The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) (20 page)

“Fuck him, tell you later,” said John. “Get up here.”

The trailer was three-quarters full of tomatoes and onions. As quickly as they unloaded the pallets, Rhino was speeding them across the warehouse for Mickey Fenn and John Boy Saunders to line them up. It took nearly an hour to unload the lot. Johnny Too called the driver over and handed him a large brown envelope. “On yer way, son,” he said. The driver didn’t need telling twice.

The Baker mob were now alone with their booty, box after anonymous box of the stuff.

“So which one’s it in, John?” asked Pyro Joe.

“Fucked if I know. Cut ’em all open, but be careful not to break the balls.”

They tore into the first two boxes frantically. Nothing. Then the third. Nothing. Joey was starting to get the hump. Then Rhino opened up the fourth.

“Yes,” he said. “Fucking yes!”

The box contained ten plastic balls, each containing a kilogram of cocaine.

“Stop!” commanded Johnny Too. The men stopped and stood motionless, watching their leader. Johnny took a small penknife and cut a slit into one of the balls, exposing the virgin white content. He put a small coating on the knife tip, wiped it on the end of his tongue and then massaged it around his top gum.

“Nectar,” he said finally. “That is pukka gear.”

The others cheered, then turned and ripped into the remaining boxes. Onions were rolling everywhere, but the balls of Charlie kept popping up: 12 kilos, 18 kilos, 25 … As they came out, Rhino was packing them ten to a box and sealing each one with a tape gun. Joey walked the first batch up to the transit and placed them under a tarpaulin sheet. The floor of the warehouse was now awash with onions. Pyro Joe walked back, grabbed a large tomato and lobbed it at Mickey Fenn. It hit him square on the back of the head. Mickey yelped with pain.

“Fuck off, Joey,” he shouted, ripping open another box, grabbing an onion in each hand and hurling them back. Another eight kilos fell out of the box, but the jubilant gang were now more preoccupied with having a food fight. Mickey got in a good shot that blackened Joey’s eye. The older gangster suddenly lost his sense of humour and chased the teenager around the warehouse. The other three were in stitches. They were blissfully unaware that outside each of their spotters was being beaten to the ground at the point of an H&K machine gun.

It hadn’t taken much persuasion to get Lesley Gore to join Harry’s hotel party. Now she sat naked at the top of the bed, with Harry going down on her as Geri gobbled eagerly on his erection. Harry claimed this position was number 70 in the
Kama Sutra
– 69 plus one. They spent about fifteen minutes enjoying variants of this carnal chain gang before Lesley decided she wanted to be fucked. She pushed Harry on his back and mounted him, pumping up and down while Geraldine squatted behind her and massaged her breasts. When she had climaxed the girls swapped over. Geri came and then it was Harry’s turn to go on top, thrusting into Lesley as Geri caressed his balls gently with her fingernails. It was almost painful when he came and he flopped exhausted on to his back, a girl either side of him. A Harry sandwich, just like in his fantasy.

Johnny Too had just managed to restore order and get his troops back to work when Rhino slipped on a large onion and fell into Pyro Joe, knocking him to the ground. John Boy, Mickey and Johnny Too collapsed in hysterics just as two armoured land rovers hit the shutters at speed and rammed straight into the warehouse. Percussion grenades exploded and the warehouse was flooded with a rush of boiler-suited, machine-gun-toting police. The goggles and gas masks that they wore added to the terror of the attack. Screams of “ARMED POLICE!” filled the air.

Rhino scrambled to his feet and drew his automatic. Johnny Too saw it and shouted “NO!” Too late. Rhino let off three shots into the invading force. Johnny threw himself backwards. He saw Joey draw his weapon as he rolled towards a box of onions. A wall of automatic gun fire exploded at them. Pyro Joe took a round straight in the forehead. Rhino’s legs were cut from under him, and Mickey Fenn was hit in the arm and jaw. He lay three feet from Johnny Too, weeping. Johnny lay face down on the ground, his arms outstretched, shouting, “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” He watched as his last soldier, John Boy Saunders, made a dash for the BMW, his gun in his hand. He was cut down in an instant, turning and letting off three rounds as he fell. As John Boy hit the deck, his stomach muscles gave out and he discharged a brown stinking mess down his legs. It was all over in seconds.

