In the event, Kara didn’t have to make much of an effort. The Harry who came home to her that afternoon was the same Harry she had married. He was smiling and he had a £30 bunch of flowers in his hand.
‘Sorry about the barnet, doll,’ he said.
‘I suppose I’ll have to open my legs for them,’ she said, feeding him the set-up for the Jimmy Jones gag that Harry had treasured ever since his time at Valley Metals.
‘Why,’ he said. ‘Ain’t we got no vases?’
And they laughed like neither of them had heard the joke before.
Harry held Kara close and kissed her tenderly. Both of them realised that his cock had other things on its mind.
‘Later,’ she said.
‘Come on, can’t your mate Sandy baby-sit? Make some excuse up, sling her some dough.’
Kara hesitated. It had been so long, and he seemed his old self again.
Harry peeled £50 in tenners from his pocket wad. ‘Tell her it’s a family emergency and we’ll pick ’em up tomorrow. Express some milk. Alfie will be OK with his bottle; he is for your mum.’
Then he looked at her with those big blue eyes and she melted. They made love five times that night and once more in the morning before Kara went and picked the kids up. She wouldn’t let him touch her breasts, she couldn’t. But in every other respect their love-making was as satisfying and strenuous as it had ever been. Kara had no idea that her husband was seeing his first wife’s face every time he came.
Harry’s good mood lasted all weekend. They even took a drive down to Great Yarmouth and, apart from one phone call he had to put in early on Sunday evening, he seemed happy for once to have his mobile switched off. It was like their marriage had finally made it through their rockiest patch.
Monday morning, 7.30am. Harry had dressed and gone out to his car while Kara breastfed baby Alfie in front of The Big Breakfast.
‘Daddy, can you get me breakfast?’ shouted little Courtney Rose.
‘Can’t darling, gotta rush. Just got to say goodbye to Mummy.’
‘Mummy will sort you out some Frosties in a minute, hon,’ Kara shouted. ‘Make sure you kiss Daddy goodbye.’
She rose with Alfie still on her bosom and walked out to the hall to peck Harry on the cheek. She watched him drop something on the ground as he picked Courtney Rose up for a cuddle. It was an ox-coloured briefcase.
Kara suddenly felt sickness rise in her throat.
‘No, Harry, no. Tell me no.’
He smiled wanly and tried to kiss her goodbye. But she pushed him away.
‘Don’t do this to us, Harry.’
He turned and walked back through the front door.
‘You BASTARD! You lousy stinking cu …’
Harry could hear his wife’s anger turn to tears behind him and Courtney Rose and baby Alfie added to the din. It had no impact on him. Harry couldn’t stop. He was going back.
The bulls were loose in Pamplona again.
CHAPTER THREE
JEKYLL AND HYDE
Saturday, February 9, 2002. Harry pulled up outside a newsagents in Sparkhill, Birmingham. He turned on his mobile and listened to the latest hysterical messages from his better half: ‘You don’t need a wife you need a fucking baby-sitter …’ After a minute or so of Kara’s ranting he grinned and pressed delete. There was nothing else on that phone but her, so he switched it off, took a second mobile off charge and turned that on.
He checked himself in the mirror. He was Harry Tyler again, ‘wide-boyed up’ and looking like the king of bling: gold rings, gold chains, gold bracelets, gold stud in his left ear, the golden twinkle in his eye … the diamond geezer with the silver tongue and solid brass balls. As soon as he stepped out of his lichen green Renault 21, he was stopped in his tracks by the spicy aromas wafting over from the nearby Royal Naim – generally regarded as the finest Balti house in Brum. The piquant smells sucked him through the trapdoor of his memory. Harry had been up this way five years ago, infiltrating a small but vicious team of cocaine dealers. The whole lot of them had been captured bang to rights with ten kilos of Charlie at the Khyber Pass in Alum Rock, another renowned local curry house. He crossed the road and eyed the menu hungrily. He always had his rubies Vindaloo strength. He’d tried the Phal once and it was like French-kissing a blowtorch. No, Vindaloo was his limit. He liked to suffer as much the day after as he did while he was eating it; pebbledashing the bog, ring stinging and looking like the flag of Japan … did that make him weird? He’d never been turned on by shit, not like that pervy little grass he’d worked with in Romford once. Hyland was his name, a proper troll who got his rocks off by being pissed and crapped on. Imagine going out Roger Moore-ing and paying some bored dripper to use you like a public convenience. How would that make you feel? Flushed, probably. He grinned. Right now Harry fancied his usual balti, the tropical – mixed meat and prawn – with vegetable pakora and some roti bread, but he didn’t have time to fit in a scoff before the meet and had no intention of turning up on the job stinking like the Kumars’ khazi. Later, for sure.
Say what you like about Birmingham, he thought to himself, you could get a shit-hot ruby here. Fuck all else, mind. He took the memory chip from his old personal mobile and dropped it down a drain, then he chucked the phone into a bin and sauntered into the newsagents for essential supplies – sugar-free gum, three cans of V energy drink, some bottled water and the latest Viz.
