Harry could almost taste the tension in the air.
Dougie reached into the pocket of his leather jacket that was slung haphazardly across the bar. Harry watched for the tell-tale glint of a steel blade. He could hardly believe his eyes when his twisted tormentor pulled out a fat, but plainly dead, black rat instead.
“Recently found brown bread in Ron’s cellar,” Dougie said, grinning excitedly. Pyro Joe smirked. He’d seen The Dog do this trick with dead mice and birds, even a handful of wriggling maggots.
“Now open wide,” Dougie instructed, “cos you are gonna chew on this beauty.”
Harry stepped back. “Fuck off, Doug,” he said simply.
Joey growled.
“You don’t understand,” said Dougie, stepping forward. “You ain’t going nowhere till you’ve had a nice few mouthfuls of cold rodent supper. Think of it not so much as an initiation test as a gift from yer old mate Dougie The Dog.”
Harry stepped towards the bar and picked up an empty bottle of Becks.
“Now, now, Harry,” said Doug. “Don’t play rough.”
“That’s enough.” It was Johnny Too. “Dougie, leave it alone. Harry, come and sit over here.”
The Dog meekly obeyed his master’s voice. The threat was over as quickly as it had begun. Harry wondered if it had been the reverse swindle of the Old Bill’s good-cop, bad-cop routine. And if so, had he passed whatever test it was? He picked up his pint and moved to where Johnny Baker was now sitting. To his right, sitting quietly but watching everything, were the two unknown faces. He had a strange feeling about them. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but they just didn’t add up. Harry knew he didn’t know the men. He had as much faith in his total-recall memory as he did in his chameleon-like ability to get into character and stay in it. So who were the two guys? He felt them looking him up and down. He wasn’t comfortable about them but he didn’t feel threatened. As he sat opposite Johnny Too, he put his suspicions on the back burner and got down to business.
“Ron’s spoken to you, Johnny?”
“Yeah, it’s the parcel from up Brum way.”
“Yeah.”
“How quick can it go?”
“Now. It’s alight down that end.”
“How much you looking for?”
“Two quid a bottle.”
“How many cases?”
“A trailer-full. It’s all on the floor at the moment, and I ain’t got the wheels to move it. Well, not in one hit.”
“Where’s it now?”
“In a slaughter near Epping Forest.”
“Sold! Ron’s got your mobile number?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll get it off him. Rhino and Doug can sort it tomorrow. Got any problems with that?”
Harry hesitated. “Who’s weighing me out?”
“When it’s got, I’ll leave the readies behind the jump with Ron.”
Harry looked Johnny Too in the eye. “Has Dougie got a problem with me?”
“Only if I say so.”
The parcel went, the money arrived and not a single bottle surfaced for two months; then every pub was awash with cheap Scotch, every Asian off-licence from Bermondsey to Peckham and from New Cross to Kennington was doing the right customers good discounts on whisky, but no honest citizen ever walked into the local nick and mentioned that the liquor was being moved at £6 a bottle.
When Harry Tyler collected his cash from Slobberin’ Ron the tapes were rolling and Ron let slip a curious thing, something Harry replayed several times. Ron said simply, “They’re happy with you now, now you’ve been vetted.” It only made sense when Harry next spoke to DI Suckling – Harry’s car had been checked out by a couple of CID officers from an office not a million miles from the Ned Kelly. Bingo. That’s who the two faces in the bar had been. It amused Harry to learn that his name had also been run through the police computer. The inquisitive eyes had seen what they had wanted to see – one conviction three years earlier at Havering magistrates’ court for possession of one gram of a class A drug, fined £175 plus costs. The address on file was now the site of a new ASDA supermarket, while Harry’s wheels showed the address of what appeared to be an empty council flat in Beckton, east London. So, Johnny Too had clearly invested a few quid in research. He obviously saw the potential of this new trade route.
A couple of days after the whisky trade Harry took a call on the mobile.
“It’s Ron Sullivan,” said the voice. “Are you down your manor?”
“Just up the road, can be later. Why?”
“Me and Rhino will be down that way about two-ish, meet us for a beer?”
“What is it now? Eleven? Can you make it half three, I’ve got something on.”
“Yeah, round your place?”
