‘Order the Alan Bradley cocktail, I hear it’ll knock you dead.’
‘Oh, but you’re coming with me, Harry. We’ll make a night of it. Come on, dear boy, let’s stroll back to Knez Mihailova Street and do some serious shopping.’
Harry waved his hand for the bill. The waitress stood on his shoulder waiting for a tip, which he gladly gave.
Bernadette took him by the arm. ‘All still very reasonable for grub here, love. Unless you go on the restaurant boats, where food and prices vary enormously. We’ll try the Dacha tonight, they do some of the most organically pure food in Europe and we’ll drink all we want and be in and out for twenty pounds.’
Harry chuckled. ‘Like you’re paying for it out of your own pocket, Bernie.’
‘That’s the point, in a place like this I wouldn’t mind if I was.’
She pulled him over and pointed to a café very similar to the one she had just made him leave. ‘Let’s sit here, Harry, and you can buy me a nice organic apple juice from the bottomless pit you call your expenses fund.’ They sat on a corner table, far from prying eyes.
‘So, Harry, this is the coup. I am to meet a connection tomorrow outside the cathedral. The connection is a very well-to-do Catholic, a churchman, let’s say, with ties to the higher echelons of Roman Catholicism back home. He is also the mouthpiece for a group of, well, shall we call them businessmen? – yes, businessmen from the north and south of auld Ireland, who have been known to fund his gambling debts and to supply some very saucy young girls for him. Not the sort of young girls you like Harry, oh no. These young girls are just that: five- and six-year-old girls – from very decent foster homes, you understand.’
‘The old perv. Why can’t he stick to boys like all the other priests?’
Bernie pulled a face. ‘Yes, very droll. Well, the churchman – yes, we agreed to call him that, didn’t we – the man of God, got himself into a little difficulty recently when his usual supplier brought him a little black girl aged six and, well, Harry, would you believe it, he’s also a very racist churchman? What he did to that poor little girl is beyond sad, it’s sick, and not for telling here at this table, mind. But it’s enough to say the poor, unfortunate child will never have children of her own, God save her. It seems a sensible thing that he will become a repentant missionary while serving a penance at his new posting in East Africa. Lord, watch out for the little children and let’s pray he meets a very hungry crocodile. Do they have crocs in Africa, Harry, or are they alligators? Well, whatever, let’s hope the wretched man gets eaten by one.’
Harry smiled. He loved Bernadette’s act, and act it was. She was one of the smartest women he had ever met, razor sharp and as tough as any man.
‘So, Harry, let’s cut to the chase. To repay the debt the businessmen incurred when returning the poor creature to her foster parents our churchman has been instructed to find a safe way to take ‘something’ into England. Our friends in the South tell us that those naughty boys in the North have sent two of their number to someplace full of sand and camels and have struck up some kind of a deal with a pretty bunch of lunatics who make the boys from the North look like something out of The Blue Lamp. Let’s just say that Saudi money is involved and Allah is being served. What we do know is that the two boys from the North were very well acquainted with the trio who got themselves in all kinds of trouble down there in the South American jungle a couple of years ago. Are you getting the bigger picture here?’
Harry nodded.
‘So you can work out for yourself they are not a pair of dummies. We’re talking serious players. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to go into Ulster and find out what the sweet Jesus is going down. This tape will self-destruct in ten seconds.’
Harry, who had taken in every word, gestured to the waitress to bring out two more coffees.
‘So, Harry, what do you think? It’s bloody dangerous, darling.’
‘He who dares wins, Bernie.’
‘Yes, I know, but putting my serious head on momentarily I should point out that this is more fraught with danger than any operation you have ever been involved with.’
‘That’s what I like about it. How do I get in?’
‘The pervert is going to reference you.’
‘Not as a fucking kiddie fiddler he’s not.’
