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.
CHAPTER NINE
UNTOUCHABLE
The 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 …’
CHAPTER TEN
THE THOUSANDTH MAN
Harry Tyler wasn’t fazed when the request came through from the intelligence services. It wasn’t the first time he’d had the call. Harry had worked for the NSA – the Yanks had fed him into the London end of a Camorra drug importation sting in 1995. It made world news. The Camorra had been infiltrated by anarchists and were blackmailing Billy Swagg, a leading US politician who had been caught in a highly compromising position with two other men. Unsurprisingly the pair had been part of an ingenious set-up designed to entrap Swagg, a high-ranking Democratic senator whose status depended entirely on the strident support of a passionate but easily shockable Southern Baptist electorate. The Camorra used his access to the diplomatic pouch to walk top-quality cocaine through Customs. There was a bonus. The senator’s wife was the PA to an intelligence director, and so Swagg had also been squeezed into spilling military secrets that she was feeding him unwittingly during their pillow talk. It had been Harry who artfully substituted the real bag for a substitute, beginning a process that blew the game out of the water.
The messy saga resulted in resignations at the highest level, thirteen anarchists being murdered in Corsica, a handful of busts for possession of large quantities of Bolivian white gold and the striking if inaccurate Sun headline: ‘Swagg Skag-Bag Blag’.
Harry’s British link to American intelligence had been a shadowy and horsy MI5 agent known as Bernadette, or behind her back as Bernie the Colt. Bernadette was a plump, very ordinary-looking Northern Irish girl with a first-class history degree from Cambridge. She was forty-something and described herself privately as ‘a Catholic Paisley-ite’. Through her work she was well connected to Irish dissident groups, Spanish ETA me
mbers, the Italians and the Italian-American ‘businessmen’. Bernadette made it plain that she had little time for the police, whom she considered blundering, stupid and corrupt. In fact, Harry suspected she had little time for men, full stop. But somehow he had developed a strong working relationship with her in their brief time together and she had been impressed with his operational skills. So it was the icing on the cake when Barry Green told him that not only had MI5 requested his assistance with a little Irish problem but that also he would be liaising with the newly promoted field chief, an agent code-named Bernadette. One and the same. The only other information Green could give him was that an Irish group had linked in with al-Qaeda and that the Irish were known to be sourcing a route for an unknown commodity into the UK.
Bernadette had arranged to meet Harry in Belgrade. The reason was never made clear. He had spent the morning looking round the shops of the Serbian capital – you could get Italian designer gear here for about a third of the price in the West, so he had stocked up. Now Harry was sitting outside a pavement café in New Belgrade with his back to the Danube eating Kajmak cheese and reading Cass Pennant’s book on West Ham hooligans: Congratulations: You Have Just Met The ICF. Bernadette turned up half an hour late, but that didn’t surprise him. She was seldom on time. She strolled up looking like a tourist with her flash digital camera around her neck and a ready smile.
‘Harry, love, how is it with you?’ She gave him the standard two-cheek Euro kiss and sat down opposite him. ‘Sorry I’m late, I’ve got some simply marvellous shots of the St Sava cathedral and the cobbled streets of the old nineteenth-century Skadarlija Bohemian quarter. It’s amazing. They have an Irish bar here too, can you imagine? And a band called the Orthodox Celts who plays Dubliners songs so well you could never tell ’em apart. I can’t wait to hit the Tram bar tonight.’
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