“No, go to my local. It’s only ten minutes from me. It’s called the Trojan, just past the one-way system at Manor Park, opposite a big Nissan dealership on the right and a Shell garage. If you reach the Ford dealership on the right you’ve gone past it.”
Harry grinned as he ended the call. The flies were coming to the spider. He punched a number into his mobile and got busy.
At 3.15 pm, Johnny Too, Pyro Joe and Dougie The Dog strolled into the Trojan, a roomy free house full of customers. Johnny noted how cheap the Scotch was. As the three men reached the bar, the whole pub went quiet. “Welcome to Tombstone,” said Johnny under his breath. Dougie shifted from foot to foot. He looked decidedly ill at ease. A crew of six men, all lumps, glared at them from one corner. The three hounds playing darts stopped to look them over, their interest duplicated by the mob around the snooker table. Two black men further up the bar muttered to one another in a hostile manner. Their close-cropped heads, sharp clothes and mobile phones said drug dealers to those in the know.
Pyro Joe felt compelled to stare back at the first six.
“Not in here, Joe,” said Johnny softly but with authority. “What are you having?”
Cyril, the landlord, gave them a half smile and said, “Looks like rain.”
“It always does over this side,” grumbled Dougie.
“It’s not that bad,” said Cyril.
“Fucking is,” the Dog replied eloquently.
“Has Harry been in?” asked Johnny Too.
“Harry?” Cyril countered. “Harry who?”
“Harry, Harry Tyler,” said John. “You know Harry.”
“Harry Tyler?”
“Yeah, we’re mates. He told us to meet him here.” One of the watching six, a mountain of a man dressed like the Motorhead roadie time forgot, manky long hair, beard, jeans stuck on with old grease and an Anti-Nowhere League t-shirt that was white 15 years before, ambled up to them. Johnny clocked his massive tattooed arms. The guy looked strong enough to lift a family saloon above his head and change a tyre with his spare hand.
“Who you looking for, mate?” he growled.
“Harry Tyler,” said Johnny. “Know him?”
“And who wants him?”
“We fucking do,” snapped Dougie.
Johnny squeezed The Dog’s bicep to shut him up. “I do,” he said. “He asked us to meet him here.”
“He’s a mate, is he?”
Johnny nodded.
“Three pints here, Cyril,” said the big man, nodding at the South London trio. “Give him a ring on his moby, mate. It should be on.”
He rejoined his drinking buddies.
“Do you do food, mate?” Dougie The Dog asked Cyril.
Just then the public bar door swung open and in bounced Harry, big smile on his face and looking good.
“Johnny, Joe, Doug … I was expecting Rhino and Ron. Good to see ya. What y’having?”
“Come on, H,” said Cyril. “Keeping these fellas waiting. He’s always late, he’ll be late for his own funeral he will.”
“Yeah,” Harry replied. “I won’t be late for yours, though, you old bastard.”
The man mountain walked over, and smiled displaying a mouth full of broken teeth.
“Geezer!” Harry smiled. “How’s it hanging? Johnny, this is Pete, Pete, Johnny.”
The entire atmosphere in the pub had changed with Harry Tyler’s arrival. The place started buzzing again. This was good times. Johnny noticed how much calmer and self-assured Harry seemed on his own turf.
“Oi, Cyril,” Harry yelled. “Where’s Carol?”
“She’ll be down in a mo, H. She’s on the phone. I think it’s superglued to her earhole.”
“Cyril’s other half,” Harry said to Johnny. “Nicely put together. Late forties but well turned out. The sort you might have gone over the side for ten years ago but not that beautiful that you wouldn’t have gone home after a shag.”
At that moment, the landlady came down the stairs and into the bar. As soon as she saw Harry it was hugs, kisses and banter all round. Insults flew, none intended to hurt, and jokes were told. Within the space of an hour, some 30 people had drifted in and out of the bar and Harry Tyler was clearly the man. If people didn’t come up and shake his hand, they nodded and smiled. Within what seemed like minutes, Carol had rustled up a spread of sandwiches and chicken legs on the house. What better to tempt fast-drinking punters with fat wallets to linger longer?
“Don’t get this in the Ned,” said Dougie as he bit into two sandwiches at once.