‘No, Harry, not as a paedophile, as a very trusted source who has used his van to smuggle children from homes in the Northwest and North Wales out to Dunleary from Holyhead. And then, after he and his friends have satisfied their twisted appetites, the next day you smuggle them back. You also provide the service of developing their films by using a chum who has his own franchise of a household name one-hour developing group. You smuggle the shots back in your van too. We’ve got the photographic side sorted out by placing one of our people in a company in Liverpool, and a properly kitted-out van has been put together for you, and I have to say if you can find the space where the two little children fit, then, well, I’ll let you ‘pogue mahone’ as the uncouth say. We’ve arranged for you to meet one of our chemists who will show you how to administer the right chemicals and how much to knock out a child for the duration of the journey. We’ve also inserted bogus records of journeys to and from Dunleary into the Customs files and a flat in the ’Pool has been put together for you. The latest voters’ register has your name on it. Any questions?’
‘Yeah. What if I don’t fancy the bit of work?’
They both laughed. ‘Don’t even go there, Harry. We’ve already sorted you out a few return journey ferry crossings so that you can do dry runs and get the feel of the route and shortcuts. Lot to do, Harry, little time to do it.’
Harry pondered. ‘What’s my cover? On paper why am I making these little runs back and forth?’
‘Coffins.’
‘Picking them up or bringing ’em back.’
‘You pick them up from one of our outlets and take them to one of our units.’
‘Trust you lot to have your own coffin business.’
‘Now, Harry, what on earth are you suggesting?’
He shook his head. ‘So, presumably I get to meet the sex case, do I?’
‘Yes, tomorrow, and I’m reasonably sure you won’t shake his hand.’
‘Not the one he holds his dick with, no.’
‘That’s it for now then, love. I have your mobile and your room number; I’ll ring at about eleven am and send a car to collect. I’ll pick you up at eight pm tonight and we’ll paint the old town red. Fine, good. Bub-bye.’
In the event Bernadette called back and cancelled the evening’s fun, leaving Harry to bar crawl and catch a punk band in a basement club. It always amused him to watch a band playing songs in their native tongue and suddenly hear the words ‘Oi Oi’ or ‘West Ham United’ in the lyrics. In the early Eighties Oi music had been universally detested by middle-class rock critics who wrote it off as ‘jingoistic’ or ‘ultra-violent’ but their disdain had helped it spread as an underground phenomenon, from the East End of London to France, Italy, Eastern Europe, the USA, Argentina, Australia, Singapore, even Red China. Against the odds, Oi had survived as the true global voice of the universal hooligan, the roots rebel rocker, the inner-city prole.
The driver collected Harry at 11.30am, dropping him of at a small café less than a mile from the cathedral. Bernadette sat sipping coffee with a fat-faced pig-eyed porker who was stuffing his face with a custard-coloured cake, and dribbling as he ate. Bernadette nodded in the direction of the disgusting slob. ‘This is Christopher,’ she said. ‘Christopher, meet Harry.’ The paedo-priest proffered a podgy hand. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said in a County Antrim accent, through a mouthful of food.
I’d like to stab you, thought Harry. ‘Yeah,’ he said.
Christopher slurped his coffee like a pig at the trough.
Bernadette spoke to break the tension. ‘Harry, our friend Christopher here has been sadly posted off to darkest Africa. He leaves in a month’s time. A man t
here in a similar position to our Christopher has been taken very ill and is unlikely to recover. Africa’s gain is Ireland’s loss.’
Pig-boy chortled. ‘I’m sure I’ll make the most of it, Harry,’ he wheezed with a leer, running a sticky hand through his sweaty comb-over and leaving most of the crumbs in his hair.
Harry strained. ‘I’m sure you will.’
‘Now, your first visit is arranged for next Wednesday,’ said Bernadette. ‘Harry, you are to meet Christopher near his church just outside Moneymore in the North. When you get back to London tomorrow my people will meet you and give you a comprehensive briefing. So now I’ll leave you two to chat for an hour and be back with your cab to return you to your hotel, Harry.’
