The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1)

by Garry Bushell

  “Joe, am I a-fucking-kip or what?” he moaned.

  “Ooooooo!” the rest of the car responded to a man.

  Harry turned the other cheek and let rip with a suspension-rattling fart.

  “Fuck me, H, you’ll blow an ounce on the carpet,” laughed Johnny Too.

  “You dirty bastard, that fucking stinks,” complained The Dog.

  “I think a rat’s died up your arse,” roared Pyro Joe.

  “I’ll open a window,” said Tony Boniface.

  “NO!” hollered the Bakers as one.

  “Not with £200-worth of Charlie on the mirrors,” muttered Johnny.

  Everyone laughed. Harry yawned. “That’s that poxy bitter from Sidcup,” he said.

  When they arrived at Kempton Park, Johnny Too asked Harry to stay in the car when the others got out.

  “Tony and Greg are gonna come over on Thursday and collect that shopping, is that OK?”

  “You want me to deliver or them to come east?”

  ‘“They’ll come to you.”

  “What time?”

  “After EastEnders.”

  “After fucking EastEnders?” Harry laughed.

  “Yeah, Tony’s a soap nutter. You can’t get him out the flat until EastEnders has finished.”

  “Hope he don’t get too upset about Ian Beale, Lesley tells me he’s going down the pan like a dodgy curry.”

  “Mug!”

  “If Tone would rather watch it down the Trojan, I’ll stick some jellied eels on for him. Get a fucking pearlie behind the bar.”

  “Nah, I’m serious, H. If the flat was alight he’d burn before he switched off. Got pictures of fucking Melanie cut out in a scrapbook.”

  “That is sad, John. But no problem, mate. I’ll be in the bar waiting.”

  “I’ll put 2K on bail to you next week so you can go to work, same price as the last.”

  “Yeah, anything else need doing?”

  “No, mate, we’re sorted for security and, as it happens, I ain’t taking Geri now. Can you run her around for a bit of shopping uptown just to take her mind off business?”

  Harry felt offended. He wasn’t a fucking gopher, but then he had been told that the incoming parcel was under control and he was glad Geraldine wasn’t on the plot just in case it got messy. Doubtless she would still be wiped up on a conspiracy charge, but that’s life. You lie with dogs, you get fleas. It crossed his mind that the Bakers might still not fully trust him, after all he wasn’t family…

  “Johnny, no worries,” he said finally. “I’ll take Geri and Les up West, Kings Road or Knightsbridge, y’know.”

  “Cheers, H, I ain’t rowing you out but I can’t use you this time.”

  “John, I was never in, just bear me in mind if you need emergency back-up.”

  Johnny Too nodded. “Catch up with the others, mate, I need ten with Joey. We’ll be along shortly.”

  As Harry got out, Pyro Joe got in. Tony Boniface was enjoying a small cigar.

  “I hear you’re an EastEnders fan, Tone,” he said. “Love it, mate.”

  “I had fucking nightmares thinking of Pat and Frank at it.”

  “Yeah, not a pleasant image, is it?”

  “You know what the technical term for having sex with Fat Pat is?”

  “No, what?”

  “Going the whole hog.”

  Boniface laughed. “You wicked fucker.”

  Harry glanced back. The Bakers were deep in conversation, blissfully unaware that the Mercedes had more bugs in it than a dosser’s vest.

  Harry had managed to successfully blow £150 of taxpayers’ money until the last race of the day. His decision to stick £50 to win on 12/1 East End Delight, in honour of Tony, was met with hoots of derision from the Ned Kelly faithful. The mood changed when it romped home three lengths clear of the 9/2 and the 3/1. Harry scooped £650 in readies, earning him a nicotine snog from a clearly half-cut Dolly Burns, and Johnny Too broke out the champagne.

  Back at the Ned, the first two rounds were on Harry as the tale of East End Delight’s glorious victory was re-told and magnified. It was Johnny Too who rained on his parade.

  “H, you understand about Friday, don’tcha?”

  “John, it’s fuck all to do with me. I appreciate the two other things on bail, though, geezer, but I ain’t got a problem. Just remember, any shit and I’m on the mobile.”

  “Cheers, mate. Geri knows about the parcel and she’s getting tuned up. Just keep her mind off things. I’m going on the missing tomorrow, early doors, and I’ll give her a bell Friday night, OK?”

