February 1, 2002. Harry stepped out of the shower, dried himself down and dived under the duvet, putting his arm around his woman. This was Dawn’s bed, in Dawn’s house, but the woman who turned round to face him was not his first wife but his second.
‘I want you, Harry,’ Kara said. ‘I want you to fuck me hard.’ Harry’s body responded immediately to her desire as he trailed a hungry tongue from her breasts to her clitoris, gently darting and flicking, lapping and kissing. Kara moaned and writhed in response, her fingernails digging deep into his shoulders.
‘So, this is what you get up to when I’m out.’ Dawn’s words hung heavy in the air.
Harry spun round, his face aghast. ‘Dawn, I …’
‘I’m not angry, Harry,’ she said, unbuttoning her blouse. ‘I just hope you’ve got enough there for both of us.’
‘Let me help you with that,’ said Kara, unzipping Dawn’s skirt and pulling it down to the floor. Dawn stepped out of her panties and joined them in the bed, her hand seeking out Harry’s straining erection. Kara unhooked her bra and smothered the back of her neck in kisses.
‘I’ll ride him first,’ said Dawn sternly. ‘After all, he is mine now.’
She straddled him, sitting upright above his groin, thrusting her pelvis backwards and forwards, harder and faster as Kara stroked his balls with her nails. They came simultaneously. There was a seismic quality to Harry’s orgasm. He felt drained.
‘Is this a private party or can anyone join in?’
Startled, Harry stared at the suited man who had materialised at the end of the bed. Who the f …?
‘Bernard!’ gasped Dawn.
‘Bernard?’ said Harry.
‘And these are my brothers,’ said the man, who was suddenly joined by four heavy-set lookalikes, each of them leering and laughing.
‘Make them go away!’ screamed Kara.
Harry leaped out of the bed, his fists clenched. The four began to tug at their necks, tearing away the skin on their faces to reveal snapping alligator jaws.
‘LIZARDS!’ shouted Bernard, diving towards the open window. ‘They’re all fucking LIZARDS!’ He threw himself out. Kara screamed. Dawn screamed. Harry was being shaken …
‘Are you OK, Harry?’
‘Uh, what? Yeah …’
‘You just sat bolt upright in bed shouting gibberish.’
‘Sorry, Dawn, bad dream.’
Harry took a moment to gather his senses. Mercifully Dawn was the only one in bed with him. Where the fuck had that come from?
Dawn was lying next to him with the bedside light on reading Porno by Irvine Welsh. He’d bought it for her to make a change from Martina Cole novels, saying it was ‘mildly racy’ but knowing it was full of filth that he hoped might be turning her on right this minute. She put the book down and looked at him.
‘You’ve been a bit strange even by your standards lately,’ she said. ‘Quiet in the daytime and unsettled at night. You got something on your mind?’
Harry decided against telling the truth – too freaky! – and played the sympathy card instead.
‘That fucking letter I got from Kara yesterday, calling me a psychopath. That’s enough to rattle anyone.’
Dawn laughed. ‘I make her right. You look at the symptoms and tell me you aren’t one. A psychopath doesn’t feel guilt, lacks emotion, is self-destructive and can’t empathise with other people.’
‘What are you on about? Of course I empathise with people. I couldn’t do me job if I couldn’t do that.’
‘You get on with people, granted, but only to serve your own purposes, Harry. It’s superficial. You befriend people to turn them over.’
‘Can I turn you over?’
‘No. You are one of the most single-minded, self-absorbed people I have ever met, which I suppose makes you good at your job but hell to be married to. What about those kids of yours, why don’t you have them here?’
‘What good would that do them? I don’t work regular hours, it’d be mucking with their minds to only see ’em once in a blue moon. They’ll have a step-dad soon enough, I know what Kara’s like.’
‘Convenient.’
‘Realistic.’
‘Callous, selfish, inhuman.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘The truth hurts, eh, Harry?’
‘What about your Bernard?’ said Harry, who’d had enough of being on the defensive. ‘Have you heard from him at all since we … y’know?’
