The barmaid sped-read the text. The dead man wasn’t named, the injured weren’t named, but the location of the shoot-out made it clear that this couldn’t have been anything other than Johnny Too’s big job.
Geraldine clasped Lesley tightly. “Is it John?” she asked.
“It doesn’t say, honey. It’ll be OK. Give me your mobile.”
Lesley rang the Ned. No answer. Then she rang Harry Tyler and went straight through to the mobile message service. Finally she rang Sandra Baker. The phone was answered by a soft, cultured voice. Lesley hadn’t spent all her life among duckers and divers not to realise who was at the other end of the phone.
“Hello, this is BT,” she said calmly. “Is the subscriber at home, please?”
“No, not at the moment. Can I help?”
“When would be a convenient time to call back? We have a number of discount schemes he may be interested in.”
“Try calling tomorrow. Goodbye.”
The line went dead. “Old Bill,” Lesley said simply. “Come on, we’ll get a taxi back to yours. Hopefully Harry will ring and let us know the SP. Chin up, Geri. Johnny’s too sussed to let the Filth fuck him.”
Harry Tyler never did ring, but gradually the full story filtered through – everyone had been nicked. Lesley reassured herself that Harry must have been scooped up as well. They spent a lot of hours waiting fruitlessly by the phone that night.
At 5.30 am a dozen front doors in South London were smashed in, so hard, the cops joked, that they must have hit the back doors. No one could have realised the tidal wave of police retaliation would be this enormous. Everyone who had ever sold Harry Tyler counterfeit currency, guns, drugs and virgin cheque books found themselves sitting in the cells of six south east London police stations. The raids continued throughout the day. The Lions wouldn’t be roaring quite so loud at the New Den this Saturday.
Maurice Bondman gave Johnny Too the bad news in his one-to-one, private, client-solicitor chat at Walworth police station. Bondman was so paranoid about the consultation room being bugged that he wrote it down: “Harry Tyler is the grass.”
The words hit Johnny Too like a punch in the face He shook his head violently in disbelief. “Fuck off, Mo, you’re well wide of the mark,” he said.
Bondman broke his pencil trying to scribble a reply and reached for his pen.
“Just tell me, you prat,” snapped Johnny.
“It’s true,” the solicitor replied in a whisper. “I don’t know the full facts yet, Johnny, but a number of your associates whom we represent were arrested this morning for supplying your dear friend…”
He paused to point his stubby finger at Harry’s name…
“Him, with various illegal items.”
“Who?”
“Johnny, it would be easier for me to tell you who hasn’t been detained this morning.” Bondman pulled out an A4 sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his pinstripe suit jacket and passed it to Johnny Too. It showed seven names next to seven serious offences.
The gangster read the list twice, then, shaking with rage, he screwed the paper up like the Queen strangling a brace of fatally wounded pheasants.
“That fucking piece of shit is DEAD,” he roared. Johnny shouted so loud that two uniformed custody suite officers came racing in. Maurice Bondman dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
“Privileged conversation, chaps,” he said. Johnny Too regained his composure. “Is there anyone who’s not been nicked?” he asked.
“The police are still looking for Douglas Richards.”
“Right,” said Johnny. “You’ve got…” His voice trailed off as he realised they could be bugged. “Give us yer pen.”
Johnny Too wrote Harry’s name, his home address and the address of the Trojan pub in Stratford in Bondman’s notebook. He thought for a moment, then wrote in capital letters: “KILL THE CUNT AND BLOW UP EVERY FUCKER IN THE BOOZER.” The colour drained from Bondman’s face as he read it.
“Johnny, I can’t have any part of this.”
Johnny Baker grabbed him by his tie, pulling him towards him and almost choking him in the process.
“Listen, you piece of shit, you do as you’re told, you crooked little bastard, or your name goes on the list, too, capice? That message goes to Dougie, right. As far as I’m concerned that’s a done deal. End of conversation.”
Maurice Bondman looked at his client. He was going to protest, but Johnny Too’s eyes radiated such menace he didn’t dare.
