The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1)

by Garry Bushell

  Word of the bloody brother bust-up soon spread amongst the womenfolk, and Joey’s wife, Barbara, the mother of his lunatic kids, felt it her duty to stick the poison in to Johnny’s wife, Sandra. Sibling jealousy was probably only 80 per cent of her motivation. Dark clouds were gathering behind Johnny Too’s back, but he was too pumped with vision and confidence to see them.

  Peter Miller was one of the last to hear about Johnny and Joey’s fall-out. If truth be known, he was having enough trouble coping with being relegated from Harry Tyler’s premier league of pals. Even a dumb drunk like Miller realised that his former best mate with the cash-dispensing wallet was no longer sending the light ales across with the frequency to which he had become accustomed. Now H was trading with Slobberin’ Ron and the Brothers, Peter was starting to feel hurt. How was he to know that his usefulness had ended the day Harry had done his first bit of business in the Ned?

  Keen – make that double keen – to redress the status quo, Miller had made it his business to find something, anything, to grab Harry’s attention. He had heard of a couple of nice tools being touted by Roger Davies, a drummer and a weasel of a man, who had given Her Majesty almost as much pleasure as HRH Stavros. So now Miller and Davies sat in Harry Tyler’s video car and Davies, on Miller’s recommendation, let his greedy mouth run away with him. He wanted £800 for a revolver and an automatic handgun with twenty lugs of ammo. Harry got on his mobile and had a two-minute conversation with an unnamed buyer: “Are you still in the market for a couple of those things? Yeah, with lugs, yeah.” And so Roger Davies became yet another yesterday man, taped, photographed, housed and waiting in line for a nicking … and two more pieces were off the street. Lovely job.

  There was a danger Harry might get snowed under, buying every parcel up for grabs in the Ned. He was aware of it, and started to exercise discretion. The small fry were worth rounding up to a degree but nothing could be allowed to let him lose sight of the big target. And as days passed, it was easier for the Bushwhacker to knock back minor trades, although none of the lowlife jerks realised he was actually doing them a favour. Naturally all of Harry’s “No, not interesteds” filtered back to Johnny Too, demonstrating that the East Londoner wasn’t a greedy player.

  Johnny Too liked Harry. His attitude was sound, he had a terrific sense of humour and an admirably free-wheeling love life. Clearly no woman could tie Tyler down. Johnny saw the way Harry would tell Lesley Gore to back off when he needed space, and had to be somewhere to trade. He also realised that half the time H disappeared he was obviously off shagging over Stratford way. Hey, everybody had to have a mystery. Where would he be without Geraldine?

  Harry wasn’t one to talk about relationships and emotional shit, but he’d had Johnny Too in hysterics with his reports about his and Lesley’s sexual activities. The best story had to be the time Les was giving H a gobble in a private road on a huge building site in Wapping. He was just reaching his vinegar when a huge Irish security guard had come lumbering towards them shaking his fist. Harry alerted Lesley who stopped what she was doing and flung the car into reverse. Unfortunately, H was too far gone and as Les sped off, her brand new Schott top was splattered with Harry’s semen – or Harry’s Harry, his Harry Monk – as Johnny called it when he passed the story on with relish and embellishments to the hounds at his favourite poker game. In Johnny’s version Harry had also been tied to the steering wheel with a skipping rope, leaving Lesley, dressed in full St Trinian’s kit, to lean over him to change gear and get all that hot fish yoghurt in her hair. “And I bet she pulled a fair old pint and all,” Johnny would laugh. They were very much alike, him and Harry, Johnny decided. Both loved to tell a story, both were born to be at it, and both were natural comical bastards. Two peas in a knocked-off pod.

  When DCI Susan Long ordered Harry to have a few days back home, he was actually disappointed. But it had to be done. Because of the round-the-clock surveillance, research, exhibits, telephone taps and covert equipment, the backload of work was piling up and Long needed breathing space.

