Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) (22 page)

On Bhatti’s advice, Nicky said nothing more during the interviews, which lasted all day. Then, in the final session, Bhatti asked for time for a private consultation with his client. They talked in hushed tones for about ninety minutes before surfacing for air, and then Bhatti indicated that Nicky was ready to continue. They let the interview recommence and, after the formalities, Bhatti simply handed two loose sheets to the investigating officer, Detective Sergeant Mike Kinsey, saying, ‘My client has chosen not to answer your questions but has prepared this signed written statement. You are welcome to this original but I require a photocopy of it please.’

This was another delaying tactic employed purely to cause confusion; Bhatti knew full well that as soon as he’d come out of the interview room he could have surrendered it and obtained a photocopy there and then.

‘Is this document subject to legal privilege?’ Kinsey asked.

‘No,’ replied Bhatti.

‘Who wrote it?’

‘I did, at the dictation of my client.’

Kinsey turned to Nicky. ‘Mr Nelson, is this your signature here at the bottom?’

Nicky Nelson nodded but said nothing.

‘Is that a yes? I note for the purpose of the tape that you are nodding.’

Nelson looked at Bhatti who nodded at him.

‘Yeah,’ he grunted.

‘Mr Bhatti I would like to study this document before we continue the interview. Could you time and date it at the bottom of each page please.’

‘Yes, but I would like the statement read out for the purpose of the tape before we stop the interview.’

‘OK, I agree. I’m having difficulty with your handwriting. Would you read it please?’

Bhatti nodded and read it aloud. The gist was simple. Nicky claimed he knew nothing about the death of his brother David or who had murdered him. Of the other deaths, he stated that Bernard had arrived at his brother’s house and, following a dispute about money, he had produced a shotgun from his postman’s bag and had shot Charles at the front door. The statement alleged that Bernard had been using hard drugs for years and it had warped his mind. He speculated that the death of his brother Richard had obviously pushed him over the edge, as the postman’s uniform proved. He detailed previous escapades when he claimed that Bernard, a fantasist, had turned up at their houses dressed in the regalia of a Catholic priest.

Kinsey looked at Nicky. ‘Do you agree with that statement, Mr Nelson?’

Nicky looked at Bhatti, who nodded.

‘Yeah.’

‘Interview terminated at 1935 hours.’

At 2100 hours, Nicky Nelson was released on police bail for four weeks. The cops might as well have said, ‘No further action.’ As far as Nicky was concerned he was in the clear. As he was handed his bail form, he whispered in Bhatti’s ear.

‘Oh yes,’ said the solicitor. ‘Officer, my client has a question to ask. Once the post mortem is complete and inquiries concluded, how long do you anticipate before the bodies are released for burial?’

Mike Kinsey shook his head. ‘Can’t say, sir. I’ll give you a number to ring, the incident room number.’

‘Yes, oh, and my client will be seeking money from the Criminal Injuries Compensation Authority. Who will arrange for the forms to be sent to him?’

Kinsey was having trouble keeping his cool. ‘Ring the incident room, Mr Bhatti.’

‘Thank you, officer. One last thing. I presume the incident room will appoint a family liaison officer to help console Mr Nelson at the sad loss of so many members of his immediate family?’

Kinsey considered a flippant remark, but bit his tongue. He didn’t want to give this little weasel any grounds for a complaint against the police as well.

‘Ring the incident room, Mr Bhatti.’

‘Yes, yes. Thank you, officer.’

The lawyer turned to Nicky. ‘Come along, Mr Nelson, I’ll drive you home.’

And don’t forget to wipe his arse, thought Mike Kinsey.

The funerals of all four brothers took place together three weeks later. Nicky had considered having Bernard’s body cremated elsewhere but he knew that would finish Buck off. The old man looked frailer than he had ever seen him, smaller, gaunter. A ghost already. Plus, as Bhatti pointed out, a separate cremation would only get the police asking more questions and no one wanted that. So, to satisfy his sense of justice, Nicky made a private arrangement with the funeral parlour for Bernard to be buried face down in his coffin – just so he’d be heading the right way on his journey to eternal damnation.

