The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) (17 page)

“Leave us standing on the corner for half an hour,” moaned Lesley. “It’s fucking ’taters and we’ve had blokes coming up thinking we’re on the game.”

“Don’t say you turned them down,” said Johnny Too. “You could have made a few bob, paid me back for my generosity.”

“Pig,” said Lesley.

“She’s right, John,” Harry deadpanned. “Be fair, they wouldn’t have made a penny. They’d have had to pay the fellas.”

“Oi!” said Geraldine with mock indignation. Johnny Too laughed. “What can we do to make it up to you?” he asked. “I know.” He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a fistful of cigars. “Fancy a ten-inch Cuban?” he asked.

“I’d rather have an eight-inch Cockney,” said Geri grabbing his crotch.

“OK, you lovebirds,” said Lesley. “Any chance we could eat first?”

“I know just the place,” said Harry. “A little Argentinian steakhouse five minutes down the road from the Bulldog, they do the best steaks in Holland.”

“Argies?” said Lesley with disgust.

“The war’s a long time over,” said Johnny Too.

“And you can always go down like the
Belgrano
later,” laughed Harry.

“Here, we went in a gay bar,” said Johnny.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “John dropped his wallet in there and kicked it all the way back to the hotel.”

They ate, then drank, smoked a little weed and then drank some more. It ended up just Harry and Johnny drinking brandies in the hotel bar at 1.30 am. Johnny gave an impassioned speech about cannabis and cocaine, and again Harry Tyler found himself following the logic of his argument which was basically anyone who wants to take drugs can get them so why waste millions of tax payers’ money trying to impress people who don’t take them? People who don’t even understand that a bit of ganja is ten times better for them than a bottle of malt, y’know?

“More and more of the population have tried drugs,” he said. “Millions smoke dope, fucking doctors recommend it. But leaving that aside what we’re talking about here is a nanny state trying to regulate supply and demand.

“I’m a capitalist operating in a Prohibition. People like Ann Widdecombe are living in the fucking dark ages. I’m not forcing anyone to snort, H. I’m just supplying them that want,
grown-up
people with minds of their own.”

“But it ain’t like going to the offie for a can of Stella, mate,” said Harry. “You hurt people.”

“Only fuckers who take liberties, H. You’ve gotta show out, you gotta be respected or you lose it all.”

He was starting to lose it, Harry thought. He heard the slur in the gangster’s words. Half an hour later, Johnny Too had his arm around the detective’s shoulders, drawing him closer. “Thing is, H, if next weekend goes to plan I am going to be fireproof,” he said. “I’ll be able to move away from the dirty stuff and take my family with me.”

“Joey included?”

Johnny shook his head. “He’s become my anchor,” he said. “You unnerstan’, Harry, you unnerstan’?”

When Harry Tyler got into bed just after 2.15 am, he couldn’t sleep. For the first time in his police career he was having doubts about the justness of his cause. Maybe Johnny Too was right, maybe he was just a modern-day buccaneer, an alternative entrepreneur following market forces in defiance of arcane laws. Why was dope banned, anyway? What harm did Charlie do? Johnny wasn’t exactly kidnapping school kids and stringing them out on smack. Pyro Joe was clearly holding his smarter brother back. If Harry took Joey and Dougie down, maybe Johnny could blossom into the next Branson.

Against all his instincts and his training, Harry Tyler had started genuinely to like this funny, dangerously articulate man. Johnny Too was one of life’s cavaliers bucking roundhead laws, he decided. He was a red-blooded, devil-may-care Englishman denied greatness by the circumstances of his birth, and the baggage around him. A tooled-up Toby Belch to Harry’s Falstaff. Well, maybe it was time for Falstaff to hammer out a Faustian deal…

That night he dreamt that he, Lesley, Geri and Johnny Too were drinking champagne with dolphins on a beach in Cala N’Porter, inexplicably re-located to Florida. They were lying on sun beds and when Harry looked at them more closely, they were made of dollar bills.

Sunday went much the same as Saturday – sex, booze, sightseeing and clubbing. On Monday morning they cabbed it back to Schiphol Airport. Harry felt physically and mentally drained. Keeping pace with Johnny Too was like trying to train with Arsenal. He closed his eyes on the plane and didn’t wake up till touchdown. It was Baker’s idea to round the trip off with “one last drink” at the Ned. Geri couldn’t be seen there, of course, so Johnny’s driver, Tony Boniface, drove her home after dropping Johnny off. It was just unlucky that he mentioned it in passing to his wife who was straight on the phone to Sandra Baker. Harry and Lesley pulled up at the Ned ten minutes after Johnny and 15 minutes before his wife who burst in shouting and swearing about “the SLUT”.