  Harry went home for five days’ leave in a good frame of mind. He had told Lesley he had to go back to the Dam to sort out a bit of business, and wouldn’t be answering the mobile. But as soon as he got home, everything went pear-shaped. He hated being there, the atmosphere was claustrophobic. Time itself seemed to slow, as if the tick of the clock had been replaced by a dull, distant thud. He felt trapped. He resented being forced back to this half-life that was his real world. Unable to get the operation off his mind, Harry barely spoke to Kara at all that first day. His wife put two and two together and made 69. He was having an affair, she knew it, and she screamed accusation after accusation at him: you FUCKING BASTARD! Harry fielded her rage with lie after lie – he’d been in Paris, he couldn’t get to a phone … he ducked, he dived. But after the first hour it no longer mattered if she believed him or not. He stormed off to his local, enjoyed a lock-in, rolled home about 2.30 am and kipped on the couch.

  The next day, the atmosphere was fraught. Kara tried to make amends, but her heart wasn’t in it. Deep down she knew Harry wasn’t over the side, but somehow that made it worse. If her only competition was his job, she knew she had already lost. Some people worked to live. With Harry it was the other way round. Nothing mattered more than the job. On day three they made love. The session was brief, mechanical almost. They did it because they thought they better had or else … or else what? Kara didn’t want to lose her husband, on the contrary she wanted to rediscover him, but Harry would have to find himself first. And Harry? When he came he was seeing Lesley Gore’s face.

  The night before he went back to his undercover work, he made her the same old promise: “After this job, I’ll go back to being a copper.” Kara knew it meant as much as the times he’d told her, “After last night I’ll never drink again.”

  Back on the job, Harry felt liberated. It was almost as though he meant something in this other life that he had ceased to mean at home. Harry felt himself watching Pyro Joe, and hating him more each day. He resented the man – not for being Johnny’s brother, how daft would that be? But for being a bully and for being thick. If Johnny Too was a brighter Grant Mitchell, Pyro Joe was a beefier Mr Bean, holding him back. Maybe Joe was the reason Johnny turned bad. Maybe Johnny Too could be saved. It was 11.15 am when Harry Tyler sauntered back into the Ned. Johnny Too sat at the deserted bar chatting with Joe and Slobberin’ Ron.

  When he saw Harry he shot off his stool and greeted him like a prodigal son.

  “Wanna a beer, H?’ asked Ron.

  “Bit early, innit?”

  “Early for a pint?” said Johnny.

  “No,” Harry replied. “For fucking silly questions.”

  All four men laughed out loud. “Nice one,” said Ron.

  “Fancy a livener,” Johnny Too asked his brother. Pyro Joe nodded. John emptied half a gram of cocaine out on the serving hatch and chopped it finely with an American Express gold card – he felt it tasted better chopped with a gold card, the same way that some blokes prefer their beer in a straight glass rather than a jug.

  Johnny rolled up a five pound note and snorted three fat lines. Joe took another three.

  “Best way to start the day,” the big man chuckled. “You want some, H?” asked Johnny Too.

  “No, ta, mate. I knocked it on the head eighteen months ago. I kept it in the fridge and at night it used to call out to me.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It used to say: ‘If you eat me all up tonight, you won’t have to buy any more ever again. I’ll be your last bit.’”

  “And was it?”

  “Was it fuck. Then one day I just got sick of it, sick of the whole idea of it. I took what I had left, only about half a gram, and just flushed it down the khazi. And I ain’t used it since. I’ve moved a fair bit since, though.”

  “Still get it?”

  “No. In the market for a lump, though.”

  “How much?”

  �
�Half a key.”

  “What about down your way?”

  “It’s all Club Class shit. No, in truth, John, I’m looking to open up the market. The last run from over the water got burned.”

  Johnny lowered his voice. “How’s £15 gib on the half key sound?”

  “If it’s good percentage gear the price is OK.”

  “Can you stick five grand up front, the other ten COD?”

  “I’ll sort it,” said Harry.

  “Start with the half,” said Johnny, “and if the trade builds we’ll speak about an increase.”