Harry nodded. The next sixty minutes passed with agonising slowness. Harry had to listen to the stinking pervert describing his ‘children of choice’. He had to maintain a fixed smile as Christopher informed him in great detail what he enjoyed doing to the poor little bastards. He had to know what was going on, that was true, but the temptation to flatten his companion in the middle of his confession was almost overwhelming. Christopher’s eyes lit up as he described the parties he and his noncey pals enjoyed throwing, and the way they eagerly swapped pictures in his church-supplied cottage every Sunday evening. The effect, Harry said later, felt like showering in sewerage.
Bernadette returned. ‘Happy, boys?’
‘No,’ said Harry. ‘Give us fifteen minutes. Nearly done.’ They had to get the cover story for their own connection straight.
Bernadette took a coffee outside and people-watched. Half an hour passed before Harry left, shaking his head.
‘You’d better go and rescue Landburgher Gessler,’ he said. ‘He’s back on the cakes. Any more and you won’t get him through the door.’
Bernadette beckoned Harry over with a finger and whispered in his ear. ‘I’m led to believe he gets carted off into the jungle by cannibals shortly after arriving in Africa, never to be seen again. Happy endings all round.’
Harry grinned. ‘That brings new meaning to “bashing the bishop”. He’ll keep the tribe in tucker till Christmas. I wouldn’t want to be the poor bastard who mistakes his filthy dick for a sausage.’
‘Chipolata, honey, I’ve seen the pictures.’
Twenty-four hours later Harry was in Liverpool, soaking up the feel of that great city: the pubbing, the clubbing, the natural Scouse wit. He loved it. He always felt there was an affinity between Scousers, Cockneys and Geordies; urban people seemed to share a sense of humour, and a healthy disrespect for authority.
The spooks had set him up in a cosy little flat in the university area. Now he just needed a woman on the firm. Not just because he was a randy, sexist bastard either. It was far easier to establish himself as his alter ego if he could be seen to be part of a rooted relationship. This was established practice. And, of course, it never hurt to have a little bird about to do his washing and ironing. Besides, he had gone without for weeks and his plums had swelled up like mangoes. It was no good trying to pull the women either side of the flat. One was a dyke; the other described herself as ‘chair’ of the Socialist Worker Student Society. He even drew a blank with the two barmaids in the nearest pub, although his opening gambit – ‘Fuck me if I’m wrong, but is your name Hilda?’ – might have been a little on the strong side.
With the second, an attractive redhead, he opted for a straightforward, ‘Fancy going for a shag and a pizza after work?’ And when she swung at him, he said, ‘Sorry darling, how was I supposed to know you didn’t like pizza?’
This got a laugh from a short Oriental woman. Harry gave her a wink. She was a pretty half-Chinese sort, five-foot-nothing with the face of an angel and the arse of an Angelina Jolie.
‘Hello, beautiful, what do they call you?’
‘Right now, I’d say unlucky,’ she said in an accent that could have been on loan from The Liver Birds.
‘Nice one. I like a girl with a sense of humour.’
‘You’d need one wearing that shirt.’
‘What d’you mean? This is me best Ben Sherman.’
‘Exactly. Who wears Ben Shermans now? They went out of fashion when you started getting YSL for the same price.’
‘I bow to the voice of youth and beauty.’
‘Well, I like a man who knows when he’s wrong. I also like a man chatting me up who looks older than twelve and isn’t texting away on his mobile. Honestly, the lads round here. Every time an ice-cream van goes past they all reach for their mobies.’
Harry was hooked. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘They’re going to be born soon with their hands shaped to hold a mobile. They won’t have thumbs, just six fingers for texting. After three days the mother will get a text saying, “Mum, I’ve shit meself,” and all the women will go, “Ah, look at the way he’s spelt ‘shit’.”’
‘I like you. You can buy me a Bacardi Breezer if you like, and you may remain in my presence as long as you mention neither Everton Football Club nor the TV sitcom Bread. I’m Sabrina by the way …’
He opened his mouth. She spoke first: ‘And no witch gags neither, and before you ask, no, I haven’t got a bun in the coven.’
‘You’ve got a lot of rules, Sabrina.’