There was hardly anyone in the pub: Johnny, Harry, Lesley, Slobberin’ Ron and young Mickey Fenn. They watched
open-mouthed
as Sandra pulled Johnny’s own .38 Beretta on him.

“You fucking bastard!” she screamed. “Why are you still fucking that slag?”

Johnny Too snapped. He ran straight at her, tore the gun from her hand and knocked her to the floor.

“You wanna play fucking gangsters?” he roared. “I’ll show you how to be a gangster.”

“NO, JOHN!” Harry shouted. Too late. Johnny Too squeezed the trigger. The Beretta jammed. Harry grabbed Johnny’s arms. Slobberin’ Ron took the gun off him and fired it at the ceiling. The second round went off perfectly. Johnny Too fell to his knees and sobbed, pulling Sandra into his arms. Both were crying.

Ron turned and said, “Nobody saw a thing, right?” Everyone nodded. That was understood. Harry made his excuses and left. He drove the car for about a mile, then pulled over and butted the steering wheel with his head. How could he have started to believe Johnny Too was OK? The guy was a fucking psychopath. He punched his leg in frustration, then started up the car and drove to a phone box in Shoreditch to call his overlords. It was 6.37 pm. They wanted a meeting at Southend police station at 10.30 pm.

Harry was weary but he knew time was against them. He drove to his flat, showered and changed, then checked his messages. There was nothing that couldn’t wait. Peter Miller had called several times. His first messages were short, the final three were longer every time – a clear indication of his sobriety. The short calls were when he was sober, they got longer as the evening wore on. Apparently, Miller felt Harry needed to know that while they were away, Pyro Joe had got charlied up and gone looking for some minor irritant who had failed to pay the few hundred he owed the firm. According to Miller, Joey had hung the poor wretch over the second-floor balcony of his Deptford council flat and the idiot’s shoe had come off causing him to fall and break his legs.

Miller was laughing all the way through the message: Harry was incensed. What kind of sick bastard could find a man falling two floors remotely funny? He shook his head. Bet the silly git wears lace-ups from now on, he thought.

Harry got to Southend early. He spent 20 minutes making sure he didn’t have a tail on him. As arranged, a covert van pulled up next to him then reversed into a side alley. Harry pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and walked back to the van. The back door opened and he was in and gone.

He was driven to a small police station about a mile from Southend city centre. To Harry, it looked like a traffic warden base. The meeting with top brass lasted into the early hours. It was agreed to place additional technical surveillance equipment on Geraldine. Her car interior would be wired for sound, and tracking devices fitted. The buzz in the room was hyper. One hundred kilos of cocaine was on the way – enough to put the Bakers away for a very long time. As tired as he was, Harry was boosted by the energy of the others. His role in the coming maelstrom was to stick to the Baker brothers like shit on their shoes.

After the meeting, Harry took a coffee with DCI Susan Long.

“So how are you, Harry?” she asked pleasantly.

“Fuck me,” he said. “Woops, sorry, ma’am. Do you know you’re the first person to ask me that in months? Yeah, y’know, fine. Glad it’s getting to the end.”

Long smiled. She dunked her shortbread biscuit into the murky depths of a Colchester United mug and whispered, “Did you know Geraldine and Lesley were fucking one another?”

Harry choked his coffee back into his mug and laughed. “No,” he said. “But I had an idea.”

“Yes, while you and Baker were drinking in a bar, the fourth day I think, the two sisters were doing it for themselves in Baker’s room.”

“Was the room wired for sound only, or do I get to watch the video?”

There was a twinkle in Susan Long’s brown eyes. “Keep your mind on the job, get a good result and I’ll arrange a private showing after.”

Harry nodded. “I presume the CPS won’t get a copy when it comes to disclosure?”

“No, I’ve got the only copy in England under lock and key.”

Harry didn’t bother to ask if his room had been “camera-ed up”. He just took it for granted that it was.

“You, er, you seem quite close to Lesley,” Long said.

“Just taking a DNA sample, ma’am,” Harry replied. “Without a swab, that’s clever.”

“Had to make do with what I had to hand.”

“Well,” his boss said with a straight face. “Just as long as the innocent aren’t being fingered.”

Harry got up to leave.

