Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) (18 page)

Charles hesitated. ‘Only for you, Dad.’

Buck sighed. ‘You boys give me your word, no aggro, no tools, I’ll sort out a meet and we all talk.’ He looked Nicky in the eyes. ‘Well?’

Nick returned his stare, his gaze didn’t waver. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘No problem.’

Buck held the stare. ‘No problems?’

‘I just wanna know when my money’s coming home.’

‘Charles?’ Buck asked.

‘Same.’

‘Georgie?’

Georgie shrugged. ‘No problem.’

‘David?’

‘All for one and one for all, Dad.’

‘Then I’ll sort it.’

‘When for?’ asked Nicky.

‘Soon as.’

The way Buck relayed the meeting to Bernard was a lot like the way the Fox network was to cover the imminent Iraq War.

‘Are they up for it, Dad?’

‘There’s definite interest, son.’

‘Do they hate me?’

‘They’ve got issues, which is understandable, but hate is too strong a word. Given time I’m sure it’s gonna be tickety-boo.’

God, Bernard loved his father. A lot more now than when he was a kid; then Buck never showed any emotion, preferring to communicate through a series of orders and demands, judging every one of the children’s actions, watching them like a hungry hawk, ever ready to pounce. What they said, wore, watched, who their friends were, how they ate, it all came under scrutiny. But listening to him now, he could feel the love coming out of the old man. In Buck we trust.

‘Here’s what I want you to do,’ his father was saying. ‘Get your arse down to the Man Of Kent pub in Charlton next Monday afternoon, three pm. You know it?’

Bernard grunted.

‘That gives me the weekend to oil the cogs of diplomacy. Come alone, we’ll meet with your brothers, we’ll see what business can be done.’

God, Bernard loved his dad.

On the day, he nearly didn’t show. Bernard had been physically sick in the morning. But years of guilt combined with the hope of appeasement drove him on. He passed the Man Of Kent at 2.50pm – his father’s silver Merc was on the forecourt – and parked a couple of streets away. This was it. The family were gonna be reunited again.

Bernard sat in the car for a few minutes, psyching himself up with a CD version of ‘Entrance Of The Gods Into Valhalla’. Taking a deep breath, he got out of the car and marched towards the pub, affecting the manner of Harold Shand’s arrival at Heathrow in
The Long Good Friday
. This was it, he was OK, this was it, his family was waiting, they would make peace, his dad would make sure of it.

At three minutes after 3pm, Bernard pushed open the door to the bar. Nicky had been sitting at a table with the others, his back to the entrance. As his brothers fell silent, he turned slowly to face the black sheep. One look at his face made Bernard realise that you could no more reason with Nicky Nelson than you could bareback ride a shark.

There was no one else in the pub except Pete the landlord who took his cue to disappear upstairs, saying simply ‘Help yourselves to drinks, Buck. Call me if you need anything.’

Bernard stood in the doorway, uncertain whether to advance or retreat. Buck walked towards him, smiling.

‘All right, Bernie, it’s OK, son.’

Buck bolted the wooden street door behind Bernard’s back. The pub felt as cold as an unmarked grave.

Bernard studied the faces of his brothers nervously. They had aged but they hadn’t changed. Buck steered him by the elbow. ‘Come and sit down, son. Let’s get it over with.’

As Bernard sat he could feel the eyes of Charles and Georgie burning into him like lasers.

Nicky spoke first. There was no hint of emotion in his voice. ‘Say what you’ve got to say then tell us when we’re getting weighed in with our wedge,’ he said. ‘Then as far as I’m concerned you can fuck off back into the woodwork and die.’

David and Georgie nodded in agreement. Charles was visibly shaking in his chair with anger.

Bernard began to speak, but his throat was dry. He knew the words he wanted to say, yet all he could see was himself falling over as a three-year-old and his mum picking him up saying ‘Whoopsadaisy’. Where are you now, Mum? I’m falling again. Pick me up, Mum. But of course, Mum had been going quietly mad ever since Richard had died.

‘I … I … I …’

‘Come on, man,’ snapped Nicky. ‘You’ve had fucking long enough to get this right.’

‘I … know you hate me …’

‘You’re not wrong!’

‘But I’ve come to put things right.’

Charles exploded. ‘Put things right, you piece of shit? You’ll never put things right. What’s this bollocks about Bulgaria? How many times do you think you can take the piss out of us?’