He came out just as a couple of young Asian teenagers accidentally bounced their football off his Renault.
‘Oi, mate, gissa kick,’ Harry shouted with a smile.
A boy of about thirteen innocently tapped the ball towards him. Harry trapped it, turned away from them and booted it as hard as he could in the opposite direction from them.
‘Now piss off and kick up against someone else’s motor,’ he roared.
Sweet. He was back in character already, as easy as slipping into overalls.
The ball collided with half a dozen empties about a hundred yards up the road, scattering them like ten pins. Harry slipped into the car and drove off quickly, leaving the younger lad in tears while the older one sensibly legged it to avoid the wrath of the Rita Webb lookalike already out of her front door in her curlers cursing the kids who had broken her bottles. Harry chuckled as he headed towards Walsall. He was feeling more like his old self already – cocky and mischievous, like a Jack The Lad should be. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view. The barnet was a proper error. Looking like a BNP banner man wouldn’t make him too many pals in this province of Greater Bangladesh. But what could he do? Darren Blackman was in a hole and Harry was the only guy around with a torch and a long enough rope ladder to extricate him. How had Dazza got himself in so much shit? He was a good copper, a clever operator but 100 per cent on the square. Harry started to mull over Blackman’s situation when he found himself stuffed by unexpected roadworks. He began to cut through back doubles, running as parallel as possible to his original route, hoping to come out somewhere reasonably near the supergrass unit at the old Horsa Road police station. Instead, the streets of grim, red-brick terraced houses started to merge into one and he lost the plot. Harry pulled over by a group of Asian teenagers – all male, except for a pretty, shy girl tagging along behind them.
‘’Scuse me, mate,’ he said to the tallest youth. ‘Do you know where Horsa Road is from here?’
The teen looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘Yes, thanks.’ His mates fell about laughing.
‘Wankers,’ Harry barked.
‘Yes, mate,’ the big lad replied. ‘But I ain’t the wanker who’s lost.’ His accent was so Brum it could have been scraped off a goalpost at St Andrews stadium.
Harry drove around looking for a garage to buy a local A-Z. The girl had been cute, he thought. Wonder if she had an older sister at home. There were some stunning Asian babes about: Melanie Sykes for starters. Sunita on Coronation Street on the other hand, that was a moose. The conk on it! Sunita always reminded Harry of
that Hindu elephant god. Definitely a ‘fromby’. He saw a garage and pulled into it, only to spot the ‘closed’ sign on the forecourt. Shit. Sod this for a game of soldiers. Harry rang Horsa Road and got himself talked in. He’d been three streets away.
The building was a defunct police station, surrounded by fifteen-foot-high walls and CCTV security cameras. The front doors were permanently shut and the huge iron gates to the car park were electronically controlled from inside. At the front of the building was a wall-mounted freephone that linked callers to their real ‘local’ police station eight miles away. Like every other arrival, Harry had to leave his car and buzz the entry phone to get in. He pressed the button on the intercom and a roving camera fixed on his face.
‘Yes, identify yourself please,’ said a disembodied voice.
‘I’m expected by DI Kumble,’ Harry replied.
The steel doors clicked and began to swing slowly open. Harry walked back to the car, drove into the yard and parked up. The car park was segregated from the building by a caged fence topped with razor wire. When Harry reached the entry gate, Kumble was there to greet him accompanied by a doughnut in a suit who introduced himself as DS Raven. As Harry followed them up the musty stairway he noticed that Raven had a hole in the sole of his right shoe. His shirt had a threadbare collar too. It was nice to know the rubber-heelers weren’t rolling in it. Kumble’s office door had more security fittings than a Manhattan apartment run by Paranoids Anonymous, but they walked straight through it into a larger adjoining operations office. The walls were covered in boards, which had pictures of several targets on them, presumably the counterfeiting firm that Harry was to infiltrate. The blinds were down on all the windows, adding to the claustrophobic feel of the place. He noticed that there were pull-down blinds above each target’s photo too, presumably to prevent prying eyes from identifying them in the unlikely event that anyone unauthorised got this far into the Black Country Colditz.
‘This is the ops room, Harry,’ Kumble said redundantly. ‘It’s normally staffed by a team of six detectives and two civilians. During the week it’s fully manned. Take a seat.’
The three men sat around the desk that was least cluttered.
‘So, Harry, let’s start it rolling,’ Kumble said. ‘You’ve read the Intell file detailing what’s gone on?’
Harry nodded. ‘Cut to the chase, guv, when can I sit down with Darren?’
‘In about an hour. He’s having a supervised visit with his wife in the secure unit downstairs at the moment. She’ll be driven away in a half-hour. Tea or coffee?’
‘Strong black coffee, no sugar, please.’
Raven was dispatched to make the drinks. When the fat man had left, Kumble said, ‘Thanks, Harry.’
‘For what?’
‘Well, this can’t be easy for you.’
Harry paused for a moment, as if the thought had just occurred to him too. It struck him that Kumble’s concern was genuine, which surprised him.
‘Someone got to do it,’ he answered finally. ‘The meeting I have with Darren, what are the ground rules? Is the room bugged?’