“Oh, Harry,” she called. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Nice size truncheon.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. Was she coming on to him? He pushed his luck. “I’ll look forward to you debriefing me, ma’am,” he said with a smile, then turned and left.

Harry was grinning all the way back to Stratford. As soon as he opened his flat door he realised he hadn’t phoned Kara. Bollocks. He’d do it in the morning. Bound to have time in the morning. Besides it was odds-on that Elaine would be pleased to see him.

I
t was early afternoon, Tuesday. Harry Tyler lay in bed with his eyes closed and his mind racing. He had a million and one things to do, but he stayed there under the warmth of his duvet all the same. Harry felt as if the life force had been drained out of him. His thoughts wandered to his wife and what he was going to have to do to sort his life out, for him and for her. Reality loomed, looking as dark and foreboding as an ocean storm, but before the tidal wave of depression could drag him under, Harry made a conscious decision to think about something, anything – else.

Geraldine and Lesley were the first image that sprung to mind, and he held it there. He pictured the two women in bed, kissing, touching, stroking, strumming, with him in between them, like a Harry sandwich, standing and delivering on demand. He was in the middle of taking Geraldine from behind as her flickering tongue lapped at Lesley’s clitoris, the Venus butterfly and the penis scuttle-ride in perfect synchronisation. It took five rings on Harry’s mobile to drag him back to reality. The voice on the phone belonged to Johnny Too.

“Harry, you about?”

“John, I’m still abed.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Just the Dagenham Girl Pipers. Nah, I’m on me Tod, mate. I slept bad last night, gut-ache.”

“Listen, I’ve just come back from the doctors. It’s bad news.”

“What?”

“The big ‘C’.”

“Not…”

“Yeah, dyslexia.”

“Bastards.”

“Listen, we’re going Up The Creek tonight to see a couple of comedians. You wanna come?”

“Who’s on?”

“Terry Alderton.”

“Cool. Who’s going?”

“Me, you, Geri, Les, few others. No idiots. Just a night out.”

“What time?”

“Get to the Ned for seven.”

“Why don’t I meet you over there, eight, eight-thirty? Greenwich is just through the pipe from me.”

“Whatever, but bring a few bob in case we get the taste for it and hit a club after.”

Harry hadn’t really fancied a session, but he knew he had to hang on to Johnny Too’s shirt tails as much as possible now. Groaning, he swung his legs out of bed, shaved, showered and then admired his body in the mirror. Love handles aside, he still looked fit. Didn’t he? There may have been a bit of a beer belly, but his upper torso was nicely toned. He thought about tidying up but couldn’t be arsed. Leaving the flat quietly, he glanced back along the balcony walkway. No sign of Elaine. This job couldn’t end quickly enough now. He looked at the
graffiti-blitzed
walls by the lift, which stank of urine. How the fuck could people live like this?

Harry drove off and made straight for the Trojan. It was strangely empty. The barman, Liam McGarry, greeted Harry with a smile. He was half-heartedly drying a pint glass while reading Mike Ward’s TV column in the
Daily Star
.

“Busy then,” said Harry.

“Rushed off me feet. Did you see
EastEnders
last night, Harry?”

“No, mate.”

“That fucking Mo Slater. She has to be the worst actress I’ve ever seen.”

“Ain’t seen her.”

“It’s like she’s reading the words off a board.”

“I wish my social life was as full as yours, Lee.”

They both laughed. Harry handed Liam a sealed envelope. “Give that to me uncle, will yah?” he said.

The barman smiled and placed the envelope under the bar.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“Getting there.”

“You want a beer?”

Harry shook his head. “Nah, I’m at it tonight over Deptford. Who’s been about, anyone?”

“Just your lot and a firm from down south, other than that, not a lot on. Everyone’s tucked up and as busy as hell. You OK?”

Harry nodded. “You know,” he said. They shook hands and Harry left. He had just reached the car when his mobile rang.

“Harry, it’s John. Where are yer?”

“Down the Trojan.”

“Hang on there, we’ll come over.”

“Problem?”

“No, no. Just need a chat about the other thing. We’ll be about an hour.”

Harry dashed back into the pub and started making calls from the office phone. Johnny Too arrived nearly ninety minutes later, with Pyro Joe and Greg Saunders. Harry was surprised to see the latter. Saunders had never really figured as part of The Firm. He was just the Ned’s Charlie dealer.

Harry was sitting at a table at the far end of the pub, playing poker with a huge bald black man known as Bear and two scruffy 30-year-olds who looked like travellers.