Tower Bridge magistrates court had rarely seen such commotion. The accused were lined up this Monday morning like a queue for a garage in petrol crisis week. One by one, the Baker firm were wheeled in and sent down in custody. No bail was granted. Johnny Too was the last one in. The crowd in the public gallery drew a breath. But Baker was determined to play the part. He was cocky, arrogant, angry.
He waved theatrically to the crowd like Royalty. “Keep yer chin up, John,” shouted one old Cockney. “Silence in court, or you’ll be removed,” snapped the clerk. “The prisoner may sit.”
Johnny Too sat down and turned to the public gallery. It was packed, mostly with tearful women dressed suitably in black out of respect for brother Joe. Johnny looked hard at Lesley Gore nestled in the throng just to the left of Sandra. He blew a kiss at his wife then turned and snarled at Lesley, shaking his head three times. The barmaid fully understood. She was anticipating a good hiding just for letting Harry shag her.
The court arena was awash with CID, shitters. One on one they were nothing, Johnny thought. But that was academic now. He turned to face the clerk.
The hearing was a foregone conclusion. The Crown Prosecutor virtually sleepwalked through the formalities. Slowly, he informed the court that three men were under armed police guard in hospital, one man was dead, and that a significant quantity of Class A drugs had been recovered. Some passion came into the QC’s voice as he explained why Baker should be denied his liberty.
As Johnny Too was led away in custody he blew a kiss to Sandra. It was all the trigger the crowd needed.
“What about the murdering coppers?” shouted Joey Baker’s mother-in-law. “Why ain’t they up there?”
The public gallery erupted with vocal support for her and Johnny Too. Officers rushed to quell the disturbance and push the spectators out in the street. Uniformed police in full riot gear toured the area in carriers for the next four hours, but there was no further disorder.
At 8 pm, a silver-grey Rover saloon drew up outside Harry Tyler’s flat in Stratford. The driver, wearing a flat cap and red-tinted glasses, sat motionless as the rear doors opened and his passengers spilled out. He followed them up the stairs and watched them kick in Harry’s door. The flat was empty. The driver took off his cap and glasses and pushed past his silent, Kosovan enforcers. As he walked from room to room he drew a silver revolver. One of the Kosovans called out from what used to be Harry’s bedroom. The far wall was covered in graffiti: “Why is Johnny Baker like Millwall FC? They’re both going down.” Underneath it was a crude drawing of crossed hammers. The bewildered Kosovans looked on with eyebrows raised as Dougie The Dog started to kick and punch the wall.
At 8.45 pm Lesley Gore was eating take-away chips when the bell rang. She should have known better than to answer her door. Dougie The Dog knocked her straight to the floor then pulled her screaming into the living room where he punched her repeatedly until she was unconscious, ripped off her knickers, greased his cock with spit and brutally raped her while his men searched the flat for Harry Tyler.
“Anyone else wanna go on this SLAG?’ he said to his hired East European help. Two of the four took The Dog up on his offer. Doug watched them disinterestedly as he helped himself to the chips. When they had finished, Doug kicked Lesley hard, breaking two of her ribs. “You fucking whore,” he screamed at her unconscious body. “Know what you’re worth? Two bob.” He flung a ten pence piece at her face and stomped out, with the Kosovans in hot pursuit.
At 9.37 pm the
Rover was back in East London, outside the Trojan. Dougie looked at, the pub in disbelief. The sign was gone, the windows had been boarded up and the front door was covered with a padlocked metal grille. The upstairs windows had been whitewashed and a “For Sale” sign was bolted to the upper wall.
The Dog got out of the car and crossed to the building. He pulled at the grille, but it wouldn’t budge. As he looked up and pondered, Dougie felt a warm wetness spreading down his left trouser leg. He looked down at the small black mongrel relieving himself against the wall. “Fucking thing,” he snarled, booting the dog which yelped and ran off. Doug looked at his leg and shook his head. There was no point petrol bombing the place now. He turned to stroll around the outer perimeter and saw an elderly, crippled man hobbling along supported by a pine-coloured walking stick.
“’Scuse me, mate,” said Doug. “Do you know when this pub closed? I was supposed to meet a friend here a couple of weeks ago, but I couldn’t make it.”
