Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2)

by Garry Bushell

  ‘What the hell have you done to your hair?’ his wife gasped.

  ‘Wha’s that?’

  ‘Your hair, Harry.’

  Kara had baby Alfie in her arms. Harry blinked as he tried to take it all in.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Well, what?’

  He rubbed his head as if he’d forgotten shaving off his locks.

  ‘I can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I? Why didn’t you have a sensible trim? It’s awful, you look like some Neanderthal Mitchell brother. It’s horrible and your breath reeks of onion.’

  Harry raised an eyebrow. What did having no hair have to do with smelling of onion? Women!

  ‘I fancied it short,’ he said.

  ‘But why that short? You look like a thug.’

  ‘Do I?’ Harry couldn’t be bothered with this shit. ‘Can’t you feed the baby, darling?’ he said. ‘I’ve gotta be up for seven in the morning.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice to see you after a fortnight too.’

  ‘But you woke me up. You started on me as soon as you fucking saw me, nag, nag, fucking nag. It’s not like you were waiting up for me.’

  ‘You don’t know what it’s like coping with these two …’

  ‘OK, that’s it. I’m going a-bed. Talk tomorrow.’

  Harry was up, showered and gone before baby Alfie had so much as gurgled; his early start was preordained – he was helping out the local drug squad, but even a routine house search was more inviting than another domestic ruck. At 7.05am, he was plotted up in an unmarked car with Sergeant Alan Stead and PC Brian Offer a few doors down from a ramshackle terraced house at the rough end of the roughest council estate. Stead was reading the Daily Star. The younger man, Offer, looked over his shoulder from the back seat.

  ‘He’s a dark horse, in’e?’ he said.

  ‘Who?’ grunted Stead.

  ‘Black Beauty.’

  ‘Fuck off, Brian,’ Stead and Harry said as one, Harry adding, ‘That’s as old as the hills.’

  ‘How about the inflatable boy who went to his inflatable school with a pin, heard that?’

  ‘Do we want to?’ sniped Stead.

  ‘The inflatable headmaster told him: you’ve let me down, you’ve let yourself down and worst of all you’ve let the school down.’

  Harry groaned. ‘Can we get cracking on this one, Al?’ he moaned. ‘I don’t think my ribs can stand the strain.’

  ‘Hold up,’ said Brian. ‘Man goes to the doctor and says, “Doctor, I think I’m a moth.” The doc says, “You need a psychiatrist, why come in here?” The man says, “Well, you left the light on.”’

  ‘Thank you, Jimmy Cricket, and goodnight,’ Harry muttered.

  ‘Tell him one of yours, H,’ Alan implored. ‘Go on, a proper gag.’

  ‘OK … right, twenty-four sailors and a Page Three girl are washed up on a desert island. After a week, she is so ashamed of what they are doing to her that she kills herself. After another week, they are so ashamed of what they’re doing to her that they bury her. After another week, they’re so ashamed of what they’re doing to each other that they dig her up again.’

  Alan Stead roared. ‘Now that’s funny!’

  ‘Bernard Manning, nineteen eighty-six. Why don’t doctors like to give old women smear tests?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Well, have you ever tried to pull apart a toasted cheese sandwich?’

  ‘That’s sick!’ Brian protested.

  ‘That’s fuckin’ wonderful.’

  ‘Shall we get to work?’

  ‘Come on.’

  The three men left the vehicle and crossed to number 14. The garden was an overgrown tip, its unkempt lawn strewn with litter and broken appliances.

  Stead rapped on the door. No answer. He hammered on it more forcibly.

  ‘Who is it?’ an irritated but tired voice came from inside.

  ‘Ground Force,’ Brian Offer wisecracked under his breath.

  ‘OPEN UP!’ commanded Stead.

  The door opened. A skinny guy with unkempt hair peered out. He was only wearing a pair of grubby-looking underpants with piss stains on the crotch.

  ‘David Cooper,’ said Stead.

  ‘Yeah, who the …?’

  ‘Police, and we have a warrant to search these premises. Stand aside, sir.’