Kumble hesitated. Harry took that as a yes. ‘Cancel that, boss, start again,’ he said. ‘Is the tape of our meeting going to be declared to the CPS?’
Kumble nodded.
Harry stared at him. ‘Does Darren know it’s taped?’
‘No, and he’s not to be told.’
‘Does he know you’re taping his meets with his missus?’
‘No.’
Harry hated jobs like these, but he hadn’t been press-ganged into it. He knew what he’d signed up for. So, an hour to kill.
‘Have you got a telly, guv, so I can watch a bit of the Olympics?’
‘Raven’s got a portable. I’ll get him to lend you it for a bit.’
‘Goodo. I missed the opening ceremony last night. I hear the Yanks have got more troops in Salt Lake City than Afghanistan.’
‘That right? Someone said that India has got one person on their team.’
‘Yeah, imagine the pressure that poor bastard’s under,’ said Harry, deciding against any racial quips. He wasn’t sure of Kumble’s ethnic background but the odds were he’d be PC on the humour front.
‘I’ll send Raven in with it.’
‘Great, ta.’
Harry pulled a face. Britain wanted the Games in 2012. Good luck trying to get the fucking Albanians to go home after that.
At 8.30pm, Kumble led Harry down the back stairs that led directly into what had once been the cell area. It was now converted into a self-contained flat with a separate area in front staffed by three uniformed officers, two of whom were armed.
Speaking softly, Kumble addressed all three at once. ‘This man is a police officer,’ he said, indicating Harry. ‘His details are known to me. He will be entered in the visitors log as “visitor kilo” and nothing more.’
The three officers nodded. Kumble led Harry into a small kitchenette containing a table and four chairs.
‘Do you want me to stay?’ he asked.
‘No, guv, not this time.’
Kumble nodded and left silently through a passageway off the kitchen. When he returned minutes later he was followed by a stooped figure whose face was hidden by shadows. As he came further into the light, Harry recognised him as Darren Blackman but he was shocked by the greyness of his skin and the bags under his eyes. Both eyes were red from crying, obviously a result of the meeting with his wife. Kumble left quickly and Harry went for a pre-emptive strike.
‘Well, you look like a bag of shit, you Brummie tosspot.’
Blackman looked up. He smiled but a tear welled up in his right eyes and rolled down his cheek.
Harry looked solemn.
‘Listen, Darren, if you’re worried about who’s going to give the missus one while you’re banged up, I don’t mind doing it just to help out.’
That broke the ice.
‘Fuck off, you Cockney wanker.’
Harry stepped forward and shook hands. ‘That sodding accent of yours don’t get any easier on the ears, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s the verbal equivalent of piles. Come on then, tosser, let’s sit down and run through it.’
‘Cowson.’
They walked through into the kitchen and sat. Darren’s bottom lip quivered.
‘She’s just told me the marriage is over, H. She says she can’t face a life of uncertainty. As if anyone in the world has got any fucking certainty in their lives.’
His voice was indignant. Hurt.
Harry rejected the inclination to put a comforting arm round his old friend’s shoulders. ‘Sorry, geezer,’ he shrugged. ‘Not the best of times to tell you. But you’ve gotta look after number one now, son. I know the deal you’ve cut with the CPS, you’ve got to get me in and double lively.’
Blackman sat back and closed his eyes for about thirty seconds. Harry waited patiently. When Blackman opened them, it was as if the previous few minutes had never happened.
‘Right,’ he said decisively. ‘Here’s the way in – we go to a call box and I ring the top man. I tell him my wife’s mother in Southampton has passed away and we’re going to be down there for a week or so to sort out the funeral, so I’m sending you, a trusted mucker, up to them in Blackpool to pick up a parcel of twenties and tens, and that the snides are going down to Swindon. I’ll reference you in and it’s over to you. Sound good?’
‘What if he needs to see you?’
‘Kumble’s already thought it through – a controlled meet somewhere, the police surrounded by covert surveillance. He didn’t say if that was for me or your target, though.’
‘What about ringing from a mobile?’
‘No, if I’ve got one they’ll expect to be able to get me on it night and day. They won’t talk on mobies anyway, just call box to call box. I can ring one of their mobiles and give them a box number, they’ll go to a box and ring me. That’s how it works.’
‘Where do you wanna make the call from?’
> ‘Somewhere near Southampton, to make it look kosher.’
They spent two more hours going over the infiltration plan and, when they’d discussed every eventuality, they sat and read over their notes. The silence was broken by Kumble knocking on the door.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
As if you don’t know, Harry thought. ‘Yeah, we’re sweet,’ is all he said.
‘I’ll give you five to say your goodbyes.’
Harry reached over and squeezed Darren’s shoulder. ‘You’ll come through, mate,’ he said.
‘How’s your marriage, H?’
‘You know those rocks yours is on? We’ve just docked in the next bay down.’
‘I’ll always remember what you first told me about your Kara.’
Harry looked blank.
‘You said you were attracted to her by three little words.’
‘Christ, was it something slushy?’
Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) Page 7