  Harry’s face was poker straight, but inside he was doing somersaults. He couldn’t wait to report back. This could be it! His taskmasters agreed. £15,000 in cash was going to be allowed to run, and a no-arrest strategy was worked out whereby Harry would hand over the 15 grand and walk away with the gear. Of course, they were all going to get lifted later, but this was the little fish to catch a shark approach.

  Two days after that conversation in the Ned, Harry Tyler was in possession of £15,000 in used notes, all twenties and tens, all serial numbers having been recorded. He drove to the Ned with the money in a carrier bag concealed under the spare tyre in his boot. When he strode into the bar, Johnny Too was in light conversation with Slobberin’ Ron Sullivan.

  “John,” Harry said. “Have you got two minutes to have a look at the motor?”

  “Sure.”

  Once outside, Harry continued, “John, that other thing we spoke about, I’ve got the wedge together. Can it happen?”

  “Where’s the wedge?”

  “In the motor.”

  Unseen and unheard, the cameras were rolling and so was the hidden tape recorder.

  “I can’t get my hands on half a kilo for a day,” said Johnny.

  “Well take the 15 and give me a shout.”

  “Don’t you want a sample?”

  “For what you say it washes up good; that’s all I need.”

  “H, you’re too trusting. How you ever gonna be a rich man?”

  “I don’t trust many people, John, but I trust you. There’s a thousand people I don’t, but you won’t knock me.”

  “Why?”

  “Cos if you do, I won’t tell you no more jokes.”

  Johnny laughed. “No, mate, you hold on to the wedge until I’m holding.”

  “John, if I take that away I’ll stick it on a dog.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I know you won’t knock me.”

  The two men shook hands. “Did you see that about Reggie Kray coming out,” said Harry. “They say he’s dying.”

  “Gotta be a scam, ain’t it?” Johnny replied. “He comes out with one week to live, I bet he’s on the Costa for Christmas dinner. I bet the doc took a bung, he’s pulling a moody.”

  “You going to the funeral if it ain’t?”

  “What, with all the plastics? No, mate. We never knew that lot anyway. Different generation. Me dad had no time for ’em. Too high profile. That’s why the Filth had to take ’em out. They’ll never get us, H. We ain’t got no boyfriends in the aristocracy.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Harry. “You’re too smart, John.” They walked to the boot of Harry’s car, the rolled-over bag went straight under Johnny Too’s armpit and was hidden by his black leather jacket. The movement was as swift as a cruise ship magician concealing a playing card, but not too swift for the camera in the boot to miss.

  “Go and have a pint,” Johnny said. “I’ll be back in a while.”

  The gangster strolled off towards the neighbouring council estate, then turned back towards Harry and asked for his car keys. Harry separated them from his flat keys and threw them over. No more was said.

  A little under an hour later, Johnny Too strolled into the Ned, slung an arm around Harry who was sitting at the bar and slid the keys back to him along the bar.

  “Your spare tyre’s sorted out, H,” he said. “You’ll probably want to shoot off home.”

  Harry rose and shook his hand. Both men smiled.

  As Harry drove off he was tempted to pull over and check the boot, but he knew better. Instead he kept on driving, checking constantly in his mirror to make sure he wasn’t being tailed. This was either the real thing or a major test. He did several roundabouts three or four times, joined A-roads at one junction and left them at the next. When Harry was satisfied he wasn’t being followed, he put a call in direct to Susan Long.

  “Can’t stop, luv,” he said. “I’ve got the shopping. I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

  Even he thought he was being over-cautious, but it had occurred to him that in the hour he had spent waiting in the Ned, Johnny Too could have stuck a tape in his car. In the event, he hadn’t, but you never knew.

  After forty minutes on the road, Harry turned into the back yard of a safe house. The doors closed quickly behind him. DI Suckling was there, and Harry handed him the keys.

  “Baker told me it’s in the boot,” he said.

  “It probably is,” Suckling replied. “The snapper at the OP has got some good smudges of Mickey Fenn unlocking your boot and sticking something in there. But neither of the Bakers went within a hundred yards of it.”