The turnout at the old family cemetery in Islington was not quite of Kray Twins proportions, but it wasn’t far off. The Nelson brothers had it all: the black-plumed drayhorses, a jazz band, the expected fleet of top-quality limos. Every face in North London was there that day, every knuckle-dragging ape-man, every wannabe face, along with flocks of sightseers and media ghouls. There were some six hundred mourners, and hundreds more lining the streets. Grown men wept like widows, and Marigold, the Nelsons’ mad mother, had to be kept in check by aunties Jas and Heather. But everyone agreed the saddest sight of all was David’s daughter Katy, still showing signs of shock. The poor kid broke down when the four coffins were removed from the horse-drawn coaches to be carried shoulder high by family associates.

Even the sun showed its respect, shining on the vicar as he performed the sombre graveside ceremony. If it had been a wedding it would have been beautiful.

Afterwards the mourners drifted away, the hardcore and the chosen following Buck Nelson’s Merc back to his old Islington club for the wake. Only a handful of people stayed behind waiting as Nicky said his final words of farewell to his brothers. He turned and faced his small audience.

‘My family has been buried here for three generations,’ he said solemnly. ‘This is Nelson soil. My grandfather lies just over there, alongside Nanny Nelson. Granny and Grandad Brown are just over the crest of that hill. And now my brothers are laid out here, side by side, as in death as we were in life. And my mother and father will be buried next to them, in many years to come, please God, and then I’ll be there too, alongside them. United again.’ He paused and began to walk past the graves. ‘Me and my Richard and David and Georgie and Charles …’ He stopped at Bernard’s grave, stared hard at the head stone. ‘But not you, you don’t belong here; you ain’t going where we’re going. You can rot in hell, you fucking maggot.’ He aimed at mouthful of gob at the plot.

Nicky’s two cousins grabbed hold of him to restrain him.

‘It’s OK. I’m OK. But when Mum and Dad go, I’m having this cunt disinterred and sent out to sea with the sewerage.’ One week later. Police activity was at a crescendo. Mike Kinsey was at the eye of the storm. Yes, brother Nicky had murdered brother Bernard, and the probability was that he’d been involved in the assassination of Charles, Georgie and David too. There was no way of proving or disproving that. But there was at least one other person involved in David Nelson’s murder: the biker.

Since David’s death, that same motorcycle had been involved in an armed robbery in Caterham, Surrey. This time the bike had been found covered over in nearby Godstone. Enquiries found that the motorcycle, a Kawasaki 1100, had been purchased by a person giving false details nine months earlier. The salesman recalled only that the man had paid in cash and looked ‘ordinary’. He remembered nothing more about the buyer. There was nothing of any forensic value on the bike either, and door-to-door enquiries revealed
nada
. But the armed robbery had been pulled off by two leather-clad men and this was since the death of Bernard. So the possibility remained that there were two other suspects for the murder of David Nelson at large. The police had Bernard’s photograph published in every national newspaper, to try and flush out anyone who had seen him with two men. This flustered Harry, who wanted the no-leads case to be buried as quickly as the brothers had been. Nicky was the problem. If Bernard had said anything to Charles before he’d shot him implicating another man’s involvement then Harry could find himself in the frame. That was the only way the ball could be rolled back at him, though.

Poor Dawn knew nothing. She was still recuperating in the Lake District with her sister, who hadn’t told her about Bernard’s death. Harry had made check calls on a weekly basis. Dawn’s sister hadn’t wanted to talk to him, but he was insistent. What he heard wasn’t good. Dawny was still messed up about it, totally withdrawn and living like a recluse. She wouldn’t talk to anyone and refused point blank to see a doctor, psychiatrist, or even the village vicar. She couldn’t adjust to the shame of what had happened to her.

Then Harry Tyler got the call he had hoped would never come. Dawn had locked herself in the bathroom, taken an overdose and slit her own wrists. Her lifeless body was found in the bath with the cold tap running to carry away the blood. She hadn’t wanted to make a mess.