  Cooper crossed his arms and hunched his back as the three men entered. They were immediately hit by the smell – a mix of cats’ urine and stale dope. Everything about the Coopers screamed white trash from the portrait of a crying boy hanging in the hall to the week-old Daily Sport on the kitchen table. The living room was even more squalid than the garden. The wallpaper was peeling, there were no carpets on the floor, just ancient linoleum, and there was a sideboard with no doors that was overstuffed with junk. Even Rab C. Nesbitt would have looked down his nose at the decrepit three-piece suite. There were springs coming through the seats, stuffing spilling out of the side and a few cushions bearing the images of Hindu gods scattered about to try and disguise the crappiness. Where had they got that from, thought Harry, a DFS sale in Calcutta?

  Within minutes, the cops found what they were looking for: seven cannabis plants were being expertly cultivated under a 600-watt HID lamp with horizontal mounted reflectors in the loft, and there was about three ounces of sweet leaf drying in the airing cupboard, along with a smaller quantity of Swazi X Skunk.

  Cooper, the guy with the green fingers, was a 26-year-old unemployed father of four, married to skull-headed Melinda, who was of a similar age and worn appearance. Harry had never seen a woman this pale; she had a complexion like putty and tits like the proverbial slate-layer’s nail-bag. He would rather suck on a crack pipe, he thought. And what was she wearing? A fucking J-cloth? Both of them looked filthy, like they lived under the carpet.

  ‘It’s for our own personal use, officer,’ Cooper wailed. ‘It’s nothing to do with me wife.’

  Melinda looked up at him pathetically, their youngest a babe in her arms.

  Brian Offer wasn’t impressed. ‘You just said for “our” use,’ he said. ‘So you are both being arrested for possession with intent to supply and with cultivating it.’

  Harry shook his head. ‘Alan, do they both have to get nicked? She’s got the kids to look after. It’s only a bit of puff.’

  He knew he shouldn’t have intervened, it wasn’t his search warrant, but the evidence of the futility and deprivation of the Coopers’ miserable existence was all around them. What harm did a bit of home-grown do anyone?’

  Alan Stead half-turned and said dismissively, ‘They’re both being arrested. We’ve found some drying in the airing cupboard and around fifty plastic cash bags that they sell it in upstairs. Plus PC Offer has found about sixty quid in notes in the bedroom.’

  Harry nodded and bit his tongue. Sixty quid! Well, that makes all the difference. They had a regular Bonnie and Clyde here, bang to rights. Sixty fucking quid. This operation was costing ten times that just by them being at the house.

  David Cooper had slumped into his rotten old armchair. The support springs had busted long before, so he was almost sitting on the frayed carpet. He looked even smaller and more pathetic sitting down than he had standing.

  ‘Thanks for trying to help, mate,’ Cooper said.

  Harry looked at the boney little scruff-bag. If he’d been drowned at birth it would have saved the tax-payer a fortune in benefits.

  One of the Cooper kids grabbed his legs. He was a fair-haired boy with big brown eyes – a living image of the pathetic crying boy in the hallway. The kid looked up at Harry and shyly scooted back to his dad. What chance did that chavvy have of making anything of himself? He’d go straight from school into the welfare system without ever attempting to do a day’s hard graft, just like Mum and Dad. The words ‘work’ and ‘ethic’ would not feature in their school syllabus. If they went to school, that is. The lot of them would be better off in chokey than in this pokey hovel.

  ‘That’s
OK,’ Harry said evenly. ‘That’s life, pal.’

  Alan Stead allowed Melinda Cooper to call her mother over from one of the neighbouring houses to tend the kids while their parents were being charged.

  As they waited he pulled Harry outside.

  ‘Have you gone soft, H?’

  ‘Sorry, mate, I was out of order.’

  ‘I thought you’d gone all social worker on us.’

  ‘Nah, I’m just having a rough time indoors, mate. It’s making me sentimental.’

  ‘We’ll keep this to ourselves then, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks. I’d appreciate that. No worries.’

  Stead went back in the house. Harry knew that he was wrong. By local police standards, this was a reasonable bust. The Coopers had been selling puff to some grateful neighbourhood teenagers. Yet Harry had spent years of his life teeing up real players, some of the biggest drug importers in the country. And to go from that to this kind of under-class chickenfeed was messing with his head. Not that it gave him the right to question the enthusiasm of these young officers.