“I’ll stick a score behind the bar tonight and get Ron to lay it on, you greedy sod,” said Johnny. “You mind you don’t get claret and blue poisoning.” Dougie scowled but didn’t stop eating.
Harry pulled Johnny Too aside. “What brings you down this end, John?” he asked.
“We were out for a drive, that’s all.”
Harry raised an “Oh-yeah?” eyebrow. This was no accidental meeting. This was the look-see, and Harry felt honoured that the top man had come to check him out for himself. Johnny Too hadn’t missed a trick. He had clocked the clandestine chat H had been engaged in with the two dealers. He had noted the large wedge of notes subtly transfer from Harry to the taller black man and how they had got up, shaken hands and left smiling. Yeah, there was now no vestige of doubt in Johnny Baker’s mind. Harry Tyler was proper.
“You still here, H?’ Carol joked.
“Yes, darling. And I’ve heard all about you buying yerself crotchless drawers.” He paused to draw in the maximum audience. “It’s not for sex,” he said. “It’s just to get a better grip on the broomstick.”
This got a roar of approval from every man in earshot.
“Bastard!” said Carol, smiling. “I’ll get you back.”
The crack sparked off an orgy of joke-telling, the funniest and sickest gag of the day coming, surprisingly, from Pyro Joe who claimed it was a true story from his time fighting as a mercenary in Croatia.
“Fella I was with, Dagenham Dave, slipped out on a recce and came back three hours later claiming he’d had the best sex of his life in a dug-out not a hundred yards away. He said he’d come across this Serbian girl and that he’d fucked her every which way, on top, underneath, side to side and up the arse. I asked him if he’d got a gobble. ‘No, he said, no gobble.’ Why not? I said. ‘I couldn’t, he replied. ‘She didn’t have a head!’”
“That is sick,” said Carol. But the blokes were on the floor.
“Was Joe in Croatia, Johnny?” asked Harry.
“Was he fuck.”
“Listen, mate, I’ve got to go and service Lesley. Any chance of a lift back when you go, only I’m well over the limit.”
“Not a problem. Now OK?”
“Sweet.”
The four men drove off towards Mile End, dropping down to the Commercial Road for the Rotherhithe Tunnel. Dougie was driving, dreaming of sweeter smells south of the river. He was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn’t have a clue about the police motorcycle behind him until the blue lights came on.
Easy Rider poked his head through the window of Doug’s Sierra and recoiled at his brandy breath. “You were over the limit, sir, but I have reason to believe you have been drinking. Blow in this, sir.”
Johnny Too was the only reason The Dog didn’t go for it, that and the two patrol cars that pulled up five yards behind.
“I’ve fucking forgotten more about the law than you’ll ever know,” Dougie ranted. “Do you know who I am?”
“Not yet, sir, but I soon will.”
The two police cars disgorged their passengers. The Baker brothers and Harry Tyler gave the slow-moving rubber-neckers plenty of freebie entertainment as they had their pockets turned out at the back of the Ford. All three gave false names and addresses, then, leaving the hapless Dougie to the mercy of the uniforms, they strolled off to catch a mini-cab. None of them doubted that out of sight, free from Johnny’s restraining influence, the Dog would show his teeth. Dougie now had one more reason to hate East London, that and the three-year ban he was about to pick up and ignore.
The fun-loving criminals got back to the Ned where Slobberin’ Ron, already aware of the Dog’s misfortune, offered little conversation. Harry downed a pint almost in reverence, as if poor old Doug had died, then with a huge smile, he announced, “I’m off for a shag.”
Lesley looked great. “You look good enough to eat,” Harry told her.
“Fanny first,” Lesley replied, dropping her drawers and lifting her skirt. Even Harry was surprised by this speedy turn of events, but he wasted no time getting stuck in, tracing the alphabet letter by letter on her clitoris with his tongue. He had just reached K the second time around when the longing got too much and he started unbuckling his trousers.
“No, not here,” Lesley said. “Let’s go somewhere else. Let’s go to Southwark Park, or a lay-by, or a field. I fancy a bit of fresh air.”
“A fucking field? Where am I going to find a field in Rotherhithe?”
“I know a place, down by the docks.”