No one knew for sure what the trigger had been, but the fact that Bernard’s picture had been shown on the
Six O
’
Clock News
that evening could not be discounted. She left two suicide notes. One, which was for general consumption, apologised for her weakness and begged for her family’s forgiveness. The second was a private note to her sister, begging her never to reveal the truth about her violation to their parents, and asking her to read one passage to Harry. It said simply: ‘You were the love of my life, my soul-mate, my personal jester, my knight in shining armour. I’ve never met anyone like you, a man who could hit so hard but touch so softly. Oh Harry, I am so sorry I ever cheated on you. I know now that you and me were meant to be together and I would like you to forgive me for never giving you the family we were meant to have. I’m gone now, but I will still be with you. In the tinkle of the wind chimes, in the tides of the sea, in the late autumn breeze. I will walk in your shadow, I will laugh when you laugh. I will love you always, my darling.’

When he heard those words, big tough Harry Tyler broke down and sobbed for what felt like a lifetime.

March 9, 2003. Nicky Nelson, blissfully unaware of the death of a woman whose life he had destroyed and whose name he had forgotten, stood silently looking at a row of family graves. The flowers, the wreaths and the small posies were all decaying, but very soon they would be replaced with fresh ones. That morning, the specialists had given Buck just days to live. Nicky stared blankly at the tombstones. There was nothing but bitterness in his heart.

‘God be with you, my child,’ said an elderly passing rector.

‘God? There ain’t no fucking God.’ Nicky raged. ‘If there was a God, why would he take my family from me? God is dead, grandad, and so will you be if you don’t fuck off.’

The old man retreated without further word.

Nicky stayed at his brothers’ gravesides for another ninety minutes. Soon Dad would be with them. At least he would find the peace that Nicky was denied. God? There weren’t no fucking God.

Finally he turned and walked back towards his car. His shoulders were hunched, his head bowed. He looked a broken man. Nicky passed through the cemetery gates and turned left, walking down towards where his car was parked. He was oblivious to everything around him. He never heard the car engine start behind him. He took no notice as it sped down the road towards him. It was only when the old Ford Granada suddenly swerved on to the pavement and slammed into his legs that he became aware of it and by then it was too late. Nicky’s smashed body flew through the air and crashed into the solid brickwork of the cemetery wall. As it landed, lying limp on the pavement, the Granada reversed at speed on to his body. The near-side tyre bounced across his throat. He died immediately. As the car then sped off, the driver allowed himself a smile of satisfaction.

His only regret was that he couldn’t dial a Southall number and utter the immortal words: ‘Potman, pizza to go.

T
he man sat alone on a corner table in the Atlantic Bar, off Piccadilly Circus, but he asked the waitress for three of their trademark Brimful of Asha cocktails – Plymouth gin macerated with fresh pomegranate, mint and lime, with ginger beer. He considered these to be a snip at £8.50 a go.

‘He looks your sort,’ the barman observed camply. ‘Mean and macho but obviously rolling in it.’

‘He’s a bit weird, though,’ the waitress whispered. ‘I asked if anyone was joining him and he just shook his head. Nice eyes, though.’

‘Nice arse too.’

Harry Tyler loved the ambiance of the Atlantic. He felt chilled out in the low-lit Art-Deco den with its blood-coloured walls. He’d had the fish platter the last time he’d been in, with a brass from Mayfair, and Robbie Williams had been on the next table, as friendly as you like. But tonight Harry wasn’t here to socialise or to star-spot. He was here to toast the dearly departed.

The waitress lined up the three drinks in front of him. They looked like knickerbocker glories. He tossed her a £50 and said, ‘Keep the change.’

Harry didn’t even notice her grateful smile.

He rearranged the cocktails in a diagonal line. This one was for Darren, this one was for Mickey, and the last one was for dear sweet Dawn. ‘I got them for you, darling,’ he muttered. ‘Every last one of them.’

After running Nicky Nelson down, Harry had driven the Granada to an abandoned church in a side road in Brixton, South London. That night he had returned, doused it in petrol and set it alight, leaving the windows open to feed the flames with oxygen. When the police found it the next day there were no leads. It was a real professional job. Mike Kinsey’s team was on the case. They discovered that the vehicle had been purchased with cash years ago. The identity of the owner could not be established.