‘Including never to sleep with a man on a first date; so after half an hour, if I like you I’m going to go and sit over there by the telly and then you can come and ask me out on our second date. But there’ll be no kissing ’cos I’ve got a phobia about cold sores.’
She liked him. Two hours later they were back at Harry’s flat making love energetically standing up against the wall. ‘It doesn’t matter how hard you pump,’ she gasped ‘You’re not going to make me any taller.’
That made him laugh so much he lost control and came.
Sabrina smoothed down her skirt, went to the bathroom and washed. Harry lay on the settee feeling pleased with himself. One day he might lose his power to pull, like Alfie and Don Giovanni both did, but not for a few years yet.
‘Right,’ said Sabrina on her return. ‘I reckon that was about fifty quids’ worth.’
‘What?’
‘Well, a girl’s gotta eat. And I’ve got two kids to feed.’
Harry studied her. ‘You ain’t joking, are you?’
‘No, luv.’
‘Isn’t it normal to mention this up front?’
‘Why, did you really think your Cockney charm could peel a girl’s knickers off that quickly?’
‘It has in the past.’
‘Did they have colour tellies then?’
‘Right, if you want fifty notes you can get back here and give us a nosh. I’ll get me money’s worth.’
‘No, you’re all right. Me old man’ll be worried sick if I’m not home by eleven. Tell you what, just sling us a score for me cab home. This made a nice change from Netherfield Road. This place is almost civilised.’
Harry obliged. Fuck! MI5 would be taping this. He would never live it down. Shame they weren’t videoing it too, he could have played it backwards and watched himself get his money back.
‘Shall I leave you my card?’
‘No thanks, dear, I’ve got one of me own.’
She shrugged and walked away, pulling her lime green mini skirt tight over those gorgeous cheeks. Harry watched entranced. It seemed such a shame to waste them.
‘Oi, Sabrina, on second thoughts, leave us a card please.’
She wriggled back with a pout and gave him a cheaply printed business card with her mobile printed on it and the motto: ‘Sabrina, little hands make you look so big.’ Harry grinned.
‘It’s OK, love,’ she said. ‘That’s one area you don’t need any help with.’
Harry was wearing his new YSL button down for the crossing over to Ireland. The journey was uneventful. He didn’t hang about to take in the famous hospitality of the South. There were still parts here where an English accent didn’t play well. Harry made straight for the coffin makers’ yard on the outskirts of Moneymore
. It was a fairly large warehouse in a compound shared with a panel-beating and car-spray business. The lacquer from the spray shop stuck in Harry’s throat, making him cough. He was greeted by his contact, Michael.
‘It’s not that coughing that carries you off …’
‘It’s the coffin they carry you off in. Yes, very good.’
‘Would you like to come and see the goods?’
‘Yeah, but I don’t want to try one on for size.’
‘Oh, you’re not to worry about the people working next door, they’re not a problem.’
Harry nodded. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant, probably that they worked for the same ‘company’ business. His van was being loaded as they spoke. Michael took an envelope containing photographs from the pocket of his camouflage jacket.
‘You’re to see the man in disgrace before you go home, I understand.’
‘Yes, just to show my face again.’
‘You’re to take these to him. It’s the latest batch he wanted developed. There’s no need to look at them unless you want to. It’s probably best you do, then you’ll get a true idea of what the man’s about. A man of religion as well, it’s unbelievable. A man of the cloth. What a tragedy.’
Harry looked at the photos, some good quality, others out of focus. They all told the same sick story.
‘The negatives are in that little compartment at the front as well. He’s very fussy that he gets the negs. I suppose you can understand why.’
Harry went to the rear of the box van and hopped up on to the back rather than use the tailgate. He walked to the front and pushed a coffin aside. Built into the floor, almost invisible to the naked eye, was a false floor section that had to be pushed at an angle to move and open. Inside was an open box space that was barely large enough for one child, let alone two.
Michael climbed on to the rear of the van as Harry looked down into the tiny chamber and tossed in the pack of pictures.
Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) Page 22