Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) (16 page)

‘I want to meet him with you. How soon?’

‘Hang on, I’ll ask.’ Mickey was standing right next to him but Harry shouted as if he were the other side of the car park. ‘Mick, over ’ere!’ He held his finger to his lips so that his companion wouldn’t speak.

Mick walked a few paces away then walked back to Harry, saying, ‘Yes H,’ as he approached.

‘I’ve got my mate on the dog. He wants to have a meet about the furniture.’

‘Yeah, fine, whenever We’re nearly done here. We can take the van if you like.’

‘Van? Yeah, we can come now,’ said Harry. ‘Where do you want us to be?’

‘Do you know Goodwood race course?’

‘I should do, mate, I’ve lost enough dough there in me time.’

‘OK, hour and a half, outside the main entrance.’

‘Sweet.’

Mickey threw Harry a boiler suit. They both put one on, and Mickey smeared an oily rag across his right cheek. Harry weighed him up as he slipped on a pair of steel-toecapped boots. He had lank, greasy blond hair and several days’ worth of darker stubble. Yeah, he looked the part all right.

Van was already parked up in a Mercedes sports car when they reached Goodwood. Sitting next to him was a smartly dressed Italian-looking male. Mickey parked up and they walked over.

‘This is my cousin Mick,’ said Harry.

Van went to shake his hand then, noticing how dirty it was, pulled away. Mickey rubbed his hand clean on the boiler suit. ‘Sorry, boss,’ he said.

Van grunted. ‘This is my friend,’ he said. ‘His name is immaterial. We have an agreement that he will meet you in France to give you the furniture. When are you going over?’

‘Day after tomorrow,’ Mickey answered nonchalantly. ‘I’ve got one drop south of Paris, then down to Lyon. I’ve got a fair bit to pick up and bring back so putting more on the back ain’t a problem. I’ve gotta seal the lorry, though, for Customs, but I can get around that.’

He paused. The Italian stared at him impassively. ‘So where do I collect the furniture from?’

Van looked at his companion. He said nothing but nodded his head slightly. Van produced a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Mickey.

‘Ring this mobile number as soon as you are clear of the French ports. You will be met.’

‘Who by?’

‘The person on the other end of that mobile.’

Van turned to Harry. ‘Are you going?’ he asked.

‘No, but I’ll be about when Mick gets back to unload.’

Van looked back at Mickey. ‘I give you a very big warning now, my friend,’ he said sternly. ‘Do not be even tempted to fool around with our goods.’

Mickey feigned anger. ‘Do you think I’m some kind of muppet? I need the dough to keep my business afloat, pal. What’s yours is yours. Speaking of which, I understand I’m getting a grand up front.’

Van pulled a white envelope from his inside pocket and handed it over. Mick ripped it open and counted £1,000 in used £20 notes. He peeled off £100 and gave it to Harry.

‘How are you crossing over?’ asked Van.

‘P&O, Dover to Calais.’

‘You will be given instructions in France of what to do on your return?’

‘Sure.’

‘Harry, I want you to ring me with the lorry details and what time crossing your cousin is booked on to. I know you are a funny guy, but please understand that this is not a game.’

The Italian stared hard into Mickey’s eyes and then gave Harry the same treatment. Harry met his stare. What was this about then? Was he trying to intimidate them or just looking for signs of weakness or deception?

‘So, gentlemen,’ said Van. ‘That concludes our business today.’

The two men walked back to the Merc. Harry and Mick got back in the van.

‘For the purpose of this tape, both men have just left in a white Mercedes; vehicle licence plate LK761 WAN’ Harry said, speaking slowly and clearly. He recorded the date and time, and gave a full description of the unknown male before saying, ‘I am now turning the tape off,’ and reaching down to switch off the recorder taped to his inside leg.

Mickey started the engine and they headed back to Arundel.

‘Keep watching that mirror, Mick.’

‘Yeah, there’s nothing with us.’

As they drove, Harry put the £100 back into the envelope – the money was now Mick’s first exhibit for any court case – and put a call in to DI Taylor. So far the mission was a great success. A new UC had been planted and the informant, Captain Birdseye, had been extricated without ever being involved directly with the target. Taylor was delighted. Harry could now take a backseat. All he had to do now was liaise between Trevor and Van. He would cut direct contact once the ‘product’ was under police control, leaving Van and Mickey talking one to one, and be out of the equation.

‘What did you make of Van, Mick?’ he asked as they approached Arundel.