The bar, so empty an hour ago you half expected to see prairie tumbleweed blowing across it, was now teeming with drinkers, black, white, Asian. It was like the fucking UN, mused Johnny Too.

Harry acknowledged Johnny’s arrival. “Give us two minutes to lose this hand and I’ll be with you,” he said.

The Bakers ordered beer. Liam nodded to Harry. “On your account, H?”

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “On account I never pay it.”

Smiling, the Bakers moved to the opposite end of the bar and chatted amongst themselves until raucous laughter erupted from Harry’s table. The Bear had accidentally knocked a full pint over one of the pikeys. The game had been breaking up anyway, with the other traveller pocketing the score or so of pound coins when the pint went over. The soaked pikey stood up.

“The state of me,” he roared. “Now oi’ll have to go and put some more fickin’ rags on.”

Bear was on his feet too. “Sorry, Michael,” he said. “I’d pay for them to go through the dry cleaners but it’s only the
caked-on
shite that’s holding them together.”

The three men left. Bridie, the young, flat-chested Irish barmaid fired the parting broadside. “It’s OK, boys, I’ll clear up your mess. Just leave it to good old Bridie,” she moaned.

Harry Tyler crossed the pub and shook hands warmly with Johnny Too before nodding at Pyro Joe and Greg Saunders.

“Everything OK, John?” he asked.

Johnny Too nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Just mooching, killing time.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “What’s on your mind?”

Baker smiled. “I need to lay something down for a couple of days, can you help?”

“What is it?”

“A few tools.”

“What, you want ’em pugged up for a while?”

“Yeah, and delivered somewhere Thursday night.”

“How many?”

Pyro Joe leaned forward. “A bag full of shooters and lugs,” he growled.

“Where are they now?”

“Outside in Greg’s boot.”

“Give me five.”

Harry nodded at Liam, then they both went to the far end of the bar. After a minute or so of whispering, Liam handed Harry a set of keys and walked off to the gents. Harry strolled back to the Bakers.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

Saunders got up and led Harry to his Mondeo saloon. A woman and her infant daughter were sitting in the back. The rear of the car had a stick-on cab aerial. Saunders took a navy blue holdall from the boot, handing it to Harry. It was weighty and had a small, locked padlock across the zip.

“I’ll be off then,” Saunders said, and got into the driver’s seat.

Harry went straight back into the Ned, going behind the bar, through the staff doors and upstairs. About five minutes had passed. After two, Pyro Joe had wandered into the gents. Liam was busy in trap one, admiring his gorgeous pouting Starbird while smoking a menthol cigarette with his free hand. Joey went through the motions of urinating, then zipped himself up and returned to the bar.

“He’s having a Torn Tit, John,” he said.

“Who?”

“The barman.”

“Whatever.”

Bridie piped up from the bar. “Do you boys want another drink?” she asked.

“Yes, please, same again, ta,” said Johnny.

“And shall oi get the other fella, yer man, shall oi pour him another, or has he gone?”

“Nah, he’s gone,” Johnny replied. “Where’s Cyril and Carol today then?”

“They’re at an LOV meeting. They’ll be back tonight.”

“I take it in Carol’s case LOV stands for Lots Of Volume.”

“Will you be telling her that yerself?”

Harry Tyler bounded back. “Sorted,” he said.

“Thanks, H,” said Johnny Too. “We need ’em back Thursday night.”

“You just say where and when.”

Pyro Joe got up to play the fruit machine.

“You fancy seeing this Alderton fella tonight, then?” asked Johnny.

“I do as it goes,” Harry replied. “He was shite on Red Alert but he’s funny as fuck normally.”

“He’s getting hold of that Dee Ivens, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. Lucky fucker.”

Joey returned, grumpy and out of change. “Those things are safe here, are they?” he grumbled.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Belt and braces.”

“Right,” said Johnny Too. “We’re heading back to God’s own country. You coming, H, or laters?”

“I’ll see you there, mate. Got some business this end to sort out.”

In the event, Harry Tyler reached the Up The Creek comedy club five minutes before Johnny Baker arrived with Geraldine and Lesley. He was waiting outside with bad news.

“Alderton’s pulled out, bad throat,” he said.

“You’re kidding,” Johnny groaned.

“So who is on the bill instead?” asked Geraldine.

“Ian Stone, unfunny cunt off
The 11: O’clock Show
and this new bloke called Eric.”