  “Sweet. When will you be about?”

  “Not till Sunday night or Monday morning, but I’ll bell you Friday night.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to run the other things up tomorrow?”

  “Nah, you’re a good man, H. I’ll send the other two down about nine-ish.”

  Johnny Too was swaying on his feet. He was so filled up with beer his epiglottis had probably drowned, thought Harry. Joey and The Dog were getting boisterous so Harry called a cab and went home. He knew he’d had too much to drink because he made the driver stop for a kebab. He had two theories about kebabs. One was that if working-class men stopped drinking, every kebab shop in Britain would go belly up. The second was that the bigger the chilli sauce stain on the wrapping paper the next morning, the more pissed you had been the night before.

  There was a stain the size of a cabbage on his.

  Thursday morning found Harry at Maidstone police HQ in Kent for an 11 am briefing with more than 100 crime squad officers. He had just sat through a 90-minute meeting in the senior officers’ canteen where battle plans were laid down over tea and digestive biscuits. His superiors already knew that the delivery was due for about 2 pm at a warehouse off Plough Way, Rotherhithe. The coming articulated lorry was already under complete control. It was known to have an unspecified amount of cocaine on board. The good guys were buzzing.

  After the briefing, Harry thought about ringing Kara. He wanted to, but he couldn’t face the questions. It would only be a couple of days now and he’d be on his way home. Lesley popped into his mind and went just as quickly.

  If all went to plan, Harry would be back here in Maidstone on Friday watching the results of the arrests going up on the whiteboard. The weekend would see every poor sod who had done deals with him being wiped up in a huge operation that would have South London talking for years to come.

  He went to find a toilet and passed a glass walkway that overlooked the car park. Dozens of blue boiler-suited firearms officers were disembarking from armoured land rovers. A few of the vehicles had battering rams welded to the fronts. Harry stopped and looked out at the smiling faces. He admired how professional these dedicated men and women were, how ruthless and cold they could be when it was called for. These people faced down the sickest and most merciless scum loose on the streets, guttersnipes who would execute the innocent for under a grand. The excrement they dealt with abided by none of society’s rules or laws. How could the yellow liberal press be so fond of defending them and so quick to attack the good guys? A shot cop meant nothing to them, but if a police officer let loose a round or two in the name of justice, before the villain’s sorry arse had hit the floor the PCA – Prosecute Coppers Association – would be racing eagerly to the scene to seize the weapon and suspend the officer. A “fair” investigation would follow and would possibly result in the hero peacekeeper gripping the rail at Number One dock at the Old Bailey.

  Why did they bother? Harry didn’t know, but the fact that they did made them special. Like him, they were prepared, probably wrongly, to put the job before their families, before anything. Possibly even their lives.

  That evening Harry sat in the Trojan watching the clock. EastEnders had long since finished. Liam was behind the bar shooting the breeze about Sony’s Playstation II with a young Chinese guy. Four black men sat across from Harry playing poker. A crop-haired white guy in a West Ham top was standing alone at the
bar drinking bottles of Foster’s Ice with his Staffordshire terrier at his feet. Harry picked up a discarded Evening Standard and started flicking through it, looking for the Gary Larson Far Side cartoon. It was 8.43 pm when Tony Boniface finally walked in, looking so nervous he might as well have had “Guilty” stencilled across his forehead.

  Harry stood up. “Beer, Tone?” he asked.

  Boniface shook his head. He smiled unconvincingly and sat at Harry’s table.

  “You all right, mate?” asked Harry. “You look sick.”

  “I always get a bad gut running the things about, mate. I hate ’em.”

  “You on your own?”

  “Nah, the bird’s in the motor and I’ve got another car running with me for cover.”

  “Take it easy, mate.”

  “Got the bag?”

  “Yeah, outside in me boot. Under the headless corpse.”

  “You what?”

  Harry laughed.

  “You CUNT,” Tony said fiercely, adding, “That ain’t funny, H.”

  “So why are you grinning?”

