79
Camera crews from Sky News and the BBC arrived at the scene about twenty minutes after the cops. That had been about an hour or so ago. We were the day’s big story. BBC1 dropped its scheduled programming to show the action as it unfolded.
Charlotte seemed remarkably calm. She’d handcuffed me to her wardrobe with cuffs that looked a damn sight more Ann Summers than Scott & Bailey, and made contact with the senior officer, DCI Laurie Rouman.
Speaking slowly and clearly, she informed him that she had four hostages, including two police officers, one of whom was injured. In return for their safe release, she wanted a police helicopter to take her and her father to a destination of her choice, and as a goodwill gesture she was prepared to release the injured officer immediately.
Rouman said he’d get back to her. She told me to look out the window again. Crowds had started to gather along the lane – held back by a police cordon. Three quarters of an hour later, with clearance from the Home Office sought and obtained, her mobile rang. Charlie spoke briefly to Rouman, then hung up and beamed, “Game on.”
She uncuffed me and made me carry Gary Shaw, who was now semi- conscious, down the stairs. I left him outside the back door, and watched through the glass as the paramedics came and collected him.
Charlie found her father in the office. He was in a bad way.
“I'm putting you back in the cellar Mr Tyler,” she said. “There’s nothing we can do now except wait for the helicopter.”
At least that meant the execution was off. One way or another, we’d have closure today. But then again the pits had closures, it’s not always a good thing.
***
Charlotte Stevens packed a travel bag, throwing in passports, cash, credit cards and a change of clothes. Everything had gone horribly pear-shaped, but at least she could still get her father away from the wreckage. She had friends in Normandy; they could hang out at their farm until she figured out what to do next. Back in her room, she switched on the TV for the Six O’Clock News. She was pleased with the coverage. The BBC report had highlighted many of their political demands, while Sky News was running them repeatedly across the bottom of the screen. If nothing else, the message was getting across.
When Sky cut to a profile of William Broadwick, she tutted and switched back to the Beeb.
Half an hour later, her phone rang again. DCI Rouman informed her that the chopper had landed in a field about half a mile from the house.
“So how are we going to do this then?”
“What would you suggest?”
“Okay, you’ll need to drive us to the helicopter. Withdraw all your men from the yard and send in one vehicle. I shall let my father out first, then John Baker and the other police officer, Mr Tyler, who will both be free to leave the farm. Finally I shall come out with William Broadwick. I shall have him at gunpoint. We will both get in the car with my father and be driven to the helicopter, where I will give the pilot my instructions. If I am convinced that you are not trying to double-cross us, I shall then release Broadwick.”
“We won't double-cross you.”
“There may be fatalities if you do.”
“That is understood.”
“Good, my father will be out shortly.”
She turned out her bedroom light and watched the armed police withdraw from the farm, then she went down to the office and collected the old man. She led him to the back yard, kissed his forehead and said “Wait for me in the car Dad, with the nice driver.”
She took a deep breath, picked up the Beretta and unlocked the door to the cellar. She saw Harry Tyler and Johnny Baker at the bottom of the steps – Baker now untied, by Tyler she guessed, but that didn’t matter. To his left sat the shit-stained gibbering wreck of William Broadwick.
“Okay, this is what is going to happen,” she said as she walked down the stairs. “Mr Broadwick is going to stay sitting where he is and you two are going to follow m...”
She never got to finish the sentence. She couldn't. Mick Neale was standing over her fallen body, swinging his axe handle.
80
I left the farmhouse slowly, feeling like an old, punch-drunk prize-fighter who had just gone fifteen rounds with the new champ. The sky was off-colour, like an inverted unwashed soup tureen, and it was noisy. There was a whole crowd of people waiting for us to come out. A heavy-breasted woman in a floral Miu Miu shirt and Zara jodhpurs who turned out to be Broadwick’s bit on the side, and Maxine Slater, Johnny's bit of posh, in a Prada light denim-look two-piece. Both were dressed wildly impractically for a farm siege, either because they’d left home in a hurry or more likely because they’d wanted to look good in tomorrow’s papers...