‘I thought we’d agreed not to discuss him.’
‘Yeah, but I’m just curious as to why he stopped coming round here out of the blue like that.’
‘No, I haven’t heard from him.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘A few days before you lurched up, lagging and blagging.’
‘And shagging. How was he then?’
‘Strange,’ she said slowly. ‘I saw him on the mobile in the back garden. He looked ill, ashen faced. When he came in he didn’t say a word. I asked what was up and he looked like he was going to be sick. He didn’t answer so I asked again. He said he had a problem and had to go out. He didn’t come home again that night and wouldn’t answer the mobile. I went to work the next day and when I got home there was a note saying he’d taken all his things and gone.’
Harry sat up. ‘What did it say?’ he asked.
‘Just that a problem he had buried years ago was coming back to haunt him and he had to get away for my sake as much as for his. He said he was sorry and that he loved me. He said he couldn’t explain and that for my own safety he wouldn’t be in touch. That was it. I cried for a week. Then late at night the doorbell rang. I knew it was Bernard. I opened the door and there you were, silly pissed.’
‘So it wasn’t a completely rotten month then.’
Dawn said nothing.
‘Do you think the lizard men have got him, or something more mundane like he was married and the missus had tracked him down? You said he had a few bob.’
‘He seemed to. He had nice clothes, all designer stuff. He bought me those Dolce & Gabbana trousers I love. He could have been married, I suppose. He was always very quiet, never spoke much about his past. I never met any of his family. I know he’d lived on and off in Spain but really that was it. Bernard was very guarded.’
‘Villain?’
‘Why is it that everyone is a villain to you?’
‘Come on, love, obviously there was something not right. Did he work?’
‘No, not really. Lived off his savings.’
‘You said his family were hounds?’
‘So he said, but he wasn’t.’
‘Did anyone know you as a couple? Did he take you to meet anyone who struck you as mildly villainous?’
‘We went up the Tavern a few times, he knew some heavy-looking blokes there but we didn’t socialise with them.’
‘Did they know you were together and living in South Ockendon?’
‘Yeah, but we never said where, I don’t think.’
‘And he wasn’t on the voters’ register as living here.’
‘When the bloody hell did you check that?’
‘That’s how I knew where to find you.’
‘And there was me thinking Cupid had given you a lift here in his gilded chariot.’
They laughed. ‘He didn’t want to draw attention to himself,’ Dawn went on. ‘So he wouldn’t go on the register. And you know what else was odd? His mail came with different surnames.’
‘What names?’
‘I thought he was Kelly, then I saw B Tindall on another letter and once, when I overheard him on his mobile, I heard someone say, “How are you, Mr Nelson?” So I honestly haven’t got a clue. I never saw a passport or a driving licence.’
‘Sounds like a fraudster to me.’
‘Well, whatever, he treated me all right and, anyway, I’m over him now so it doesn’t matter any more. If he walked in this house tomorrow I’d send him packing ’cos I’ve got you again now …’
&
nbsp; ‘And once you’ve had the best, why mess with the rest?’
‘Big head.’
‘And not just the head either.’
‘You even exaggerate the size of that. It’s not that big, you know, Harry. It’s just … comfortable.’ She paused. ‘You know what else was odd?’
‘What?’
‘He even went through the photo albums and took all the pictures with him in them with him.’
Harry mused. ‘English?’
‘Londoner.’
‘White?’
‘Of course.’
‘Big dick?’
Dawn hit him round the head with Porno.
‘Don’t do that. Irvine wouldn’t approve.’
‘No, he’d want me to tie you down, inject you with “skag” before lubricating the book with my own vaginal juices and shoving it firmly up your arse. I can’t believe you have got me reading something so disgusting.’
‘And I can’t believe it hasn’t made you horny.’
‘Who says it hasn’t?’
She sank into his arms and that was the rest of the morning taken care of.