“And there was me thinking you were a virgin …”
Barmaids like Lesley Gore were two a penny in South London, but when it came to shagging she was top dollar. She was in to everything, uniforms, fantasy games, bondage – Les had this thing about being tied up and blindfolded. They had schoolgirl night, nurses night, Nazi night. Then there were the times she dressed as a nun, tied Harry to the bed and walked around him swinging one of those metal balls reeking of incense. Underneath the habit, Lesley wore a black basque, black stockings and suspenders. In her hands she carried a fat tallow candle and baby oil. Harry would be on the bed with a stonker, watching Lesley entertain Colin the candle … Happy days. No wonder that whenever he did manage to get home to Kara, Harry was content to sit in a garden chair with his feet up reading the Sun.
The day after Dougie was breathalysed, the Baker firm had even worse news. Young Steven Richards, the bright computer-literate nephew, was under arrest at Bexleyheath police station in Kent. Steven had been nicked at a public toilet in nearby Erith where he’d been caught giving a stranger a blowjob. The gents in question had been under surveillance, and Steven was one of 36 men to get lifted in the three-day operation. To Pyro Joe, his arrest was clearly a fit-up: this was the Filth extracting revenge on them for their screw-up when they’d raided the Ned.
According to the Police Inspector’s version of events, Steven had been caught two-up in the cubicle with another man, both had their trousers and underpants down. One officer had seen them over the top, a second cop had looked under the door and corroborated everything. The fellow on the receiving end was Samuel Taylor, a secondary school teacher from Crayford, who was keen to let the whole thing blow away as quickly as possible. The two men had not met previous to their gross encounter.
Johnny Too was lying in bed with Geraldine when he heard the news. Steven’s father, Trevor Richards, rang. He was beside himself with rage. Trevor had done enough bird to know about “boygirls”, he could even understand it, but the thought of his bright beloved son at it with some dirty nonce school teacher was too much to bear. Trevor was inconsolable. All Johnny Too
could do was promise to put Maurice Bondman on the case asap. With Maurice in control, the family could already hear the “Not Guilty” verdict, but Steven walking away from the charge couldn’t begin to take the sour taste out of the Bakers’ mouths.
Johnny Too lay back in bed, hands behind his head, gazing at the ceiling. Geraldine hugged him.
“Fucking iron,” Johnny said. “How can Steve be an iron? He’s got it all, the looks, the clothes, the money. Birds love him.”
“John, it’s different these days,” said Geraldine. “If he’s gay, he’s gay. He’s got to be who he’s got to be. Talk to him. Don’t blow up. I know Trevor is upset. I know you’re upset, but talk to him.”
“Trev is going ballistic.”
“He’s bound to, but he’ll see sense. Steven is still his son. He’s still your nephew. He’s still the same bright boy he was this morning. Nothing has changed.”
The more they talked, the more Johnny saw the pieces coming together. Salih, yeah, Sally; the way Steve never had a steady girl … yes, of course. It hurt Johnny’s masculine pride and his family pride, but Geraldine was right. The writing had been on the wall.
Johnny got up and wandered into the shower on auto-pilot. He towelled himself down, dressed, kissed Geri goodbye and then walked to his car as if he were in a trance. By the time he reached the Ned, the clan had started to gather. Pyro Joe and Dougie The Dog were in the mood to firebomb Bexleyheath nick, but Johnny talked them round. His choice of words was not opportune. “Geri says”, “Geri thinks”, “Geri knows …” Pyro Joe was not the brightest of men, but he knew that family business should stay family and eventually he snapped.
“What the fuck’s it got to do with her?” he roared at Johnny. “She’s not fucking family. Your brain is in yer fucking dick where she’s concerned.”
And that was it. The brothers were going at each other like rampant stags. How long had it been since this had happened? Five years? Eight years? Ten? When they were teenagers they were clashing all the time, but onlookers were genuinely shocked to see the two South London crime lords at each other’s throats. Anyone who wasn’t in the Baker inner circle discreetly left the pub as close family and confidantes pulled the two raging fools apart. Rhino parked his 16-stone body between them and stopped the scrapping. But Joey was still seething. The TART had come between the brothers and nothing and no one should ever do that.
The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) Page 12