‘Let me tell you what the score is, Bernard.’ Now Nicky was talking. ‘By my reckoning you owe us two hundred Gs a piece. I’ll take fifty grand this time next week. You don’t stump it up, we all come looking for you, and if you ain’t got it I’ll cave your fucking head in.’

And that was it. Nicky Nelson was on his feet heading towards the bolted door, with Charles and Georgie right behind him. David looked at Bernard and shook his head, more in sorrow than anger, then got up to follow his brothers.

Charles had the last word. ‘You can count your fucking blessings too. It’s only because we gave the old man the nod that you’d be sweet that you’ll be walking out of here today.’

The door slammed. All the colour had drained from Bernard’s face. He sat there as if paralysed. Buck was slumped in the chair, staring down at his feet, shaking his head.

‘I’m sorry, boy,’ he said softly. ‘I tried.’ He put his hand on Bernard’s shoulder and squeezed it.

Bernard got up and strolled behind the bar, helping himself to a brandy, which he downed.

‘They are mugs, Dad,’ he said. ‘Fucking mugs, the lot of them. This hasn’t been easy for me.’

‘Give them time. I’ll speak to them later. Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to move this on so quickly.’

‘Nah, don’t bother, let it go. Fuck ’em.’

‘What about their money?’

‘Nicky is off his nut. Where does he think I’ll get that from? He must be stir crazy.’

‘Tread careful, boy. Sort out a lump of cash for them and they’ll come round. It’ll take time, but they’ll come round.’

‘It’s not going to happen, Dad. I’m sinking everything into the property.’

‘Then I can’t help you, boy, you’re on your own.’

Bernard shrugged.

Nicky Nelson’s deadline came and went. Bernard made no attempt to contact any of his family again. Not even Buck. He didn’t need them in his life. Not now, not ever.

Nick sat across the dining table facing his father in Buck’s plush – ‘worth three mil now, son!’ – detached home.

‘Has he rung you?’

‘No.’

‘So ring him.’

‘No point.’

‘So Golden Bollocks just walks away with it again, does he?’

‘What do you want me to say? He’s your brother, he’s my son.’

‘He ain’t no brother of mine. You seem t’forget we’ve left a real brother in the ground.’

Buck was silent.

‘Richard was a real Nelson, proper flesh and blood. Not that piece of filth.’

Buck nodded. ‘I can’t tell you to wipe your mouth, boy, that’s for you to sort out, but I can’t help you to do him harm. I won’t be a part of it.’

Nicky was expecting that answer and had his game plan already in place.

‘S’OK, Pops. I respect that. Shake on it?’

Relieved, Buck proffered a hand. They shook firmly.

‘Fuck me, Dad, you’ve still got a grip on yer.’

‘There’s life in the old dog yet.’

‘So what about this extension you’re having done, you got the plans to show us?’

‘They’re upstairs. I’ll get ’em for you.’

Nicky didn’t hesitate. As soon as his father had left the room he was rifling through his jacket for his phone book, a dog-eared black diary with gold edging. Nick quickly flicked through it to ‘B’. Sure enough, there was a new mobile number next to Bernard’s name and an address. He wrote down both on a blank betting sheet with a William Hill pen – both brought along for this express purpose – then hurriedly replaced the phone book. Just in time – he could hear Buck approaching over the marbled floor. Nicky sat back, hands behind his head, eyes closed.

‘Here y’go,’ beamed Buck. ‘Take a look at this.’

‘Pukka,’ said Nicky enthusiastically. He took his time examining the plans, eking every detail out of his father as if he really did give a shit. He took a Bloody Mary and shot the breeze about everything – golf, Arsenal, the crap on the telly, Bose sound systems, Buck’s cancer treatment, his illogical faith in sharks’ cartilage pills, even his Ladro collection – everything except the man whose face was etched on Nick’s mental shooting gallery, the soon-to-be-dead Bernard Nelson, former brother turned treacherous pariah. But minutes after he had sped away from the house, Nicky was on the phone to Charles: ‘Get hold of the others,’ he said with a smirk. ‘I’m on me way over. I’ve got the scum’s mobile and his fucking address.’

Fifteen minutes later, the Nelson brothers convened in Charles’s kitchen.

‘Suggestions?’ said Nicky.

‘I say we torture the cunt, hang him upside down from the forty-third floor of Canary Wharf,’ opined Georgie. ‘See what falls out of his pockets then.’