February 4, 2002. Monday morning; Harry travelled by rail to Chichester to meet with a DI Taylor. He had memorised the surnames Dawn had mentioned and would get them checked out when this new job was done. Better safe than sorry. David Taylor was a young fresh-faced detective from the new school. He’d been a uniform constable, uniform sergeant, had passed his inspector’s exams and someone had whispered that it would be good for his CV to be a detective. He was pleasant enough and certainly keen but he was greener than the Hulk with septicaemia. Rumour had it that Taylor’s briefcase, which he always carried, contained a ‘What To Do Next’ case scenario book covering every tick-box eventuality. When Harry was a young recruit, these were all things that a good DI knew instinctively through their grounding in the job. Now it was all storybooks.
Taylor and his Detective Sergeant, Ray Machin, picked Harry up and drove him to a nearby country pub, The Lamb in Birdham, a few miles from the city centre. All he knew about the operation was that it involved Portsmouth. Taylor got a round in. Harry, who all because of one throwaway remark about ‘love handles’ from Dawn, was trying out the Atkins diet, asked for a vodka and Diet Coke and a beef roll; then he sat scooping the meat out as the other two men sipped pints; light and bitter for Machin, lager top for Taylor.
‘So, are we going to war then?’ asked Machin.
‘You can count on it,’ said Harry.
‘Do you think the West has got a case?’ asked Taylor.
‘I can’t see it. Saddam’s evil, but what’s he got to do with Bin Laden?’
‘It’s all about oil and Israel,’ said Ray Machin. ‘I agree, I can’t see the link to Iraq. Everything about al-Qaeda points to a Saudi connection.’
‘Palestine is the real problem,’ nodded Harry. ‘Saddam is just the fall guy. OK, he’s a tyrant, but so is Mugabe, and Kim Il Sung and the Red Chinese – and they’re the boys with nukes. We can take out Saddam in weeks, but what bothers me is, how will that play in the Muslim world? Will it create another generation of fucked-up suicide bombers?’
David Taylor shook his head. ‘Our intelligence people must know something we don’t. Colin Powell said the other night that we don’t know what toxic chemicals are in Iraq.’
Harry laughed. ‘Blimey, Dave, we don’t know what toxic chemicals are in Liam Gallagher.’
Ray Machin grinned. ‘Eyes up,’ he said. ‘Here’s our man.’
Harry looked up and saw a grey-bearded man in a roll-up pullover walking in.
‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘It’s Captain Birdseye.’
Machin went to the bar and bought the newcomer a pint. After a brief chat, they came back to the table.
‘Harry, this is Frank. He’s got a yacht moored up the road at Chichester harbour.’
The old sea dog gripped Harry’s hand like a vice. Machin patted him on the back.
‘Tell Harry what you know; he’s the top undercover man I told you about.’
As Frank began to speak it became apparent that he had both a stammer and a squint. Harry squeezed his thumb to keep a straight face.
‘Wha-wha-wha-what do you know about b-b-boats, Harry?’
‘Jodie Marsh is welcome to come on mine.’
Frank laughed.
‘V-v-very good, sir. I meant d-d-do you know how to s-s-sail?’
‘No, mate.’
Fuck me, thought Harry, this could take all night. Still, with a bit of luck they’d still have time to play snap for money.
Machin stepped in. ‘Shall I explain it, Frank? It’ll save a l-l-lot of time.’
The older man laughed at the piss-take. ‘G-g-go on then.’
‘Frank has got a friend, no, an acquaintance down at Southsea just outside Portsmouth, and the guy has been approached and asked if he knows someone who can run a package across from France. There would be a nice drink in it for the boatman.’
‘And?’ asked Harry.
‘And what?’
‘What’s the package?’
‘Oh, sorry, yes, well, that’s it. Frank asked the acquaintance and he said he thought it was sparklers.’
‘Why diamonds?’
Frank spoke. ‘Well, b-b-because the man who asked him was from S-s-s-south …’
‘Southampton?’
‘N-n-n-no. South Africa.’
‘So what was the urgency?’ asked Harry. ‘I was told by my people that it was on the hurry-up.’
‘Frank tells us he has to let his contact know by eleven am tomorrow,’ said David Taylor.
