The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1)

by Garry Bushell

  “See anything you want?” Johnny asked.

  “Not on the menu …” She couldn’t believe she’d said that.

  John laughed.

  Geraldine made small talk to cover her embarrassment. “Funny how when you first look at a menu, you fancy everything,” she said. “Starters, main, side dishes, cocktails, the lot. Then the starter comes and that fills you up on its own.”

  “There are defin’t’ly two states of mind when it comes to restaurants,” John said. “Pre-order and post-bill. Pre-order you want the works, but then the bill comes and wallop! Everyone has a steward’s into it. ‘Oo ordered the rum baba’ and all that caper.” He paused. “But you’ve got no worries with me, Geri darling. Order what you like. I had a right result last month, I got 10 grand from the big South London summer raffle draw.”

  “You won the raffle?”

  “No, love, I organised it.”

  That twinkle again. Geraldine wanted to stroke his hand, but one of the bouncers came up and whispered something in John’s ear. Johnny Too looked grim. “Tell him to keep on the other side of the club,” he said angrily. “I don’t want him coming over and shaking my hand, making small talk, chopping out Charlie or anything, all right? The bloke is a mug.”

  The bouncer nodded and walked off to an elderly well-coiffured man in an expensive suit who was gawping at a table dancer.

  “Who …?’ Geraldine started to ask.

  “Plastic gangster,” Johnny Too spat. “The place is crawling with ’em. That fella once wrote a book about how he was a getaway driver for the Krays and I know full well he was the fucking tea-boy, excuse my French. You get it all the time, old geezers over the East End who reckon they used to run with the Krays. Yeah, right, maybe on school sports days but that’s it. I don’t have mugs like that wrapped around me.” Then he smiled again. Geraldine looked at him. Johnny Baker was obviously a dangerous man to know.

  “You know what, Johnny,” she said. “I’ve lost my appetite. Would you walk me to Charing Cross station, please?”

  He looked puzzled. “What did I do wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Yet…”

  They both smiled.

  As they strolled down St Martin’s Lane, Geraldine shivered. Johnny put an arm around her. God, she thought, he feels so strong.

  “Where have you got to get to?” he asked.

  “Bickley.” She hesitated then said, “Would you like to come back for coffee?”

  He stopped dead and turned her to face him. They kissed. He pulled her body into his. Geraldine felt him harden and knew that she had to have this man. Johnny Too hailed a taxi to take them the quarter of a mile to Charing Cross station. In the back, he slipped a hand down the inside of her stockinged legs and met no resistance. He thought his cock was going to burst out of his suit trousers. At Charing Cross he slung the driver a tenner. “You know what,” he said as he helped her out. “I can’t wait for Bickley.” John glanced towards the Charing Cross Hotel. Geraldine nodded OK.

  They were barely inside the hotel room when they were on each other, probing with tongues and fingers. Geraldine unzipped his fly, released his swollen cock and cupped it in her hands. It felt good, seven, maybe eight inches long with a nice girth.

  “Well, you’re certainly not Johnny Two,” she laughed.

  “It’s short for Two-hander,” Johnny said, slipping his right hand gently up the inside of her leg to rub her through her panties. They were already moist. He pulled her down and they fucked there and then on the floor.

  It was inevitable that Detective Sergeant Gary Shaw would get to hear about the latest goings on in the Ned Kelly. Shaw was ex-Regional Crime Squad and even in this God-forsaken manor he had the odd informant who needed the occasional leg-up at court or wanted a few quid to invest at Catford Dogs. One of Shaw’s oldest recruits was Tony O’Shea, elder brother of David and Shirley. Tony was in his early forties and regarded himself as an ex-crook. His car-ringing days were behind him. All he got involved in now was buying and selling a bit of nicked gear, just to make life indoors a little easier. O’Shea had had a nice little earner in his day. Fords were his speciality. He could reduce a brand new stolen Granada to spares in under four hours. Even the smallest parts were then re-boxed and sold through his own spares shop at the front of O’Shea’s Breakers Yard. That was the little racket that first attracted Gary Shaw’s attention. Still, nothing lasts forever.