Harry Tyler knew he was in the clear. Anyone who could ID him was dead. Life without a safety net, right?

For the next month Harry threw himself back into police work. It helped him forget about Dawn, and about Kara, their divorce – now absolute – and the kids he never saw. Work would set him free. Work by day, JD by night – it helped him get to sleep all right.

April 21, 2003. Top brass at Scotland Yard had called an urgent meeting with very odd guidelines. There were to be no minutes kept and no record of who was there. The room was small but well stocked with coffee, tea, biscuits and mineral water. When all ten bodies were at the table, the most senior officer rose and spoke. ‘Gentlemen and lady,’ he said gruffly. ‘We all know why we’re here but I shall spell out the facts. A top UC man has become a loose cannon. Our Intell tells us that the officer, and we’re all briefed as to who he is, has become involved in the most serious of crimes.’

Hands reached for pens as the briefing continued in standard police speak. ‘We have had a confidential report from the senior commander of the Covert Technical Unit revealing that he has been approached by one of his staff, a chap called Robinson. Robinson states that the officer in question asked him to house a man from a mobile telephone and that the address he gave the officer was in Beckton, East London. Number 55 or 57. The civilian worker has now been moved to the Sutton Technical Support unit pending possible disciplinary charges. Further, the murder squad based at Islington police station investigating the deaths – and there are plenty of them – of the Nelson brothers, have submitted a report that following a newspaper appeal concerning the brother Bernard Nelson they were provided with eye-witness sightings of him leaving that same Beckton address. The murder team recovered photographs of Bernard Nelson from that location. In some of them he is with a woman who they have identified as one Dawn Grogan. This female is the one who was apparently raped by three masked men in a film recovered from the home address of Charles Nelson. This woman is also identified as the ex-wife of the UC officer. The rape had not been reported and we learn, sadly, that she committed suicide after a complete psychiatric breakdown. Her father is an ex-police officer and intelligence tells us that he, and most of her family, are unaware of the rape. Our source for this confidential information is the coroner’s officer, who was approached by one of the deceased’s sisters. A systems check also reveals that the officer in question used his PIN number to access the national computer records prior to the deaths of the Nelsons and he downloaded information and photographs of all the deceased men. The same officer also submitted an operations information request through his Essex force before he rejoined Covert Operations branch, and amongst genuine checks he submitted his ex-wife’s full name requesting details of where she lived. He presumably had lost touch with her. Bernard Nelson, we know, had been the ex-boyfriend of the lady, and house-to-house enquiries reveal that he had suddenly disappeared from the scene a few days before a man fitting the description of the UC officer moved back in with her. She told a neighbour the new man was her ex-husband. There is also a witness – not a good one, but a witness nevertheless – a waitress from a café in Beckton who recalls seeing Bernard Nelson with another man, whose description matches the officer, deep in conversation the day before the Nelson brothers were murdered. The officer’s duty sheets have been checked and it’s possible that it was him. All roads therefore lead to Rome. So, what are we going to do with him? It is a matter of record, of course, that all of the witnesses are dead.’

Another senior voice piped up. ‘If I may, sir, we certainly have grounds to bring him in for questioning. We can at the very least sack him on the spot for disciplinary offences.’

‘Yes,’ said a third man. ‘But we all know our major problem – the damage he could do if he were to be convicted. If he went the wrong way on us he could sign the death warrants of hundreds of top informants worldwide. He knows the identities of several long-term sleepers that we have planted in terror groups and crime organisations; and he has in previous covert operations been witness to cover-ups concerning politicians, judges and senior churchmen. Not to mention the indiscretions of the former leader of a very senior foreign power …’

‘Right,’ said the original speaker. ‘There we have the dimensions of the problem in a nutshell. The security services are represented here’ – he nodded at the power-suited female – ‘so let’s cut the bullshit and roll up our sleeves. Where do we go from here?’

The woman smiled imperceptibly. ‘I would say, gentlemen, that we have to think laterally …’