

“You know what I mean.” She reached down and grabbed his cock. “How’s Mr Happy?”

“Oh,” he said, pushing her on her back. “He’s perking up.”

Harry Tyler and Lesley Gore had just finished their meal at Good Friends Chinese restaurant in Sidcup, Kent.

“You want blandy, Harry?” asked Tin, the manager.

“Just a small one, Tinny. What do you want, Les?”

“Can I have an Irish coffee?”

“Yes, one Ilish coffee.” Tin barked out an order in Cantonese. “Mind if I join you?”

“Normally I would love your company, Tinny,” said Harry. “But I’m doing a bit of business tonight.” He winked broadly and held Lesley’s hand.

“No worries,” said Tin, giggling. “You need to talk about oil ligs, I know.”

“Harry,” said Lesley. “You should have let him sit down, he’s just bought us a drink.”

“Oh, he’s all right. Tin knows the score. We go back a long way.”

“What was all that about oil rigs?”

“It’s what he thinks I do.”

“You piss-taker.”

“Did I tell you his full name is Tin Hung?” he asked. “I know his brother Well.”

Harry, paused for the joke to sink in. Lesley laughed and whacked his shoulder.

“You,” she said. “I like it ’ere. Good value, innit? All you can eat for
£
13.95.”

Harry lent forward and whispered in her ear, “Well I hope you’ve left your knickers off cos I’m Hank Marvin.”

Lesley nearly choked on her wine. “You cheeky fucker,” she said.

“Yeah, but you like me don’tcha?”

Lesley smiled and said nothing. She’d had a great evening. He was so different from the normal blokes she went out with. He made her laugh and treated her with something close to respect. Harry Tyler liked her, too, because she had a sense of humour and laughed at his jokes. Harry had lavished all his charm on her, partly because having a girlfriend in the Ned Kelly gave him a reason to be so far off his manor so often, and partly because he was a dirty bastard who loved shagging. Lesley on the other hand was flattered by his attention, impressed by his car and his cavalier approach to spending. He didn’t know or seem to care about her history and always had a nice few quid about him. It was inevitable that they would end up in bed together that night.

It was only after they had made love, in the missionary position, on her settee that Harry even gave a thought to Kara and Courtney-Rose. He didn’t feel guilty but it did cross his mind that he should put a call in. The idea didn’t linger long. His wife understood, she always did. Kara knew that when he was deep undercover that was when it was her duty not to worry, or care, pester him with the problems of bringing up a kid and running a home. The money was always in the joint account, calls came regularly from an unknown DI reassuring her that “Harry is fine, he sends his love, he’ll ring when it’s safe …”

He wondered whether Kara suspected that when he was deep undercover he was also deep under Lesley’s or Elaine’s or Marina’s covers. And if she did, did she care? Did she deserve to be cheated on like this? The truth was, no one deserved it.

“Penny for ’em,” said Lesley.

“Sorry, doll, I was miles away.”

“Want to come to bed?”

“I would like that very much.”

They lay together naked, squashed together in her single bed. Harry massaged her lower back tenderly. They kissed, then touched, stroked and licked. Harry moved to mount her. She stopped him. “Not like that again,” said Lesley. “That’s boring. Take me from behind this time.”

“Oh, OK,” said Harry, slightly surprised.

They made love four more times that night in as many positions.

It was 10.30 am when Harry got back to his own flat. Cocksure, and cock sore, he was feeling pleased with himself as he slipped the key into the lock, only to hear a husky woman’s voice say, “Hello, stranger!” with just a soupçon of suspicion. Uh-oh, thought Harry. ’Er next door.

“I waited up for you,” said Elaine. “I thought you were coming home last night.”

“Oh, sorry, doll, had a bit of business then I got webbed up in a poker game. You know how it is.”

“As long as you’ve not got yourself another woman, cos this pussy needs feeding.”

“Don’t be daft. How could I sleep with anyone else after you? I’m not sixteen any more.”

“Good, cos pussy is hungry, and I mean she’s starving.”

Elaine walked from her front door to his. She was wearing a dressing gown that she let slip open. She had nothing on underneath. Pushing Harry through his front door, Elaine kissed his neck and rubbed his cock. Somehow it responded.

Here we go again, thought Harry, when his mobile rang. Peter Miller’s number flashed.

“Yo, Pete.”

“All right, H, just giving you a quick ring to see if you remembered about the lunchtime strippers down the Ned today? They got three brand new girls.”