A cloud of silver-grey smoke hung inside the depot. The floor was awash with blood, onions and tomato. All Johnny Too could hear was Mickey crying and Rhino’s groans of agony. He tried to look round and felt something solid smash into the side of his face. Plastic cuffs bit into his hands. Suddenly it seemed to all go quiet. The scene froze, everything seemed to be going in slow motion. Johnny heard voices but they were distant and drawn out.

“This one’s gone, sir, three need medics. This one’s shot, he’s shot. That one’s shot and he’s shit himself.”

Johnny Too raised his head slowly. He could see the
boiler-suited
commandos everywhere. A pair of boots were right in front of him, polished to perfection. The man stood motionless, machine gun across his front, staring at Johnny. Baker looked back at him hard. The bastard wasn’t shaking. He wasn’t even out of breath. He just glared back at Johnny. The gangster looked to his left. His brother lay motionless. Was he …? Johnny knew enough not to ask. He wouldn’t even let these motherfuckers know it was his brother lying there.

Two cops hauled Johnny Too to his feet. The flash of cameras hit him in the eyes. His gloved hands were filmed. His guns were filmed. His gloves were pulled off and his taped fingers were filmed too. Johnny surveyed the scene. It was carnage. He looked straight at the nearest gunman.

“Who’s in charge?” he snarled.

The cop didn’t reply. Two plainclothes officers wearing police baseball caps approached him. The taller one started speaking: “Johnny Baker, I am arresting you …”

Johnny Too spat straight in his face. “Fuck you, you piece of shit,” he snarled. “Get AIDS and fucking die. Your fucking grass is gonna bake in an oven.”

“What grass would that be, then?”

“The one I’m gonna torture.”

“Not for twenty years, pal. Take him out.”

Two detectives moved forward and pushed Baker into the daylight.

At 4.10 pm Harry’s mobile rang. It was a message from on high, letting him know the job was done. He turned to the still writhing women and said urgently, “Johnny needs me. Sorry, girls, can you make your own way home?”

“Sure,” Lesley panted.

“Is everything OK?” asked Geraldine anxiously.

“It will be soon,” he smiled.

“How long is the room booked for?” asked Lesley.

“Until six.”

“Lovely,” purred Geri, cuddling Lesley closer.

When the two women finally checked out and went to reception to pay for extra room service and phone calls, they were surprised to be asked to settle the entire bill.

“Harry must have been in a real hurry,” said Geri as she passed her gold Amex card to the receptionist.

“Yeah, don’t worry,” said Lesley. “He’ll settle up”

The front page of the
Evening Standard
on sale outside the hotel told a different story. “SHOOT OUT IN SOUTH LONDON”, screamed the headline. “Police raid villains, one dead.”

Geraldine snatched a copy from the three-toothed vendor. She felt faint. A surge of anguish rose up from the pit of her stomach. Her legs began to feel numb and give way.

“No,” she said. “No, not Johnny.”

Lesley grabbed her to stop her falling, then the tears flooded out.

“Oh, Lesley,” she sobbed. “What am I going to do?”

The barmaid sped-read the text. The dead man wasn’t named, the injured weren’t named, but the location of the shoot-out made it clear that this couldn’t have been anything other than Johnny Too’s big job.

Geraldine clasped Lesley tightly. “Is it John?” she asked.

“It doesn’t say, honey. It’ll be OK. Give me your mobile.”

Lesley rang the Ned. No answer. Then she rang Harry Tyler and went straight through to the mobile message service. Finally she rang Sandra Baker. The phone was answered by a soft, cultured voice. Lesley hadn’t spent all her life among duckers and divers not to realise who was at the other end of the phone.

“Hello, this is BT,” she said calmly. “Is the subscriber at home, please?”

“No, not at the moment. Can I help?”

“When would be a convenient time to call back? We have a number of discount schemes he may be interested in.”

“Try calling tomorrow. Goodbye.”

The line went dead. “Old Bill,” Lesley said simply. “Come on, we’ll get a taxi back to yours. Hopefully Harry will ring and let us know the SP. Chin up, Geri. Johnny’s too sussed to let the Filth fuck him.”

Harry Tyler never did ring, but gradually the full story filtered through – everyone had been nicked. Lesley reassured herself that Harry must have been scooped up as well. They spent a lot of hours waiting fruitlessly by the phone that night.