‘We could set up a honey trap,’ said David.

Nicky shook his head. ‘Why bother? We know where he is, you doughnut.’

‘Whatever we do we should make him shit himself first,’ said Charles with a smile. ‘Ring the maggot up and tell him he’s got a day left or we’re coming to skin him alive.’

‘Like it,’ said Nicky.

Bernard heard his mobile ringing. He was in the kitchen pulling the cork out of an ice-cold bottle of Chablis. ‘Shall I get it?’ Helena Keaton called out.

‘No, it’s OK. You learn your lines, doll. I’ve got it.’ He picked up the phone. ‘Hello.’

‘I gave you a week to stump up fifty grand,’ snarled Nicky. ‘Where’s our money, you piece of shit?’

Bernard froze. Fear and paranoia ripened in his silence.

‘You think you can knock us?’ spat Nicky. ‘You think ’cos the old man gave us a red card last week that that’s it? It’s just begun. Where’s my fucking money?’

Bernard collected his thoughts. ‘I’ve told you, every penny I’ve got is invested in Bulgaria. It’s bricks and mortar. It’s safe as houses. You’ve just gotta be patient.’

‘I gotta? I gotta nothing. I’ll tell you how it’s gonna be. I’ll be over to see you in a day or two, maybe meet in your local. And I won’t be leaving empty handed.
OK
, bruv? That’s it, final warning.’

The line went dead.

Georgie was laughing. ‘What d’e say?’

‘Not a lot,’ grinned Nicky. ‘That’s fucked his head. He thought he’d got away with it and there’s me, his worst nightmare, on his private mobile number letting him know we know where he is. He’s shitting it.’

‘So, where from here?’ asked David.

‘He’s got nowhere to run,’ said Charles.

‘Exactly,’ agreed Nicky. ‘The day after tomorrow, we go take a look at beautiful downtown South Ockendon. We pay the maggot a home visit. He coughs up, he’s fine. He plays up, we play tram-lines on his boat.’

Once the fear subsided, Bernard was bemused. His brothers might have got hold of his mobile number but there was no way they knew where he was holed up. His dad thought he was in Tottenham, anyone else who asked was told South Ockendon. The lovely and accommodating Helena thought his surname was Hopkirk – as in
Randall and Hopkirk (Deceased)
. He’d better a put a call in to Dawn in a day or two, warn her to be vigilant, just in case. But he could afford to play a waiting game. For now, at least.

‘Who was that on the phone?’ asked Helena.

‘Max, one of the builders. There’s a problem with some of the materials, the supplier. I’ll sort it tomorrow. Wow, you look great. Wanna fuck?’

‘You smooth-talking bastard.’

Four days later. Dawn Grogan had had a hard day at work, and had come home craving a glass of red. She didn’t like to drink alone but Harry was away, and she knew when she had opened the bottle that she’d drink it all to herself. It had been a bad week. Lots to do at the office, too much internal politics, and an unsettling visit from the brothers Nelson the day before. What a bunch of maggots. She would do what she’d promised Harry and let her dad know about it just as soon as she’d popped her WeightWatchers meal in the oven. It said on the packet that it could be microwaved but Dawn was never entirely convinced about it. It seemed to overcook the outside and undercook the rest.

When the phone rang she knew it would be Harry checking up on her, but as soon as she answered it the line went dead. She dialled 1471 but there was no caller ID. Definitely Harry, probably in a bad service area. The front doorbell rang behind her. Almost without thinking Dawn opened the door, expecting a neighbour.

Four figures swept in, all wearing ski masks. The first one pushed her roughly to the floor, covering her mouth with a gloved hand. The others stormed through the house, crashing open doors. Dawn looked up, trying to find the intruder’s eyes, hoping to find a spark of decency in them. He pushed down harder on her mouth and she started to cry. The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick roll of gaffer tape, which he rolled around her head several times, covering her mouth completely. He kneeled astride her, pinning her down. Dawn was convinced she was going to die. The man put a finger to his lips, warning her to be quiet. Dawn nodded agreement, although how he thought she could make a noise through the tape was beyond her. One by one the other three returned.

‘Nothing. He’s not here,’ said one in a strong London accent.

Dawn’s mind was racing. Who were they after, Bernard or Harry? Then it hit her. They were the same build as the men who had turned up the day before. They were Bernard’s brothers. The man kneeling on her spoke calmly but forcefully.

‘Where is Bernard, do you know?’