Michael spoke over his shoulders as he began to seal it.
‘Did they tell you that’s pretty much a carbon copy of the one that his regular supplier uses to bring him kiddies in?’
‘No, they didn’t.’
‘Yes, of course that’s all at an end now, the fella’s little business venture has come to a very definite full stop. He was detained down South taking a child for a little ride to see a farmer.’
‘Did he anaesthetise them?’
‘Only for the long runs up to the North. He used to administer a drug to them that made the muscles relax, but I’m sure you’re familiar with all of that already.’
‘I’ve had the course.’
‘So you’ll be off then. You just need to sign this paperwork for the coffins.’
It took Harry twenty minutes to drive the single-track road to the village. It was a real one-horse town: a grocery store that doubled as a pub, and just a sprinkling of houses. The church was a five-minute stroll out of the village and up a hill. There was a small cottage set behind it. The graveyard was at the other end, separated from the garden by a whitewashed breeze-block wall. Harry stopped the van on a bed of gravel by the cottage door. The Rev Porky Pig was nowhere to be seen. Probably off rooting for truffles, thought Harry. He strolled over to the church, which was empty, so he carried on to the graveyard and through the rusty iron gates. Walking towards him through the cemetery dressed in his flowing black robes and holding the hand of a little boy was fat fuck Christopher. As he caught sight of Harry he released the child’s hand. Harry felt the bile rise. The priest noticed the look on his face. ‘No, Harry, have no fear. I don’t do little boys. That’s not my pleasure.’
‘I’ve got an envelope for you.’
‘God bless you, my son. I shall risk self-blinding tonight.’
Harry went and retrieved the package from the rear of the van. He kept trying to picture the fat man in a cannibal’s pot. The image just about made speaking to the piece of shit tolerable.
‘Anything else in there for me?’ Christopher said hopefully.
‘No, not this time.’
Harry tossed the envelope full of photos to him.
‘Harry, if you take the road east up the hill, travel along the lane for five minutes, you’ll come across a small cottage pub set back on the left side of the road. There’s nothing else between here and there, you can’t miss it. Follow that road for twenty more minutes, it’s countryside all of the way, and you’ll find a T-junction. Turn left and it will take you in the direction you need to go. The reason to take this detour is for you to find the pub. We have a meeting with the boys there in seven days’ time in that very bar. I’ll make the introduction and leave you to talk business. I’ll have other things to do. They’re bringing me a little present to play with while they talk things over with you.’
It took a superhuman effort, but Harry just shrugged his shoulders.
‘What time have you arranged the meeting for?’
‘They arrange things, not me. I told them when you were next over and they said they would see you then. I rang Bernadette and told her this morning.’
Harry pondered. ‘But they’ve given you no clue as to time, morning, afternoon, evening?’
‘Well, it won’t be morning, will it, in a bar.’
Harry nodded. ‘See you then,’ he said.
* * * * *
Two days later, an urgent meeting had been hastily convened at MI5’s Thames House HQ at Vauxhall in South London. Harry stood outside for a while. It was an impressive piece of architecture, one of the finest buildings in London. Harry estimated it had a frontage of about five hundred feet to the River Thames. Fantastic. He walked up the central flight of steps and entered. There was a sign-board inside with the words ‘Alert Status Black Special’ on display. Harry checked in and was guided to one of the eighteen lifts. He was greeted at the eleventh floor by an unsmiling male secretary who could have made good money as an Edna Everage lookalike. He led Harry to a large but empty conference room.
‘I’ll ask you to wait here for a while please, sir, until the other meeting has broken up. Tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee please, no sugar. Have you got any Camp?’
The secretary left without replying and returned quickly with a plastic cup full of machine gunge.
‘I’m told the meeting will convene in ten minutes, sir, if you could be patient.’
‘No problem.’
Harry looked out over the Thames as he sipped the hot muck and thought of Kara. Was it worth trying to win her back, he wondered? He did miss the kids and, although he would have to climb a mountain to do it, the make-up sex would be sensational. What would it take to win her back? Could he do it? Of course he could. Harry had no doubts about his powers to persuade. He had never met a woman yet that his silver tongue couldn’t dazzle. Maybe it was time to settle down, and if Kara could be persuaded to let him stay in the job then she’d be perfect. Their family was readymade. His job was never a problem for Dawn. Poor Dawn. The love of his life. Sweet sexy Dawn. What those animals had done to her … His anger got the better of him. The cup collapsed in his grip, spilling contents over the window seal. Harry scrambled around for tissues to clean up the mess and ended up making do with a Mirror from a bin outside. He had just finished when the double doors were yanked open and a dozen grim-faced men and women filtered in. At the head of the throng was Bernadette. She was deep in conversation with two middle-aged men. Harry recognised them as senior police officers, but didn’t know them personally. He joined them as they sat at the huge mahogany conference table. One of the women was in the chair. She handed out a ten-page briefing package.
‘Have you been waiting long?’ she asked Harry.
‘No, ma’am.’
God, she was a hard-faced bitch, he thought. Unsmiling, cold eyes. The fingers of her right hand were visibly nicotine stained. She made no effort to introduce him to the rest of the table.