At 5.30 am a dozen front doors in South London were smashed in, so hard, the cops joked, that they must have hit the back doors. No one could have realised the tidal wave of police retaliation would be this enormous. Everyone who had ever sold Harry Tyler counterfeit currency, guns, drugs and virgin cheque books found themselves sitting in the cells of six south east London police stations. The raids continued throughout the day. The Lions wouldn’t be roaring quite so loud at the New Den this Saturday.

Maurice Bondman gave Johnny Too the bad news in his
one-to
-one, private, client-solicitor chat at Walworth police station. Bondman was so paranoid about the consultation room being bugged that he wrote it down: “Harry Tyler is the grass.”

The words hit Johnny Too like a punch in the face He shook his head violently in disbelief. “Fuck off, Mo, you’re well wide of the mark,” he said.

Bondman broke his pencil trying to scribble a reply and reached for his pen.

“Just tell me, you prat,” snapped Johnny.

“It’s true,” the solicitor replied in a whisper. “I don’t know the full facts yet, Johnny, but a number of your associates whom we represent were arrested this morning for supplying your dear friend…”

He paused to point his stubby finger at Harry’s name…

“Him, with various illegal items.”

“Who?”

“Johnny, it would be easier for me to tell you who hasn’t been detained this morning.” Bondman pulled out an A4 sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his pinstripe suit jacket and passed it to Johnny Too. It showed seven names next to seven serious offences.

The gangster read the list twice, then, shaking with rage, he screwed the paper up like the Queen strangling a brace of fatally wounded pheasants.

“That fucking piece of shit is DEAD,” he roared. Johnny shouted so loud that two uniformed custody suite officers came racing in. Maurice Bondman dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

“Privileged conversation, chaps,” he said. Johnny Too regained his composure. “Is there anyone who’s not been nicked?” he asked.

“The police are still looking for Douglas Richards.”

“Right,” said Johnny. “You’ve got…” His voice trailed off as he realised they could be bugged. “Give us yer pen.”

Johnny Too wrote Harry’s name, his home address and the address of the Trojan pub in Stratford in Bondman’s notebook. He thought for a moment, then wrote in capital letters: “KILL THE CUNT AND BLOW UP EVERY FUCKER IN THE BOOZER.” The colour drained from Bondman’s face as he read it.

“Johnny, I can’t have any part of this.”

Johnny Baker grabbed him by his tie, pulling him towards him and almost choking him in the process.

“Listen, you piece of shit, you do as you’re told, you crooked little bastard, or your name goes on the list, too, capice? That message goes to Dougie, right. As far as I’m concerned that’s a done deal. End of conversation.”

Maurice Bondman looked at his client. He was going to protest, but Johnny Too’s eyes radiated such menace he didn’t dare.

Tower Bridge magistrates court had rarely seen such commotion. The accused were lined up this Monday morning like a queue for a garage in petrol crisis week. One by one, the Baker firm were wheeled in and sent down in custody. No bail was granted. Johnny Too was the last one in. The crowd in the public gallery drew a breath. But Baker was determined to play the part. He was cocky, arrogant, angry.

He waved theatrically to the crowd like Royalty. “Keep yer chin up, John,” shouted one old Cockney. “Silence in court, or you’ll be removed,” snapped the clerk. “The prisoner may sit.”

Johnny Too sat down and turned to the public gallery. It was packed, mostly with tearful women dressed suitably in black out of respect for brother Joe. Johnny looked hard at Lesley Gore nestled in the throng just to the left of Sandra. He blew a kiss at his wife then turned and snarled at Lesley, shaking his head three times. The barmaid fully understood. She was anticipating a good hiding just for letting Harry shag her.

The court arena was awash with CID, shitters. One on one they were nothing, Johnny thought. But that was academic now. He turned to face the clerk.

The hearing was a foregone conclusion. The Crown Prosecutor virtually sleepwalked through the formalities. Slowly, he informed the court that three men were under armed police guard in hospital, one man was dead, and that a significant quantity of Class A drugs had been recovered. Some passion came into the QC’s voice as he explained why Baker should be denied his liberty.

As Johnny Too was led away in custody he blew a kiss to Sandra. It was all the trigger the crowd needed.

“What about the murdering coppers?” shouted Joey Baker’s mother-in-law. “Why ain’t they up there?”

The public gallery erupted with vocal support for her and Johnny Too. Officers rushed to quell the disturbance and push the spectators out in the street. Uniformed police in full riot gear toured the area in carriers for the next four hours, but there was no further disorder.