  Twenty-three hours after David O’Shea was out of intensive care, Tony sat opposite Shaw in the upper bar of the Tipperary pub, just a wig’s throw from Lincoln’s Inn. Shaw liked “The top of the Tip” for its privacy, but O’Shea was nervous. Villains get everywhere and what he was about to do broke every code that had never been written. O’Shea had never had a problem grassing kids who were nicking cars for him to Shaw, or letting slip where all the stolen car tax discs were being housed when the Ford operation hit the wall. He even showed Shaw how to lift a post office franking stamp off a nominal value postal order with wax paper and drop it back on the stolen disc. But this … this was proper grassing. This was wrong. But then again it was personal.

  “So get David to give evidence against Joey,” Shaw was saying. “He’s bang to rights on GBH and attempted murder by the sound of it.”

  “Yeah, but Joey can plead self-defence and Davey’s gonna take a nick for starting it.”

  “But Joey did your sister.”

  “David won’t do it. He’d be signing a death warrant for the whole fucking family if he did.”

  “So how do we tee Baker up?”

  “Not your way, Mr Shaw. David’s been told to wipe his mouth when he gets out of hospital. Being honest, I don’t think the Bakers will let this go till they’ve wiped him out. I’ve had the visit. I’ve had the promises that it’s finished. But you know it’s bollocks and so do I. David’s a dead man walking, if he ever walks again. Joey won’t let it go. He can’t. No one does what me brother did and goes back on the manor. But what do I do? I’ve got a missus, kids. What can I do, Mr Shaw? David’s fucked the fucking lot of us.”

  “So set the Bakers up.”

  “Yeah and then the CPS can tell everyone at the trial who put the bit of work up, or they’ll end up dropping the charges. Look, I know what’s going on. I can’t help that way – it’s the same result.”

  “Can we hit the pub?”

  “It’s the only way,” O’Shea said with certainty. “Every Monday afternoon, every Thursday and Friday … you know what it’s like. Why don’t the uniform just raid it? There’s always half a ton of poxy white powder everywhere, there’s always parcels of nicked gear, half the people in there are on the wanted or they’re proper tooled up.”

  “When’s the best night?”

  “It heaves on Fridays.”

  “Who’s serving the gear?”

  “The Taylor boys and Greg Saunders. They all hang around by the bog near the bar. There’s that other little prick, what’s ’is name? I dunno, but the main ones are Paul and Danny Taylor and Saunders. Saunders keeps it in a bag down his pants, the other two just pull it out of a jacket pocket.”

  Gary Shaw made a note of the names. “Leave it to me,” he said.

  CHAPTER THREE

  STARK RAVING NORMAL

  It was 3.37 am as Harry sped along the M11 and on to the A11 towards home. He’d had “a couple of light ales” – five bottles of Budweiser and three large JD and Cokes – with the operational team who had taken out Sonny and breathless George. He’d meant to knock it on the head after two Buds, but you know how it is. Harry smirked as he recalled DC Brennan describing the way George’s face had drained of colour when he’d clocked that sea of pistols pointing at him. “Michael Jackson paid a plastic surgeon thousands to achieve that whitening effect,” he’d said. “Harry Tyler could have done it for him for nothing.”

  The laughs had been followed by anxious glances. In today’s brave new force, a good cop could get busted down the ranks or even fir
ed for cracking a joke that could be construed as “racist” by any passing low-life/no-life Guardian-reading mug. One Met inspector had just been demoted to constable for a throw-away remark. Luckily, Detective Sergeant MacKay, the one West Indian officer in the squad, was generally considered “one of yer own” and had taken the remark in the spirit it had been intended.

  Harry slowed down to 70 as he ejected the Blink 182 CD from his car stereo and replaced it with the latest Bloodhouse Gang offering. He was still buzzing from the success of the op. It had taken months of hard graft to pull off and before he got the chance to unwind, Harry had made his notes, been thoroughly debriefed, worked out his expenses, dumped the Granada and picked up a newish Cougar from the workshop. He’d been the man of the match in the bar though.