  Back at ‘the factory’, Ipswich police station, Harry Dean sat through the debrief and wrote up his notes, before popping into the canteen for a black coffee. He sat alone, staring at an opened copy of the Daily Mail on the table but not taking any of it in.

  ‘Call for you in the office, Harry.’

  There was no response.

  ‘Call for you in the office, H. Hello, is there life on Planet Dean?’

  Harry looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘Call for you in the office,’ the young constable repeated. ‘Some DCI. He didn’t want to leave a message, he’s hanging on for you.’

  ‘Thanks, Tony.’

  Harry got up slowly and took his coffee with him.

  ‘Hello, DC Dean,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Hi Harry, it’s Barry Green, how are you?’

  Harry snapped wide awake in an instant. DCI Bazza Green was head of the Essex undercover unit, based at Brentwood, a fine man indeed.

  ‘Hello, guv, how are you? How can I help you?’

  ‘Harry, can we have a meet? I’ve got some West Mids lads down and I need to put something to you.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘No, this needs a face-to-face.’

  ‘I’m pretty free now, guv, but the job car is tied up with the local drug squad boys.’

  ‘That’s no problem, we’ll be across to see you early afternoon.’

  ‘What time, boss? Only I’m off at three. There’s no budget left, no overtime.’

  ‘We’ll be there by one-thirty at the latest.’

  At 1pm, Harry looked out of the office window into the station yard and saw DCI Green emerge from the passenger side of a dark green Ford saloon; with his beer-drinker’s belly and his piss-taker’s smile on display. He was accompanied by a lean and angular, casually dressed Asian male and a portly middle-aged fellow in a crumpled suit whose demeanour screamed, ‘Look at me, I’m a Copper In Disguise.’

  Harry felt strangely elated.

  Fifteen minutes passed before his phone rang.

  ‘Ipswich CID, DC Dean.’

  ‘Harry, Superintendent here, come down to my office please.’

  ‘Yes, sir, on my way.’

  This was all very odd. The Super’s office door was shut. Harry rapped, heard a muttered ‘Enter,’ and went in. The trio were sitting around the office table with Calder MacKenzie a dominating presence behind his large leather-topped desk.

  ‘What the fuck have you done to your barnet?’ laughed the DCI.

  ‘Hello, boss, yeah, bit tight to the wood. How are you?’

  Bazza Green had no time for small talk. ‘Harry, you’ve been away too long, languishing here with Mr MacKenzie. We’ve got a big one on and no one to fit into it. Harry, we want you back in the unit.’

  This wasn’t just music to Harry’s ears, it was a heavenly chorus of angels screaming hallelujah over a fanfare of trumpets. But he controlled his reactions.

  ‘Sorry, guv, I’m out of it.’

  ‘Harry, goddammit, listen to me. We need you back, I want you back and Mr MacKenzie here is happy for you to come back.’

  The DCI raised a familiar ox-coloured briefcase. It was Harry’s old UC case, the one that had housed his various passports, driving licences and fake identities over the years.

  ‘Harry, we’re saturated with good work,’ he continued. ‘I just haven’t got the quality people to deal with it. This is DI Kumble from Walsall and DI Collier I think you know.’

  ‘No, guv, I don’t think we’ve met. Look, the point is I’ve told the missus I was out and that’s it. It was a big thing to her.’

  ‘DI Kumble runs a UC unit in the West Mids. You were good pals with Darren Blackman, weren’t you.’

  Harry nodded mutely. Blackman was an outstanding detective sergeant in the West Midlands who had looked after Harry when he had done some work for their serious crime squad some years earlier. Unusually, Harry had stayed in touch with him and whenever West Ham had played Villa they would meet up for a beer after the game. Blackman had put Harry up overnight more times than he could remember. He was a Black Country man from Wolverhampton with an accent that made Noddy Holder sound aristocratic. He was also a devout family man and a bloody good copper.

  ‘Darren Blackman has been nicked, Harry,’ the DCI went on.