I didn’t see anyone waiting for me until I walked past the 4x4 and recognised Wattsie Watts, who waved, then I saw Knockers – what the fuck was she doing here? – and then Rosie, the little rockabilly barmaid from the 12 Bar, which was even more surprising. Ho boy! Complicated. How was I going to juggle this one?
There was a bigger shock to come though – because finally, behind a scrum of press photographers hollering my name, I saw something which actually made my heart stop. It was Kara, and she had the kids with her.
Now my heart was in my mouth. You might be thinking ‘spoilt for choice’ but there was only one way this could go. I dropped to my knees and held out my arms. The uniformed cops let the children run up and throw their arms around me. Their love was unqualified. I wasn’t so sure about Kara’s. Twenty different emotions flooded across that beautiful face, relief, joy, anger, sorrow, compassion, regret, love...I’d like to think, but you could never tell with her...all competing for dominance.
Her eyes were still striking – blue-green, like Cornish coral. I leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek, savouring the familiarity of her scent. Just the smell of her shampoo triggered a tidal wave of suppressed memories. I wanted to hug her and kiss her properly but couldn’t second guess how she’d react to that. Before I could say anything, I heard someone cough behind me.
“Harry?”
It was a posh but genial voice belonging to a tall, handsome middle-aged man with barely a trace of grey in his jet-black hair.
“Laurie Rouman,” he said. “Excellent job. I need to get you all down the station as soon as possible, either to be debriefed or to give statements.”
“That’s fine, guv, but listen, these are my wife and kids. We, uh...” - my voice faltered. Don’t cry you berk! – “I, uh, haven't seen them for about ten years. I, uh...”
“Rhona!” he called out to Wattsie. “Detective Sergeant Watts will make sure your family get in one of our cars. They can come to Tonbridge station too. But we'd better get you there straight away.”
I told the kids to go with Wattsie and aimed a hopeful smile at Kara, who smiled back, without betraying the smallest indication of forgiveness. Well, it was a big ask, as people say these days, and there was a lot to forgive.
I got in the back of an unmarked car and drove past. Katie made a ‘call me’ gesture. I gave her a thumbs up and mouthed ‘tomorrow...call you tomorrow.’
Not that I did.
There were a lot of civilians in the lanes around the farm, flocking like hungry carrion crows to the scene of the chaos. Among there were around thirty ‘Broadies’ chanting “Baker back inside!” repeatedly. They looked like a lynch mob. Uniform were trying to stop them from scrapping with a small, hostile group of heavy-looking South Londoners who were booing and threatening them. John was in the car behind mine and as he passed fights erupted, with the Broadies, who were in superior numbers, getting the upper hand.
I found out later that the Londoners were just an advance party. Minutes after we’d gone, Slobberin’ Ron turned up with a coach-load, followed by a dozen cars. There were the Hogans, the O’Learys, the White brothers from Woolwich, Big Jim Cheetham, Mad Mickey Wharton, Martin Sporrell, an aggressive gooner. As they spilled from their vehicles the Broadies turned to flee – only to see another doz
en or so geezers on blue and white customised scooters coming down the lane towards them from the opposite direction. These were the self-styled Millwall Mods – a gang of Scooter Boys from genteel Cobham in Surrey, Baker fans to a man. They caught the Broadies in a pincer movement and the cops, now outnumbered themselves, left them to it.
81
Tuesday's newspaper headlines were classics, my favourite being the Star's BATMAN CAVES IN – one of the Tonbridge CID boys had told the hacks our nickname for Stevens. The Mail weighed in with FARMER FUHRER while the Sun had a great holiday shot of Charlotte in a bikini headlined BIRD OF PRAY, and promised ‘Tomorrow – Inside The Bible Bunker’. Although by Wednesday, her secret sex-life had been exposed by a number of young men who called various news desks in pursuit of cash. Even the Mirror couldn’t resist the obvious BIBLE BONKER headline, although the Star added ‘And Batman’s Bonkers’ in smaller type, resulting in official complaints from Mental Health charities.