‘A cold fish. Definitely Afrikaner. I don’t see him as a Mandela voter.’

‘So not all bad then. How about the Eyetie?’ – he adopted a South African accent – ‘his name is immaterial …’

‘Slimeball,’ Mickey said empathically. ‘But I had him down as a Malt.’

‘No, think back about that suit. Definitely Milan, and almost certainly expensive.’

‘You might be right.’

‘Have you ever known me be wrong?’

‘Well, H, I don’t know you but I hear good things about you. Taylor thinks the sun shines every time you drop your strides.’

‘Sweet kid. Where are you out of?’

‘Islington.’

Harry paused. ‘You heard of the Nelsons?’

‘’Course. Bad lot. Nicky Nelson’s an animal. Why?’

‘No reason. You Arsenal?’

‘Yeah. You?’

‘West Ham. You know Tiger?’

‘Everyone knows the name.’

‘You weren’t a rucker?’

‘Me? No, mate. I was a good university boy.’

‘What d’you study?’

‘Social psychology, got a 2:1 at UCL.’

‘Fuck me. I’ll watch what I say around you. How do you relax off duty?’

‘Oh, the usual, H. I spend several hours a night in chat rooms pretending to be a twenty-five-year-old virgin millionaire.’

‘Really?’

‘I met up with this girl Jenny I met on the Net last week, an eighteen-year-old billionaire’s daughter from Texas. She turned out to be forty-two, twenty stone and cross-eyed, a copy typist from Lewisham who stunk of garlic.’

‘Not Jenny from the block then?’

‘Jenny from Cell Block H more like. I dunno, if you can’t trust some desperate stranger you meet on the Net, who can you trust?’

Harry laughed. He liked Mickey. He had boyish charm and a ready wit, but Harry could tell from the way he moved and his compact build that he was no mug.

‘Maybe we should meet up back in town when this is all over, with the other halves if you like, get a beer, take in the dogs if you like.’

‘I like. But what say we leave the girls behind and make for Stringfellow’s?’

‘It works for me.’

Anyone trailing Harry and Mick would have seen them park up and wander off for a sandwich in Arundel town centre. In reality they were ‘doing the block’ – making sure they were clean of any counter surveillance. Satisfied, they made their way to a small beach in West Wittering, a few miles out of Chichester to meet up with DI Taylor who had secured the use of a nearby holiday home caravan. The two UC officers removed their tape recorders and made their notes. The money and tapes were then handed to Taylor. Harry was now pretty much out of the game, but he sat with Taylor and Mickey as they ran through the next part of the operational plan. It was 11.15pm by the time they had finished. Mick offered Harry a lift back to London, but he settled for the hotel in Chichester where he crashed out like a spanked B52. Lights out, goodnight nurse.
Friday was Darren Blackman’s funeral. Harry sent a wreath but didn’t go. The thought of spending time with a bunch of hypocrites saying what a great guy Dazza had been when they had stabbed him in the back turned his stomach. Instead, Harry checked out of the hotel and made his way to London Victoria by train. He tried ringing Dawn several times on the way back, but both her work phone and her mobile were on voice mail and there was no answer at home. He’d sort her out later. She’d be OK. Harry was back. But first he had paperwork to complete and expenses to fiddle, so he took the tube from Victoria to Vauxhall and the National Crime Squad offices. He got hold of Mickey, who was at Dover Docks and gung-ho for the job, then headed back to South Ockendon. Dawn wasn’t home and one of her suitcases was missing. Maybe she’d gone to her mum’s. He rang. Jack, his ex-father-in-law was short with him.

‘She’s gone off to the Lakes to see her sister. She wants to get away and have some thinking time.’

‘Did she seem OK?’

‘Why are you back in her life, Harry?’

‘These things happen. How was she when you spoke to her?’

‘Don’t muck her about, Harry. Does your wife know what’s going on?’

‘She is my soon-to-be ex-wife, Jack.’

‘You’re making a habit of that.’

‘Now that’s not fair.’

‘She has left her mobile at home, there’s no point trying to ring her.’

‘She didn’t say she was going away.’

‘Something happened. She won’t talk to me or her mother about it. We assumed it was down to you.’

‘Not guilty, not this time.’ Dawn obviously hadn’t told her old man about Bernard’s brothers turning up on her doorstep, but she told Harry she had, presumably to put his mind at rest. Bollocks. ‘When’s she back?’

‘A couple of weeks, I suppose. That’s what she told her work. I heard her, she rang from here.’