  Harry had spent a good half hour chatting to Stacey, the woman detective sergeant from the surveillance team, the one with the baby-seat but no baby in her car. She was one of those Dorises you don’t fancy at first but who, at times like now, when you’re deadbeat, you start fantasising about. She was the sort of girl that you’ve really got to sack after the second or third shag … or maybe the fourth if she was a good bunk-up. He’d told her he had to go cos “one more drink and I’ll be under the table”. Stacey, laughing, had replied, “One more drink and I’d probably be under you.” There was something about the glint in her eye that made Harry think she meant it. In his mind’s eye, Stacey had cornered him in the bar, grabbed his balls and was whispering, “Anything you say will be held against me.” Harry felt his best friend stir. He went to punch her number into the moby but thought better of it. He was only five minutes from home.

  He clicked the CD on to the best number, “The Ballad Of Chasey Lain”, and sung along with his own words: “You’ve had a lot of dick, STACEY, but you ain’t had mine.” Harry laughed aloud. Fuck, he was tired. He swerved to avoid a splattered hedgehog and thought about breathless George again. The miserable mess of roadkill had had more chance than that gormless twat.

  It was drizzling as Harry pulled up on his driveway. Ah, that wonderful English summer. The house was a sight. He rubbed his sore eyes and briefly studied his three-bedroom semi. That clump of grass was still growing out of the gutter. The outside needed to be painted again this year. The drainpipe had a leak.

  The upstairs curtain twitched. Harry glimpsed his wife, Kara. She didn’t look too impressed. Bollocks, he thought. Why didn’t I call to tell her I was coming home? It wasn’t a lot to ask, one poxy phone call, but then Harry was selfish. He didn’t mean to be. It was just … he got busy, OK? She didn’t understand. You get so wrapped up in your work you can’t ALLOW anything else to get in the way. If you lose focus it could cost you more than the case. It could cost your fucking LIFE! Fuck, now he was ready to ruck her and she hadn’t said a word. He took a deep breath. Or was it that he just couldn’t be bothered to ring any more? Don’t go there. Just be Mr smiley-happy family man.

  Who was he trying to kid? Harry just knew that when he surfaced for air later that day Kara would get aboard him about the house, about little Courtney Rose, about a holiday, about not ringing her. He scowled as he turned the key in the lock, but the door wouldn’t open. The inner bolts were on. Of course they were. He rang the bell once. “Hang on, hang on!” Kara rushed to the door. “I was just moving Courtney back in her own bed. She was snuggled in with me.”

  “You should have left her, doll,” Harry said, with a weak smile. “I’d have kipped in the spare room.”

  He held her close to him, close and tight, until Kara got uncomfortable and wriggled away. She put her face close to his. He expected her to tell him how much she loved him. Instead came the question that had become his wife’s catchphrase. “Have you been drinking?” she said.

  Harry didn’t remember the rest of the conversation. He didn’t even remember undressing and crashing into bed. But now he was there he couldn’t shut his brain off. The harder he tried to sleep, the more his mind bombarded him with images from the day. He rolled on to his right shoulder and looked at the digital numbers on his Homer Simpson alarm clock. The bright green glow told him it was 4.45 am. Then 5.03 am. He saw 5.13 am and drifted off into sweet oblivion.

  Harry came to at 12.37 pm. He was aware of Kara creeping across the room to the wardrobe. He glanced across at her. She had her back to him and was reaching up for something off the top shelf so that the short dress she was wearing rode up level with her white Tanga panties. She had fucking great pins. He wriggled his legs to let her know he was alive.

  “Are you awake, Harry?” she whispered.

  He gave it a thought. Was he ready to handle the world yet? He could certainly handle them legs.

  “Yes, babe,” he grunted. “I need a slash.”