“Search me, guv’nor,” the old man replied. “Couple of days ago, I think. I only went in it once and was told to clear off. No one drank there, just a load of film people.”
“Film people?”
“That’s who they said they was. The old boozer closed about a year ago, and they reckon some film company had it. We never see no stars going in there, though. We all got told to eff off when it opened up again.”
“So where are the people who drank in there?”
“They weren’t from round here, mate. Couldn’t say where they was from. There was blacks and all sorts getting in there. Drug dealers if you ask me. They even changed the name. It was the Coach an’ ’Orses before. They called it the Trojan. What kind of stupid name is that for a pub? Don’t even know what it was short for. Trojan Horse I suppose. Oh, well, there’s a good pub round the corner, the William IV if you’re thirsty.”
Doug said nothing. He just stared at the pub. Trojan Horse? TROJAN HORSE! The enormity of the deception hit him like a jackhammer. The Baker firm had been sucked in and blown out like bubbles. Dougie fell forward and stuck his hand against the wall to steady himself.
On Wednesday, Johnny Too asked to see Maurice Bondman. The solicitor found his client in an unusually pensive mood.
“Level with me, Mo,” said Johnny. “How is it looking? Be honest.”
“If I’m honest, it’s not looking good. But then, with luck and mercy and your wonderful personality in the dock, maybe you’ll get away with ten years, God willing.”
“You know how to make God laugh, Maurice?” Johnny Too said softly.
“No, how?”
“Tell him you’ve got plans.”
Thursday morning was beautiful. Even inside Florida’s Stanford Airport terminal, the young family could feel the heat of the sun and the waiting humidity. The Customs Officer checked the UK passport and entry forms and handed them back to the pretty woman with her babe in arms, and her tired but happy stubble-faced husband.
“Thank you, Mr and Mrs Dean,” he said with a smile. “Enjoy your stay in the USA.”
“Thank you,” said Kara Tyler, grinning at Harry. “I think we will.”
EPILOGUE
John Baker was sentenced to 15 years as a category A, high-risk prisoner. The judge recommended he should serve the full term. He became a born-again Christian and wrote the occasional think-piece for Punch and the Guardian about the injustices of the penal system.
Joseph Baker was buried with all the gangland trappings. Dodgy Dave Courtney organised the security. The following Sunday, the People told how Courtney and his fellow hardmen snorted cocaine from Joe’s coffin lid the night before the funeral. It was handy publicity for his first film, Hell to Pay.
Douglas Richards evaded the police for three months before he was spotted eating a pancake roll on New Cross station by the six British National Party bootboys he and Pyro Joe had battered in Bexleyheath. The beating they gave him was so severe it was nine months before he could walk again, by which time he was serving ten years in Belmarsh Prison.
Geraldine Bielfeld married a 53-year-old divorced music business executive whom she met at The Met Bar. They share a million-pound house and a £500-a-week cocaine habit in Weybridge, Surrey, where they host sex parties for swingers.
Lesley Gore recovered from the assault and left the area, but not before she and her younger brother Darren had broken in to Dougie The Dog’s house and stolen goods to the value of £3,500. They now run a successful British restaurant called Nobby’s Nosh in Benidorm, Spain.
Maurice Bondman, inspired by Judith Keppel’s £1 million win, went on ITV’s Who Wants To Be A Millionaire. He had reached the £500 question – name Jack Sugden’s recently deceased wife on Emmerdale: was it a) Sarah b) Sara c) Tara d) Bernie – when he suffered a fatal heart attack. “Fllarghhraghhh” was his final answer.
Harry Tyler, real name Harry Dean, quit undercover work at wife Kara’s request and transferred to the Essex Regional Crime Squad. She gave birth to a son in July 2001. They divorced 13 months later.
Stephen Richards made £3 million from selling the rights to his Mobster computer game and another £5 million from the movie spin-off. He and boyfriend Sally share a detached house in Chislehurst, Kent, and holiday homes in Nice, in the south of France, and St Petersberg in Florida.