  Mickey Fenn? Seventeen-year-old Mickey? Harry was impressed. “The little shit,” he said. “I’ve got Johnny on tape offering the Charlie up and taking my car keys off me.”

  They waited as the scenes-of-crime officer wearing gloves opened the boot. A photographer snapped away. Under the tyre cover was a taped ball-shaped object. More photos. The officer raised it, bagged it and sent it straight off for finger-printing. Before the day was done, they would all know that the parcel contained a half-kilo of 84% pure cocaine, but there wasn’t a single dab on it. Not that it mattered. Johnny Too was now nickable.

  Harry put in a quick call to Baker, all taped. “John, thanks for helping me out with that puncture. You fancy a knife and fork tomorrow? I’m taking Lesley out to one of them Yankee-style restaurants where the steaks come by the square yard.”

  “Yeah, blinding. I’ll get hold of Geraldine and pick you up round Lesley’s at eight.”

  “Sweet.”

  “Tell her to get some Pouilly Fuisse in. I’m pig sick of Strongbow.”

  “She’d have me up against the wall with arrows through me hands.”

  “Well, you know, Harry, whatever gets you through the night …”

  If Johnny Too seemed unusually bright, even by his own formidable standards, it was with good reason. The Crown Prosecution Service (often dubbed the Criminal Protection Squad) had begun to drop assault charges from the bungled police raid on the Ned, while young Steven had recovered from what John had dubbed his “spot of botty bother” and was in serious talks with two major software companies about his Mobster game. None of which explained why he rang Harry’s phone at the flat at 7.00 am the next morning and asked him to pick up a parcel from Geraldine’s home address. Johnny was insistent that the job was double urgent and no one else was to know about it. The call was all recorded. Harry and the back-up team were curious and excited. What would the parcel be? More drugs, guns, counterfeits? Whatever, it had to be another nail in the coffin of the Baker empire.

  At precisely 11.30 am, Harry rang Geraldine’s doorbell. She answered the door wearing a towel and apparently nothing else. Fuck, thought Harry, does she know how horny she looks? He noticed a tell-tale white powder mark by her left nostril and knocked his finger against his own nose to give her a clue. “Oh, ta,” she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “Come in, Harry, I’ve got something for you.” Harry made himself comfortable in the large, white, leather armchair in her living room. It looked like something out of OK magazine. The CD in the corner was playing “Unforgivable Sinner” by Lene Marlin.

  “Drink, Harry?”

  “No, ta.”

  “Go on, just a quick one. I could do with some company.”

  Was she deliberately talking in double entendres?

  “OK, small br
andy.”

  Geraldine poured a large Hennessey from a crystal decanter, handed it over and perched on the arm of the chair Harry was sitting in, running her fingers gently over the erect nipples that were making their presence felt through the towel.

  “Harry, do you think my boobs are too small.”

  “Not for me to say,” he said stiffly. “If John’s happy with ’em, and you’re happy, where’s the problem?”

  She grabbed his free hand and pushed it against her left breast.

  “But what do you think?”

  Harry pulled his hand back. “I don’t think anything. Where’s the parcel I’ve got to take to John?”

  “What’s wrong, Harry, don’t you fancy me?”

  “I don’t even see you as a woman, Geri. I see Johnny as a mate. I also value my cobblers. Now, I don’t know what game you’re playing but I do know it’ll get people hurt.”

  He got up and set the brandy down. “No offence, Geraldine. But you’re a mate’s girl, so please leave it alone. Where’s the parcel?”

  She got up in a pretend sulk and then giggled. “Well, if you’re sure,” she said. “But if you change your mind you know where to find me.” She picked up a lightly taped square card box, no longer than a TV remote and about as deep as two stuck together. It weighed well under a kilo. Harry was puzzled but he took the parcel straight to the Ned. Every time he stopped at traffic lights he looked it over. There was no way he could open it without breaking the tape, and it would be taking a big chance to try and reseal it so he left it as it was. As soon as he walked into the pub, Slobberin’ Ron sent him upstairs. Harry found Johnny Too sitting alone at the kitchen table.