  They left together. Boniface’s moll sat in the driver’s seat of a red Vauxhall Astra. Harry glanced further to the left and saw the unmistakable bulk of Pyro Joe in the passenger sear of a Suzuki 4WD jeep. He didn’t look long enough to ID the driver. Moving quickly he retrieved the hold-all and crossed the road to the Vauxhall. Boniface held the boot open and slammed it shut as soon as Harry had dropped the bag into it. Flustered, he then went to get in the driving seat, then seemed stuck as he decided whether to go round the front or the back of the vehicle. He finally settled on the back.

  “Good luck, Tone,” Harry called as he crossed back to the pub. He didn’t look at the Suzuki again. He heard the two vehicles pull away behind him, not at speed, but too fast for the area.

  “Fucking amateur,” he muttered.

  Back in the bar, Harry phoned Geri. She couldn’t have been friendlier.

  “Hi, gorgeous, what time are you picking us up tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I’m only the driver, luv. You tell me.”

  “Lesley’s coming over to keep me company and have a little drink. Why not join us, then we can work out what we’re doing?”

  “I’ll call you back in five.”

  “Don’t be long, sweetie.”

  Harry put the phone back and thought it through. If he was down the Ned, there might be some intelligence to be picked up. But then again, Johnny Too was off the plot and an evening with Geri and Les might be good wanking material if nothing else. He would never see either of them again after tomorrow. Any evidence he might be required to give in court would be behind a screen. So, purely in the interests of justice, Harry rang back and said he’d be right over.

  Harry parked his car eight streets away and walked the rest of the way, which gave Lesley the time to arrive. Geraldine greeted him at the front door wearing a figure-hugging red dress held up over her shoulders by two slender straps. She handed Harry a champagne cocktail. Lesley was on the settee dressed in the shortest miniskirt and a flimsy white blouse which made no attempt to disguise the black bra underneath. Harry kissed her and sat opposite, noting the brilliant white panties under the skirt.

  Geri stood behind Harry’s chair and rubbed his shoulders. “Thanks for coming to protect us,” she purred. Both women giggled. She walked over to a glass-top table and unfolded a paper wrap of cocaine, which she chopped into several lines, then dabbed her finger into the remaining pile and rubbed it into her gums. Lesley rolled up a £5 note and they took turn snorting two lines apiece.

  “Help yourself, Harry,” Geri invited.

  “Later,” he said. “Perhaps later.”

  He watched Lesley rub cocaine across her teeth. “So Johnny’s not about tonight?” he added.

  “No, he’s not back until after the weekend,” said Geri, brushing Lesley’s hair with her hand. “You know how it is.”

  Harry got up and topped up his glass with champagne. The new Sade CD was playing softly and sensuously in the background. He sat back down. “So where am I taking you two tomorrow?” he said.

  Geraldine sat on the arm of his chair.

  “Harry, relax,” she said. “Don’t worry about tomorrow yet.” She stroked his hair, and caressed his neck. Geri looked across at Lesley who smiled and nodded. Geri kissed his forehead and got up. The women started to dance to a slow, smoochy number. Harry sipped his drink and felt his cock stir. Geri put her hands on Lesley’s hips and kissed her gently on the lips. Lesley gyrated in time to the music and plunged her tongue into Geri’s mouth. Harry was mesmerised, his cock now fully erect. Geri eased back and danced away from Lesley, moving back towards Harry. She took a mouthful of Buck’s Fizz from a fluted champagne glass, her lower body swaying gently to the music.

  Suddenly Geri reached down and rubbed Harry’s hardness. Her eyes were closed and the sheen of her metallic red lipstick glistened in the light of a standing lamp behind her. Harry gripped her leg and thrust his pelvis forward. Lesley stopped dancing and joined them, kneeling between his open legs and running her hands up to his groin. It felt so good.

  Geri started to unzip his trousers. Suddenly alarm bells started to go off in Harry’s head. They were so up for it, it hurt, but what if Johnny were to call Geri tonight or tomorrow morning? What if she blabbed? Everything could still go pear-shaped. He reached down and pushed the women’s hands away.

  “Sorry, girls. This ain’t right. I can’t do this to Johnny.”

  “He’ll never know,” said Geri.

  “No, he’s a mate. It ain’t right. I’m going home.” He got up. “I’ll pick you up at eleven-thirty, OK, Geri? Shall I get you from home first, Les?”

  “No, no, darling,” said Geri. “She’s staying.”

  “Fine. See you at half-eleven then.”