GLOSSARY OF SLANG TERMS
Aris Arse (Aristotle=bottle, bottle and glass=arse)
Banged up Imprisoned
Bird Time in prison (bird lime=time)
Blade-runner Someone transporting stolen goods
Blag Rob (originally a pay-roll or money delivery in public place)
Blagger Robber
Boat Face (boat race=face; also Chevy Chase)
The boob Prison
Boost To hot-wire a car
Boracic Skint (boracic lint=skint)
Bottle out To lose one’s nerve
Brown bread Dead
Bullseye £50
Bung A bribe
Bushel Neck (bushel and peck=neck)
Charlie Cocaine (also Gianluca, Gianluca Vialli=Charlie, snow, Chas, sherbet, marching powder)
China Mate (china plate=mate)
Chiv A knife
Cockle £10 (cock and hen=ten)
Collar felt To be arrested (‘he had his collar felt’)
The Currant The Sun (currant bun=sun)
Dabs Finger prints
Dipper Pickpocket
Dog Telephone (dog and bone=phone)
Drink A bribe – ranging from a drink to a nice drink to a handsome drink
Dripper Prostitute
Drumming House-breaking
Earner Easy money
Feds Undercover cops
Filth The police (also Old Bill, Plod, Dibble, cozzers, rozzers)
Firm A gang
Fit up To give or plant false evidence
Four-be A Jewish man (four-be-two=Jew)
In the frame To be prime suspect
Frankie A cut-throat razor (Frankie Fraser=razor)
Friend of ours One of us (A friend of mine means he seems OK but hasn’t been fully referenced)
Gaff A house (also drum)
Gary Toilet (Gary Glitter=shitter, also Khazi)
Give a pull To impart words of advice
Gold watch Scotch whisky
Grass Informer
Grumble Cunt (grumble and grunt=cunt)
Gypsy’s A piss (gypsy’s kiss=piss; also Jimmy, Jimmy Riddle=piddle, slash, lash)
Hank Marvin Starving
Harry Semen (Harry Monk=spunk)
Iron Gay man (iron hoof=poof; also Duke of Kent=bent, Ginger Beer=queer)
On your jack Alone (Jack Jones=alone)
Jacks £5 (Jack’s alive=five; also Lady Godiva=fiver)
Jacksie Arse
Jamjar Car
K £1,000
K Ketamine (also known as Special K, Vitamin K)
Khazi Toilet
Khyber Arse, from Khyber Pass
Kosher The real thing
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br /> Long firm A business set up and allowed to run over a fairly lengthy period with the sole intention of defrauding creditors
Mark yer cards To give advice
Minces Eyes (mince pies=eyes)
Monkey £500
Moody Fake
Mug A stupid person (also muppet, ice cream)
Mulla To beat up
Mutton Deaf (Mutt and Jeff=deaf)
Nonce Child sex offender
Nugget A one pound coin
Oily Cigarette (oily rag=fag)
OP Observation post
Parcel A consignment of stolen goods
Patsies Piles (Patsy Palmer’s=farmers, Farmer Giles=piles)
Pet the poodle Female masturbation (also beat the beaver, hit the slit, juice the sluice, bash the gash, slam the clam)
Pete Tong Wrong
Peter A safe
Plates Feet (plates of meat=feet)
Pony £25 (also macaroni=pony)
Pony Crap (pony and trap=crap)
Pop Pawn (pop-corn=pawn)
Porkies Lies (porky pies=lies)
Puff Cannabis (also dope, grass, blow, wacky baccy, ganja, weed, pot)
Pukka A real deal
Rosy Tea (Rosy Lee=tea)
Ruby Curry (Ruby Murray=curry)
Rubber Pub (rubadubdub=pub, also battle cruiser=boozer)
Salmon Erection (salmon and prawn=horn; also lob-on)
Saucepan Child (saucepan lid=kid)
Schnide Fake (also Sexton Blake=fake)
Score £20
See You Next Tuesday A cunt
Septic American (septic tank=Yank)
Shebert A cab (sherbert dab=cab)
Silvery A black man (silvery spoon=coon; also Fergal, Fergal Sharkey=darky)
Slag A person with no principles
Slaphead A bald man or Yelland, one who wears the pink crash helmet
The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) Page 20