The Wednesday papers made horrible reading for William Broadwick, as the Mail published the first part of his wife’s buy-up. It ran for five days, ending in the Mail On Sunday. No social embarrassment, no marital indiscretion was felt to be too small to leave out. The below the belt references to his manhood and stamina would not have made any man happy. “Broad wick?” tweeted TV comedian Jimmy Carr. “Never has a surname proved more ironic.”
82
June 2013. Essex.
SO what can I tell you? Me and Kara have got back together. It was hard to get her to forgive me and trust me again, but it's all down to sincerity really, and as Bob Monkhouse used to say, once you can fake that you’re laughing. Seriously, we’ve been together half a year. I don’t know if we’ll last but it feels right. I love being with the kids, learning about what makes them tick. Alfie’s like me, he’s going to be a proper charmer when he’s a bit older. And Courtney Rose will break some hearts, you mark my words.
I never did call Katie. I didn't see the point. Besides, I don’t think she’s been that happy lately ever since some wicked bastard grassed up her Dad to Immigration and the Inland Revenue. I wonder what no-good, double-dealing crafty bastard could have done that....
The tax evasion stuff didn’t do Ken McManus any harm, but his political mates weren’t too chuffed to hear he’d been running his businesses on illegal immigrant labour. I don’t suppose it sits that well with those ‘Send ’em back’ policies. I don’t study politics, as you know, but I hear that the fledgling Hope & Progress alliance fell apart quicker than a clown’s kitchen fitted by Frank Spencer.
Ken going down was the final straw, after the Broadwick fiasco. My own encounter with them confirmed my previous views on politicians. Most of them can neither be trusted nor believed...which is why I’m voting UKIP next time. Love England, hate bigots – that’s me.
Broadwick himself experienced the most spectacular fall since Felix Baumgartner. It wasn’t the Gulliver Stevens case that did for Our Willie, it was a nasty scandal of his own making. The way I hear it, he got fed up with the girlfriend, dumped her and tried to get back with his missus. It might have been love, but I can’t help feeling that looming divorce settlements and his pension pot were bigger considerations.
Up until then he’d been doing pretty well for himself too. Broady’s column had been snapped up by the Telegraph and he was lined up for a safe Tory seat in the Home Counties. But shortly after he went home to the wife, Panorama got hold of this tape of him coming out with a string of vile anti-Semitic garbage that only Hamas or Mel Gibson could have loved. Apparently one of his old schoolmates had secretly taped him. Got it all down on a microcassette. He was bang to rights. It damaged the movement badly but it crucified poor old Broadwick. Talk about fisted by fate. He lost his job, his column, his house, and the wife left him again so that divorce settlement is still looming after all. But hey, never say never, give him a couple of years and maybe he’ll wobble back on I’m A Celebrity...Get Me Out Of Here or some such shit, sucking kangaroo balls for a second shot at national infamy.
Broadwick’s bit on the side, Jackie Sutton, has done very well for herself though. A couple of well-judged appearances on Question Time and Newsnight in the wake of last year’s antics saw her praised by the Sunday Telegraph for her skill in ‘sugaring the pill of inequality and humanising the face of privilege.’ The Prime Minister likened her to “Supermac in Olivier Strelli,” although I reckon old Boris was more on the ball when he drooled that she was “the next Margaret Thatcher with the Iron Lady’s brains and the looks and class of a young Grace Kelly.” Either way, she’s got herself that safe Conservative seat instead of Willie boy, and looks a shoe-in for the next election. People who know about these things reckon she’ll get fast-tracked up to the Cabinet within eighteen months or so of getting in.
The Gulliver Stevens case is still going through the courts, but Gary Shaw tells me the old man will end up in Broadmoor and Charlotte will probably walk. She was smart enough to let her old man take all the blame – apparently she was one of his victims all along. He’d brainwashed her from an early age, and besides, according to all the available evidence, he was the one who committed all the murders. She may have aided and abetted under parental duress but nothing tied her to the actual killings – and only me, her, her father and the dead knew different.