‘Harry, I’m Daphne Day. I’m heading up this operation. It’s code-named “Chalk Pit”. As you may have been informed, we’ve had a separate briefing and discussion concerning this matter and your deployment in it. Our intention is for you to be kept under close covert surveillance during your meeting with “the other side”, and to that end we are represented at this meeting by the military and police service who will organise and control the meeting place. You should be aware that the officers in whose trust you are placing your life will be digging into positions in the woods surrounding the target area this evening and throughout tomorrow. The meeting point is also being covertly entered and technical equipment will be up and running in advance of your meeting. Your vehicle already has an array of technical wizardry in place. If at any time you feel you need intervention you will be able to summon aid by simply saying the words “Queen Victoria”.’She looked at Bernadette. ‘Is that correct?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, “Queen Victoria” summons the cavalry.’
‘You will be under control all of the way in, throughout the meeting and out of it. Any questions?’
Only the obvious one, thought Harry. ‘Do we know what the commodity is yet?’
All eyes turned to the chairwoman.
‘No further questions,’ she said.
Harry shook his head. This was like a bad episode of The Prisoner. He glanced at the two stony-faced police officers. The nearest averted his gaze as they made eye contact. Harry looked across the table to his left; Bernadette had her serious head on.
Daphne Day continued. ‘Bernadette will be your point of contact throughout the operation. That role will continue until you return to London for debriefing. Good luck. This meeting is at an end.’
With that, they all rose and began to file out except for Bernadette, who came and sat opposite him.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Apart from the obvious, any problems?’
‘Only that the last time I was involved in a job where no one really knew what the product was, a good cop
ended up dead. There ain’t no South Africans aboard this one, are there?’
She looked bemused. ‘No, just run-of-the-mill camel shaggers and lunatic Fenians. See you over there, darling. You know the way out?’
Harry nodded and left, walking over the bridge to the north of the Thames and strolling back along the river to Parliament Square. As he stood in front of Churchill’s statue he felt a strange unease. Call it a sixth sense, but he had a definite feeling of foreboding. He turned and walked back to look at the Palace of Westminster. He remembered how many of the villains he had targeted had said after their arrest that they had known it was a set-up. But they had still gone ahead with the job and been caught bang to rights with the parcel. A protesting Kurd came up and thrust a leaflet in his hand. Harry glanced at it but didn’t read a word.
Liverpool, June 12, 2003. One day before the proposed meeting. At 9am Harry’s mobile started to ring. The word ‘Blow-job’ came up to identify the caller. He reached over a sleeping blonde and answered it.
‘Yes, Bernie.’
‘It’s on for nine pm at the agreed place tomorrow. You’re to see your friend at eight pm at his residence. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any questions?’
‘No.’
‘Same agreed alarm call?’
‘Yes.’
She ended the call. The blonde stirred.
‘Hello, gorgeous.’
‘You weren’t kidding about five times a night, were you? I’m worn out.’
‘Want to go for six?’
‘Might do. Are we still going to spend the day shopping?’
‘We can spend the day how you like, my angel.’
She kissed him.
‘Were you really in Atomic Kitten?’
‘No, but you can make me hole again.’
D-Day: Friday, June 13, 2003. Harry had made the crossing and was three miles from Christopher’s cottage when he was flagged down by a traffic cop.
‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to breathalyse you, sir.’
Now Harry was fucked. He hadn’t drunk today but there was so much alcohol in his bloodstream that he knew it would show up. Think, man. This couldn’t happen now. He blew into the bag.
‘How does that thing work, officer?’
‘If you’ve been boozing these crystals will change colour.’
‘I bet you £100 they do.’
The cop covered the breathalyser with his hand.
‘They haven’t,’ he lied.
Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out two £50 notes. ‘I’m a cunt with my money, aren’t I?’
‘Drive carefully, sir.’
Harry arrived at the cottage five minutes late.
Christopher opened the door. ‘They’re here already, they’ve gone to the bar.’
He looked flustered.
‘Who, how many?’
‘A woman, two men, two vehicles.’
A bead of perspiration trickled down the right side of the priest’s face.
‘So, what’s making you sweat, then?’
‘Well … I … I was promised something and she said, “Not till later.”’
‘So, just the three of them?’
‘I’m not sure. Three came to the door. The cars were across the road.’
‘And you’re sure that’s all that’s wrong?’
‘Yes. God knows these people make me jumpy. I detest violent men.’
‘Come along then, take me up and introduce me.’
‘They said I wouldn’t be needed. I’m just to ring the bar and say you’re on your way.’
Again, Harry felt a tingle of trepidation. But he had to push on. Nothing was going to progress here until he made the move. He knew the opposition were cautious.
But even the premature darkness, brought on by overcast skies and a complete lack of streetlights, added to his growing sense of distress.
He drove along the lane to the pub, full beams on piercing the Stygian gloom. There was nothing but trees and hedgerows on either side.
There were, indeed, two large saloon cars on the gravel bed car park as he pulled up outside, and a third vehicle, some sort of Jeep with the shapes of two people smoking inside of it. He could just make out the burning amber glow and the lead-blue smoke drifting out of the windows.