‘Well, I’ve got to tell you, boss, I ain’t gonna learn how to sail a boat overnight.’
‘No, obviously not,’ said Taylor. ‘Frank’s got a Contessa 32 and we’ll seek authority for him to use it with you as his crew member to go and collect whatever it is.’
‘I thought a Contessa was a bra,’ Harry wisecracked. ‘And there’s no way furry-face here is a 32.’
‘No,’ chuckled Frank. ‘It’s m-m-my yacht, just up the road a bit.’
Most undercover jobs excited Harry, but this one sounded like a pile of shit. He’d come expecting a major op, and was getting teamed up with Gareth Gates’s grandad on a fucking day trip to Calais. He felt almost insulted.
Harry looked at Taylor. ‘What more do we know?’ he asked coolly.
‘Well, the target is supposedly a captain in the South African police and the C of E has been getting reports that a South African has been trying to recruit small boat owners to run parcels across the water to here. Trouble is, it’s all a bit confused as to what they’re bringing over. Customs have heard variously that it’s tobacco, diamonds, drugs, guns – no one knows for sure.’
‘And of course we don’t know for certain if it’s the same South Efriken.’
‘Fair point.’
Taylor paused. ‘What do you think, Harry? You’re the expert.’
‘It needs a lot of research to progress it, but time is your enemy. You’ve very little intell on it, you don’t know what the commodity is, or who the players are. Excuse the pun, but it looks dead in the water to me. But I’ve not got anything else on the go, so if your lot are happy to pay for it I’ll give it a couple of days and then if it’s a non-runner we can sack it. How’s that sound?’
‘It works for me,’ said David Taylor. Machin nodded.
‘Right then,’ said Harry. ‘Where do I get me roll-neck pullover and clay-pipe?’
Taylor looked at him quizzically.
‘You know, to look the part. The sailor shoes, the Uncle Albert medals.’
‘Christ,’ said Frank. ‘This is going to be the f-f-f …’
‘Funniest?’ Harry asked.
‘No,’ laughed Ray Machin. ‘I think he’s trying to say the f-f-fucking longest two days of his l-l-life.’
* * * * *
Harry stayed the night in Chichester. It was pretty enough but dull. He ended up alone eating a T-bone
steak – medium rare to taste the blood – and overcoming his craving for chips with a superhuman effort of will. Dr Atkins would shortly be added to Harry’s mental shit-list, along with chain theme pubs, actresses who call themselves ‘actors’, poncy waiters who recite the specials of the day and, less rationally, unfortunate people whose necks were wider than their ears.
The Portuguese waitress was a sweet thing, but he didn’t even bother to chat her up. The sooner he was out of this place the better. Besides, he was happy with Dawn. So happy he’d been plucking up the courage to ask her if she fancied making it legal again.
As Harry wandered back to his hotel for an early night, the very thought of her made him randy. He should be curling up in bed with Dawn, not killing time in this dead hole. Casually he rang her number on his mobile. No answer. He left a curt ‘Called, try you again later’ message but didn’t bother. The hotel didn’t have Sky, so he spent an hour listening to Whitmore on his portable CD player, while demolishing a bottle of Brouilly – permitted on Harry’s unorthodox interpretation of the Atkins rules. Just before he dozed off, Johnny Too came to mind. Where was he now, he wondered? Top dog in some category-A maximum security prison, that’s for sure, with evening classes and all the privileges. And no doubt having a better time of it than Tony Martin …
Dawn had been home but when Harry had rung she had just answered the front door. Three heavy-looking men in suits stood in front of her. A fourth, similarly dressed, sat in the driving seat of the car parked across her drive. Dawn didn’t know them, but there was something familiar about all three.
‘Hello, my dear,’ said the nearest man. ‘My name is Nick and these are two of my brothers. We’re looking for Bernard.’
Dawn took a step back. His gravelly voice was heavy with menace even when he tried to be charming. The guy was smiling but that wasn’t the face of a City gent, not with a nose that busted and cheeks so scarred.
Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) Page 13