‘Have you got her number up there?’

‘She specifically said she didn’t want to talk to anyone.’

‘OK, Jack. See you soon.’ You old cunt, he thought.

Harry toyed with the idea of driving up to the Lake District, then thought, why bother? She’s out of harm’s way up there. Let her chill out. He had time to himself, time to check out an old friend. There was a litre of Jack Daniel’s in the bar. Sweet.

It was Saturday afternoon when Harry opened his eyes. Bored, he drove over to Brentwood police station and read up on a few ongoing operations that he might be fed in to. There was nothing overly exciting, a couple of jobs in the Smoke for buying one or two handguns but nothing promising long-term infiltration.

He put a call in to DI Taylor. ‘How’s Mick doing, boss?’

‘He rang last night. He’s dropped off the load and made contact with the other side. The meet’s on tomorrow.’

‘Any problems?’

‘He’s not impressed with the French surveillance team.’

‘No surprise there.’

‘He said he’d driven up this steep hill and all the lads who were supposed to be following him were snaking back all the way down the hill while other drivers were zooming past him.’

‘Typical French. I’ve worked with them before. Hot-heads. We know ’em as the “Can’t Use New Technology” brigade.’

‘Eh?’

‘It’s an acronym, guv. Can’t Use New Technology – like see you next Tuesday.’

‘Yes, very good. You’ve heard nothing from Van?’

‘Not a dicky bird. Have your people housed him or the Eyetie from the car or the phone number?’

‘The mobile’s an unregistered pay-as-you-go. The Merc is a false plater that’s shown on the PNV as a BMW up in Hartlepool.’

‘You thought of getting his photo to Interpol to check against their red dockets?’

‘What’s a red docket?’

‘Interpol colour-code their most wanted. Yellow’s a missing person. Red is international arrest warrant. I think Green is for known terrorist, something like that.’

‘No, I’ll give that a try. Mickey has told them where he is picking up tomorrow and he’s to expect a call early in the morning. He’s booked on a P&O tomorrow night for the return. Is it worth ringing Van?’

‘No. No reason to. They’d expect Mick would ring me to update me so no, that might spook them.’

‘Good man, H. I’ll be in touch.’

Sunday morning, 6.30am. Harry Tyler’s pager and mobile exploded into life simultaneously. He grabbed the mobile.

‘Yeah?’

‘Harry?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Harry, it’s DI Taylor. Have you heard?’

There was a tremor in his voice.

‘No, what?’

‘Christ, Harry, the wheels have come off big time.’

‘What? What’s happened?’

Someone else was trying to get through on the mobile. The pager was still bleeping urgently.

‘I don’t know the full story yet, but it’s all gone pear shaped. The villains had a meet with Mickey and apparently as the transfer was taking place the French police have either shown out or dived in and all hell has broken loose. There are reports that Mick has been shot, there’s stuff coming through on TV now.’

‘Christ, no! How is he?’

‘It’s all confused. It doesn’t look good.’

‘Why? What d’you mean?’

‘The co-ordinator is saying four went to hospital with gunshot wounds. We believe that two didn’t make it.’

Harry went silent.

DI Taylor continued, ‘We don’t know but they’re saying it looks like the two blacks who turned up handed over a couple of bags and when they thought it was on top one of them shot Mick. But the French are saying they only went in ’cos they could see what was about to happen. They’re saying it was heroin in the bags, nothing else.’

‘Guv, give me a few minutes. Where are you?’

‘My office. This all happened about an hour and a half ago.’

Harry felt sick. ‘Someone else has been trying to get through on this number all the time we’ve been speaking. Give me a while, I’ll ring Van, see if we can flush him out into the open.’

Harry had six missed calls on his mobile. No messages left, no caller details. He rang Van’s mobile. It went straight to voice mail.

Harry Tyler sat up in the lonely bedroom and prayed for the phone to ring and for either Mickey or Dawn to be on the other end of it. There was nothing, not even the dawn’s chorus from the back garden. All he could hear above the silence of death was the beating of his own heart.

By 10am it was confirmed. The lorry driver – Michael Bailey – and a Zimbabwean drug runner were dead. A second African was wounded and a French officer had been injured with a broken arm. Twenty kilos of good-quality heroin had been recovered but Van – full name Eugene van Heerden – and the Italian – who Interpol finally identified as Matteo Vetrano – had vanished never to be seen again. There was a possible sighting of van Heerden in Marseille just over a month later but he was never caught.