  Harry’s mouth swung open like a broken stable door.

  ‘What for?’ he asked.

  ‘He was caught in Brum with fifty snide scores and a hundred snide tenners. He is in deep shit. He is involved with a team working out of Preston who DI Kumble believes are printing them.’

  ‘Where do I fit in?’

  Kumble raised his right hand to intervene. ‘Only his wife, my team and a very limited number of people know that we’ve got him,’ he said. He spoke softly in an educated voice that still betrayed traces of his native Dudley. ‘He has agreed to testify against the counterfeiters but we need the printer. Blackman has agreed to help by putting a UC in, but he says he wants you or no one.’

  Absent-mindedly, Harry ran his hand through hair that was no longer there. Darren, bent? It couldn’t be. His family, his poor bloody family, Sue and the kids. And Kumble, who did he work for? The rubber-heelers, obviously.

  ‘Look, boss,’ he said finally. ‘I need to think this one through. I’ve got to talk to the missus for one thing.’ Harry paused, not relishing that conversation one iota. ‘How deep in the shit is he?’

  ‘Up to his nose and sinking,’ said Kumble.

  ‘He’s looking at eight years’ worth, Harry,’ said Bazza Green. ‘This is his only way forward, to cleanse his soul and be born again. And you’re the only man who can help him. You know what the alternative is.’

  Yes, Harry knew only too well. Prison meant hell for a copper, permanent segregation or going amongst the prison population and taking whatever crapulence comes at you until they get bored and move on to the next target.’

  Barry Green held up the oxblood briefcase again. ‘You want to take this home with you, H? It’s just how it was when you gave it to me.’

  ‘How much time have I got?’

  ‘Sunday night, yay or nay.’

  ‘Four days. Christ.’

  ‘On Monday we have a meeting with the Crown Prosecution special case work section,’ said Kumble. ‘Certain authorities have been given, but I have to tell them where we’re going with this.’

  ‘Where’s Darren now?’ asked Harry.

  ‘In a special unit at Walsall,’ Kumble said. ‘His wife and children are at her mother’s, but the cover story is that they’ve all gone to their holiday home in Normandy. This is two weeks old already and that’s why Sunday is the cut-off.’

  Bazza Green put the briefcase down in front of Harry. He so wanted to pick it up it hurt, but how was he going to tell Kara? He shook hands and left the room, stepping over the case as he went. Harry walked away from MacKenzie’s office slowly. He was in a sombre mood.
He didn’t need four days to make his mind up; he already knew what he was going to do. Halfway down the corridor, he stopped and retraced his steps.

  He tapped on the office door.

  ‘Enter.’

  Harry walked in. The four men watched him in silence as he reached down and picked up the case. He looked at DCI Green unsmilingly and said, ‘I’ll ring you at home on Sunday, guv.’

  No one spoke. Harry turned and left, closing the door silently behind him. What would he say to Kara? What could he say? In the event, Harry Dean told his wife nothing about his afternoon meeting whatsoever.

  All Kara Dean wanted out of her life was a happy family, healthy kids and a husband whose job didn’t entail him disappearing for months on end in the name of a dangerous secret life. She had thought Harry wanted the same as her, but now there were alarm bells going off all around her marriage that even the dimmest of women would hear, and Kara wasn’t stupid by any account. Forceful maybe, single-minded for sure, but dim she wasn’t. The tension between the two of them had been growing since before Alfie was born. She could tiptoe around Harry’s glowering resentment, but when her husband regularly greeted her with a look that said ‘please disintegrate’, even she couldn’t wish the problem away. Kara shivered at the memory. They used to be so good together. Of course, the sex had died down – with two young kids and no money for a nanny there was no way round that. But it wasn’t just the sex with Harry that she missed. It was the spring in his step and the twinkle in his eye. Kara had spoken to her mum about it, to no avail. Deep down she knew she had to make some kind of peace move now or lose him, and that meant that she had to get through his iron guard and make him open up about all the crap that was messing up his head. She had planned to seduce him the night before but the silly sod had come home with a gulag haircut and set her off. Tonight would be different; she would make sure of that.