Harry entered the bar. It was deserted except for two men, both dressed in the same navy blue sweaters and black trousers. They stared at him. The nearest looked about 55. He was short, five-foot-two, with pinched features, and spoke with a heavy accent.
‘You’d be Harry?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Get you a drink, Harry?’
‘Yeah, lager please.’
The man who hadn’t spoken rang the bell. A tall man with a familiar face came from the back and began to pull a pint. Harry looked puzzled.
‘He’s one of ours,’ said Shorty. ‘We’re all of one mind here. Come on, sit down then, Harry.’ He directed him to sit with his back to the window in full view of the only door.
‘My name is Donovan. Tell me about yourself, Harry, where are you from, where were you brought up? That kind of thing.’
This at least was familiar territory, standard operating procedure, a little like two stags showing off their antler size before clashing. Harry expected to be called a liar and have his motivation picked apart.
The other man, taller, heavier but of similar age, placed a pint in front of him and introduced himself as ‘Mr Moran’.
‘I’m Essex born and bred, and I’m living on Merseyside. What else do you need to know?’ Harry was careful not to say too much. After all, he was only supposed to be a van driver who liked a gamble and who ran kids for sick-fuck churchmen.
Donovan spoke. ‘How much will you be looking for to take this little package across the water for us?’
‘No one’s told me what it is yet. Just that I’m going to make a proper drink from doing it. Five grand was mentioned.’
The conversation dragged on for nearly three-quarters of an hour, with no one saying anything of value. Then Donovan’s mobile rang. His ring tone was the ‘Forty Shades of Green’. He got up and retrieved it from the bar. Harry caught the sound of a woman’s voice on the other end.
‘You’re to wait here,’ he said finally. ‘I need to speak with someone outside.’
The barman had retreated and Moran said nothing. He and Harry sat in silence for half an hour before the door burst open and Donovan returned followed by two more men who looked like building workers. They were taller, heavier and rugged with red weather-beaten complexions. They sat at the table nearest the door, three up from Harry. As Donovan sat, Moran rose and edged away from the table.
Donovan stared at the beer mat in front of him as he sat thinking. He then rapped the table slowly three times with the middle finger of his right hand. The hand didn’t rise after the third knock. Finally he spoke.
‘We have – or, more accurately, you have – a problem, Harry, a very serious problem. It seems that you are not who you say you are.’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘We have a friend with us, a lady friend, who tells us that you’re an undercover policeman who has been recruited by the security service and that you are here to do us damage. Now, we really can’t allow that.’
With that the two big men stood and pulled handguns from their jacket pockets. Donovan held up his right hand for them to stop and gestured for them to sit down.
‘So, Harry Dean – I understand that’s your real name – what are we to do with you? There’s no way home for you, that much is for certain.’
Harry felt sick inside. Now he knew he wasn’t being tested. Someone had told them the lot. He had no option but to carry on fronting it.
‘Harry Dean? Someone’s stringing you along, mate. Listen, I know you’re dangerous men, I’m not silly. But I am who I say I am and I’ve got the passport to prove it. My grandma was from County Cork, I hate the Filth, I drive va
ns for a living and I drink at the Queen Victoria in Liverpool. End of story. Who is this bird you’ve got on the firm? ’Cos she’s got the wrong guy.’
Donovan sat thinking. He began tapping the table with his right hand, then slowly looked Harry straight in the eyes. Harry held his gaze. ‘Let’s sort this out, bring her in here and I’ll put her right.’
The small man got up without saying a word and left the pub. Five, maybe ten minutes passed, but it felt like an hour. The barman came back out and began polishing glasses. Now Harry recognised him. It was Dinger Bell, the UDA man he’d chummed up with in Blackpool. He must have been working for the spooks all along. Or worse, PIRA. Dinger made no attempt to catch Harry’s eye. Then the door opened and behind Donovan in walked Bernadette. Harry’s jaw nearly dropped. He was expecting the cavalry to burst in, not Bernie on her tod. Then the realisation hit him like a slow ripple of pain. Bernadette was their lady friend. The bitch had gone over to the other side!
He slumped back in his chair and watched as she whispered to Donovan and Moran, who had joined them at the bar. After a minute or two, she came over to Harry and sat at the table, just the two of them.
Harry glared at her. ‘What the fuck’s going on, Bernadette?’ he said in hushed but angry voice so the others couldn’t hear.
‘Harry, you’ve become a major fucking embarrassment.’
‘What?’
‘You’re a loose cannon. We really can’t have policemen running around the streets like Chicago gangsters.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Bernard Nelson kept a diary.’
Harry didn’t believe that. She was bluffing.
‘You were right in there with the lizard men. And we have CCTV footage of you running Nicky Nelson down.’
He shifted in his seat. He knew that bit wasn’t true either but she seemed to know everything. How? Thoughts shot round his head like pin-balls. There was only one person who could have grassed him: Marcus. Soppy Marcus Robinson. But everything they had on him had to be circumstantial. There was no direct link back, DNA or otherwise, to any of the Nelson murders. She had to be bluffing.
Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) Page 23