“Eric what?” asked Geraldine.

“Dunno. Just Eric it says here.”

“Don’t fancy the sound of that,” said Lesley.

“Fuck,” said Johnny Too.

“Fret not, best mates,” said Harry cheerfully. “Your uncle H has learnt of the presence of the great Micky Pugh performing in half an hour at the Montrose Social Club in Sidcup. Ten minutes away.”

“Micky Pugh? He sounds a bit end of the pier,” moaned Geraldine.

“No, he’s a legend – and he’s fucking funny,” said Johnny Too. “I saw him at the Circus Tavern last year. Harry, you are a fucking genius.”

He pulled Harry close and planted a kiss on the top of his head.

“Oi, I’m getting worried about you two,” protested Lesley.

“What’s sauce for the goose…” Johnny Too replied, winking. Geraldine smiled, Lesley blushed.

“What about the others?” she asked.

“Fuck ’em!” said John. “We can’t wait. Let’s go see the Pugh-meister.”

“Me car’s around the corner,” volunteered Harry.

Johnny clasped him around the shoulders. “Harry Tyler,” he said. “Truly, you are a man amongst men. So, Alderton’s got a sore throat, has he? Too much noshing Dee Ivens I reckon.”

“Johnny,” said Geri in mock disgust. “That’s all you ever think of.”

“I know,” he replied. “That’s why you love me.” At Johnny Too’s special request, Micky Pugh did his legendary two drunks routine and joined them at the bar afterwards.

“Classic, Mick,” smiled Johnny. “You fancy coming to Kempton Park with me and the boys tomorrow? We’re having a bit of a Ned beano.”

“Can I bring Willie Thompson?” asked Micky.

“Yeah, he’s another funny fucker. No problem. Meet us at the Ned at 11 am.”

Harry left Sidcup at about I am, leaving Johnny, Micky Pugh and Geraldine propping up the bar of a friendly local, one of the hundreds known to the drinking man’s comic.

“You staying tonight, Harry?” Lesley asked.

“For a while. I’ve got business to sort out before the races.”

She reached over and massaged his neck.

“You look a bit tense, Harry, shall I give you a proper massage at mine?”

“That would be fucking wonderful.”

“Then we can act out a fantasy for you,” she said.

“Can you think of a good one?”

She was obviously tipsy and had been to see her uncle Charlie during the evening, but Harry didn’t think she’d be up for phoning a friend for a quick fifty-fifty. The thought of her and Geri hard at it made his dick as erect as a Grenadier Guard on parade.

“I’m sure something will come up by the time we get there,” he said.

“Oh, it’ll be up before then,” she said, squeezing his cock through his trousers.

At 1.35 am Harry was lying naked, face down on Lesley’s bed. She slipped off her Kanga panties, straddled him and began to rub sweetly scented body oil into his back.

“You thought of anything yet, Harry?” she said. He rolled over so his body was in between Lesley’s legs. She rubbed her lower body back and forth on his erection.

“Yeah, you got a vibrator or something?”

Lesley rolled over and took a slim six-inch dildo out of a drawer. “What do you want me to do with it?” she asked coyly.

“Make out I’m not here and play with yourself,” he ordered.

Lesley coated the dildo with KY Jelly and lay back on the bed. She grasped her own breasts and writhed for a while before running the tip of the dildo around her vaginal lips. Harry played with her nipples and watched her until he could wait no more.

“Go on all fours,” he commanded.

Lesley obeyed. He poured oil on her back and massaged it firmly as she slipped the dildo into herself.

“Leave that and rub KY Jelly on my cock,” he said.

“I don’t think you’ll need it.”

“Just do it.”

Slightly stunned by his insistence, Lesley did what she was told. Harry increased the pressure on her back.

“That is soooo nice,” she said.

He reached down and felt her fanny. It was dripping wet. He stopped rubbing and teased her with his helmet.

“Don’t, Harry,” She gasped. “Give me it all. Fuck me, Harry. Fuck me hard.”

Instead, Harry pulled back and slipped his lubricated erection up Lesley’s backside.

She gasped. “Harry, no!”

“It’s what I want,” he grunted.

God, she was tight. She was also clearly uncomfortable, but that just made it feel better. He came quickly.

“That hurt, you bastard!” she said accusingly.

“Sorry.”

“You don’t sound it.” She was sobbing now.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You should have asked, Harry. I’d never done it like that.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“I thought you were different.”

He held her tight, feigning concern, but in the dark he was smiling.