What can I tell you about Johnny? Everything he said would happen in his life has happened or is happening. He’s currently executive producing the movie of his own story, called Johnny Too Bad, and he’s shacked up with this posh publishing totty with a double first from Cambridge and an old man who’s a Labour peer. They’re living over Shoreditch way. This year he’s likely to gross more than Uzbekistan. John says he’s gone legit. Only time and tax returns will tell if that’s for real. An old rock writer called Garry Johnson has rushed out a cut and paste biography called John Baker: Criminal Class, sub-title: The Rise, Fall & Rise Again of a London Legend.
I got to know Mick Neale – our saviour! – really well over the past few months, so well in fact that I’ve asked him to work with me. He’s still a bit reluctant – he keeps saying that he prefers good, honest manual labour because it gives the brain some peace. But I think he’ll come round. Now him and Thelma are an item, he’ll need more dough coming in, and the two of us just seem to click. There’s an old Irish saying, ‘a beetle knows another beetle’, which just about sums it up. You always know when you’ve met a kindred spirit. I feel like I’ve known him all me life.
I’ve already set up the business – yeah, no corporations for the new wave sons. I’ve got my own office with a sign on the door and everything. I love it. It says: Harry Tyler, Private Investigator. And okay, it might have seemed a bit more glamorous and exotic if it was based in Brooklyn rather than Blackfen, but I’ve got a gut feeling about it. I reckon it’s gonna work. The phone is ringing already. It’s all good.
Glossary of Slang Terms
Apples - £20 notes (rhyming slang; apple cores = scores)
Ag – trouble, short for aggravation
Aris – arse (rhyming slang; Aristotle = bottle, bottle and glass = arse; see Queen Mum)
Banged up – imprisoned
Bang to rights – caught red-handed; guilty
Barry – a big woman (rhyming slang, Barry McGuigan = big’un)
Battle-cruiser – pub (rhyming slang, boozer)
Bent – Crooked or stolen goods
Bent – gay (see iron)
Beer tokens – pounds sterling
Billy – amphetamines (rhyming slang, Billy Whizz)
Bird – time in prison (bird lime = time)
Blade-runner – someone transporting stolen goods.
Blag – to rob, originally a pay-roll or money delivery in a public place.
Blagger – a robber
Boat – face (boat race = face)
Bob Hope – cannabis (rhyming slang, dope, see also puff)
The boob – prison.
To boost – to hot-wire a car.
Boracic – skint (rhyming slang, boracic lint).
Bottle out – to lose one’s nerve (see brick it).
Brass – prostitute (see also Tom, dripper)
Brick it – to bottle out.
Britney Spears – ears
Brown bread – dead (rhyming slang)
A bullseye - £50
A bung – a bribe
Bushel – neck (rhyming slang, bushel and peck; see also Gregory)
Butchers – a look (Butcher’s Hook, rhyming slang)
Canister – head (see Swede)
Carpet – three months imprisonment
Cash and Carry, commit – suicide (rhyming slang, hari-kari)
Charlie – cocaine, see also Chas, sherbet, marching powder, nose-bag, Gianluca, Ying, gear, King Lear).
Chavvy – a child (Romany)
China – mate (rhyming slang, china plate).
Chiv – a knife.
The Church – Customs & Excise (C of E)
Clean – innocent.
Clobber – clothes (see also schmutta)
Cobblers – rubbish (rhyming slang, cobblers’ awls = balls)
A cockle – £10 (rhyming slang, cockle and hen).
Collar felt – to be arrested, as in “He had his collar felt”)
The Currant – The Sun newspaper (rhyming slang, currant bun)
Dabs – finger prints.
Daisy – a safe-breaking tool
Darby – belly (rhyming slang, Darby Kelly)
Dave’s mate – cocaine, from Chas and Dave, as used in the phrase “Is Dave’s mate about tonight?”
Dipper – a pick pocket.
The dog – the telephone (rhyming slang, dog and bone).
Doris – a woman.
Dot – rotten (rhyming slang, Dot Cotton)
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