  Harry drank his drink and walked over to open the door. He glanced back to wave but the women were too busy kissing to notice him. He watched Geri slip the straps off her shoulders before walking out. Strap up! His erection was so hard it was almost painful. Harry pulled out his mobile and dialled Elaine’s number. No way was he going to waste it. The packing could wait till tomorrow.

  By 6.30 am, Johnny Too had finished his run across Streatham Common. He hadn’t slept well, but that wasn’t unusual the night before big business. It was a cold, misty morning but that just served to heighten Johnny’s senses. This was going to be good. He jogged back to a safe house in Streatham Vale and let himself in to the large Victorian semi. Pyro Joe and Dougie The Dog were getting stuck into a fry-up. Three automatic handguns lay on the kitchen table in the living room. Rhino, dressed top to toe in black, was putting a sawn-off pump-action shotgun, with a looped rope through the stock, over his shoulder. He had a .38 revolver in an underarm shoulder holster under his left armpit. Four two-way radios and several mobile phones were on the small coffee table. Johnny Too trusted Rhino with his life. He knew he’d take a slug for him, he was a proper soldier.

  John Boy Saunders sat beside him reading yesterday’s Sun. Johnny waved hi and went through to the kitchen.

  “Any word, Joe?”

  “The ferry ain’t even in Dover yet, John. Ease up, have some bacon and eggs.”

  Rhino and John Boy joined them.

  “Where’s the party tonight, then?” asked Rhino.

  “Over Essex way,” said John. “Little pub in Aveley, safe as houses.”

  Doug grabbed John Boy’s paper. “It’s fucking yesterday’s,” he moaned.

  “The shops ain’t open yet.”

  “What’s in it?” asked Rhino.

  “Stuff about French cows having mad cow disease.”

  “Ha-ha-ha,” laughed Johnny Too. “La BSE nouveau.”

  “Fucking serves them cunts right,” said Pyro Joe. “Burning our beef.”

  “Oh, look,” said Doug. “It’s Bjork’s birthday today.”

  “Shouldn’t that be her birthday?” joked Rhino.

  “What’s her
kid called?” asked John Boy.

  “Dunno,” said Doug. “Moon Unit?”

  “No, you prat, that’s Zappa’s kid,” said Johnny Too.

  “Dougie, stop scratching your cock,” barked Joey.

  “Cant, I’ve got Hermes.”

  “You mean herpes,” Joey said.

  “No, I’m a carrier.”

  “That’s it, fuck you,” Joey snapped. “I’m gonna watch Big Breakfast.”

  “Good call, Joe,” said Johnny Too. “Let’s have a good butcher’s at Denise’s tits.”

  Joey turned on the TV, which came on with GMTV’s Lorraine Kelly instead.

  “Fuck me, the Paisley Pig!” yelled Rhino. “Turn that over!”

  “Yeah,” said Dougie. “I wouldn’t fuck her with yours, Rhino. Her vibrator has to wear a blindfold.”

  Pyro jabbed at the remote. Nothing happened.

  “The battery’s gone,” he grumbled.

  “Get that beast off the screen,” shouted John.

  Dougie The Dog stepped forward and shot the TV set.

  “Dougie!” snapped Joe.

  “You fucking wanker,” Johnny Too said simply.

  “You’re becoming a liability, Doug,” Joe growled.

  The Dog shrugged. “Chill out, fellas,” he said. “I’ll put Mike Osman on the radio.”

  “Clear up this fucking mess first,” fumed Pyro Joe.

  “Shoot anything else and I’ll shoot you,” said John.

  Even Dougie realised he was serious.

  Bang on 8 am, a white Ford transit pulled up outside, driven by young Mickey Fenn. The van had been stolen three months before and had been plated to a straight transit sitting on a car lot, owned by a Baker associate down in Croydon. Mickey, also wearing all-black clothes with black leather gloves, rang the doorbell once. Doug let him in and they bashed clenched right fists. For Mickey Fenn this was it, the day he became one of The Firm, the day he became a man.

  Johnny Too was going through his ritual of wrapping surgical tape around his fingertips before pulling on his gloves. Johnny nodded a welcome to Mickey. “Kitted up, son?” he asked. Fenn patted his left chest area. “Yeah, the 9 mil.” Johnny nodded and said “Let’s go.”