  Great opening gambit, he thought. Move over, Casanova, there’s a new stud in town. Harry swung out of bed and stumbled to the toilet on auto-pilot, then guided himself back towards the bed like a distressed Jumbo. Kara was undressing as he crash-landed. She had her back to him and was unhooking her bra. He turned his head to watch her turn around in all her naked glory and smiled weakly. Kara lifted the duvet and slipped alongside him, nestling into his body. Her left arm hugged his pot belly. He could feel her tight, firm breasts in his back. Her smell, that wonderful Kara fragrance, played around his nose till it twitched. He had a fleeting image of the cartoon kids in the old Bisto ads. Ah, rumpo, he thought to himself. Harry smiled and rolled over. Kara turned away, covering her breasts with her arms. Gently Harry slipped his right hand through her defences and cupped her left breast, then the right, softly squeezing the nipples before running his fingers over her stomach. Her skin felt good, like stroking satin. He nuzzled her long copper hair. Kara was 34, but had the body of a 20-year-old, firm in all the right places. Childbirth had not betrayed her.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to caution you, madam,” Harry said in clipped, Estuary cop-speak. “You have the right to remain gorgeous.” She giggled. To his eager ears, the sound was like ambrosia being poured on rose petals.

  His tiredness forgotten, Harry gyrated his already hard cock against the cheeks of her arse. He parted her legs with his hands and left it lodged between the two ports of entry. Then his hand found her breasts again as he kissed the back of her neck. Gently, gently. His cock felt like cast iron. God, it had been a while. The kisses became a play bite, just to let her know it was mating time. But then Kara rolled over and took control, pushing Harry on his back and straddling him. Harry grabbed her hips and thrust his hardness against her. Kara retreated down his body and took him in her mouth. Oh yeah, that’ll do, he thought, but after a minute or two she was coming back towards him, grabbing his cock with her hand and steering it into her. She was soaking wet already. Harry could have come there and then, but he grabbed the bed sheet and gripped it hard to slow himself down. He looked up at his wife’s face. It was contorted with pleasure. She was already on Planet Kara – eyes shut, mouth open – and getting noisy. Fuck the neighbours. Again Harry felt a tingle in his loins. He gripped the sheet tighter and tried to think of anything but sex. He started to recite the 1998 West Ham team backwards in his mind, ending with the goalie. Always a sound delaying tactic, unless you’re an Arsenal fan of course.

  Kara was getting noisier. She was gripping his shoulders now and groaning in his face as her head exploded with delight. Harry held her close for about ten seconds before tapping her firmly on the back to let her know it was his turn. Kara lay next to him and spread her legs, but Harry told her to turn over. He wanted to take her from behind. She wasn’t that keen on this position but she complied. He was in charge now. Harry thrust himself into her and started to pump forcefully. He was fully awake now and supercharged. He loved her tight, wet pussy. He loved being in control. He was near the point of no return in seconds. “Fuck me, fuck me!” Kara cried. Harry was lost in the rush that swept up his body and into his head. His brain was saying not yet but the wave was too strong to resist. He felt the detonation. God,
there was a lot there. Kara felt it too. “Keep going,” she said urgently. “Keep …” He gripped her hips and kept on pounding into her. His cock was still hard. “YES!” she yelled. “YES!” They both collapsed, his body on top of hers. Harry lay there for a moment before rolling over. He could feel his cock deflating slowly, like one of Branson’s air balloons. Kara hugged him tightly. “Any more where that came from?” she smiled.

  Ten minutes later, Kara got up and walked towards the en suite bathroom. Harry looked approvingly at her firm breasts. “I’m running a bath,” she said. “Shall I save you the water?”

  “Please, darling.”

  She was in and out quickly then stood by the side of the bath obligingly drying herself legs apart as Harry soaked in the sweet herbal froth. He got a lazy lob on. Kara reached down and stroked his penis.

  “That’s it, darling,” Harry said. “Take the law into your own hands.”

  “Is that all you ever think about? “Kara replied with a joke tut.

  “No,” he said, feigning hurt. “I sometimes think about beer and murghi massala.” She walked off and came back in her underwear to wash his hair. Harry tried to rub her nipples through her bra, but she gently nudged his hand away. Playtime was over.

  “Where’s Courtney Rose?” Harry asked.

  “Over Mum’s. They’ve gone to Newmarket for the day.”

  “How are yer mum and dad?”

  “Good. Dad’s had a rough time of it with hay fever this year.”

  “I reckon he’s on Charlie, the way he keeps sniffing. He’s got the bugle for it.”

  “Don’t talk like that, he wouldn’t know what it was anyway. I hate it when you come home talking like a villain.”

  “Anybody ring?”