The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) Page 14

  “Trouble, John?”

  Baker’s face was stern. “Have you opened it?”

  “Leave it out, John, it ain’t my business.”

  “Why didn’t you open it?”

  “Because I know what happens to nosey bastards.”

  “Open it.”

  He handed Harry a knife. Harry cut the tape and opened the lid. A toy Jack-in-the-box shot out covering him in flour.

  Johnny Baker almost wet himself laughing. Harry, who had nearly tripped over his own legs getting out of the way, glared at him.

  “What the fuck is going on, John?”

  Baker was still in fits of laughter. “Geraldine’s tits are too small, ain’t they?”

  The penny dropped. He had been tested again. Harry affected the air of having the hump, then as Johnny Too rocked with laughter, Harry turned the box upside down and emptied what was left of the flour into his right hand. Johnny Too realised what was coming and shot out of the kitchen and down the stairs towards the bar, laughing all the way. Harry was right behind him and as he reached the bar door he slapped the flour all over the gangster’s hair. The two of them burst into the bar, knocking Lesley and Ron backwards, then collapsed on the floor giggling like kids.

  “What the fu …?” said Lesley.

  Harry rubbed what was left of the flour into his own crotch.

  “Don’t worry, Les,” he said solemnly. “It’s self-raising.”

  And the two men, the villain and the undercover cop, were lost in laughter and lager for the whole afternoon. They never did make the steakhouse.

  The day after Steven’s arrest, two angry men made their way to a public toilet near Plumstead Common. One waited in a cubicle while the other loitered by the urinals. They didn’t have to wait long. A gay man, a Marxist Sociology lecturer from the University of Greenwich, wandered in and made the assumptions he was supposed to. His clumsy pass was repaid with a savage right hook. As he struggled to get up again, another bigger man appeared from nowhere and joined in the vicious flurry of kicks and punches.

  “My kid could have been taking a leak in here,” screamed Dougie The Dog.

  “You shitter!” snarled Pyro Joe as he stomped on the man’s head.

  “You’re dog shit,” yelled The Dog as he delivered the blow that knocked him senseless.

  Panting, Doug looked across at Joey, smiled, unzipped his flies and started to urinate on the man’s shoes.

  “Why piss on his feet?” asked Joe. “What’s wrong with his face?”

  As Dougie redirected his stream, Pyro Joe unzipped his trousers and joined in.

  “It’s a shame he missed this,” said The Dog.

  “Why?”

  “It’s probably one of his fucking fantasies.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MILLWALL AWAY

  The nicking of young Steven Richards gnawed away at Joey Baker’s mind like hungry termites in a timber yard feeding frenzy. To Pyro Joe and the equally belligerent Dougie The Dog, this indignity was a major affront to the Bakers’ reputation. OK, Steve may have been caught bang to rights playing YMCA on the pink piccolo – the SICK BASTARD! – but he was still FAMILY. They had to show their support and face down any detractors, real or imagined; and that meant being there at Bexleyheath magistrates court for Steven’s appearance and remand. What Steven felt about their company was immaterial.

  So Joey and Doug sat bored outside court number one in the foyer, watching Steven chat to Matt Mohan, one of Bondman’s junior solicitors. The cold austerity of the building and the suffocating presence of various agents of the law going about their business did little to improve their mood.

  “What a fucking thing to get nicked for,” moaned Joe for the hundreth time that month.

  “Un-fuckin’-believable,” agreed Doug.

  “Receiving stolen goods is one thing, but swollen goods? What’s all that about?”

  Dougie sniggered then became deadly serious. “We oughta go torch that pervert teacher’s drum,” he said.

  Joey nodded and cracked his knuckles. “If that clock went any slower it’d be going backwards,” he said.

  “Fancy a tea out of the machine?”

  “Yeah, three sugars.”

  A fatal car crash on the A2 near the Dartford river crossing interchange had caused chaos for motorists coming in to London from Kent. The magistrate and the chief clerk were among those delayed. Ironically, a week from now the opposite problem – too little traffic – would be equally disruptive as the petrol blockade by hauliers and farmers kept cars off the road. In anticipation, Johnny Too had just taken delivery of 25,000 litres of agricultural red diesel, which was illegal on British roads but perfectly efficient and, as it happened, a nice little earner.

  Joey was so bored he picked a copy of the Guardian out of the bin and flicked through it. How could people read this shit, he wondered. Even the cartoon was dull. A sudden commotion yanked his eyes away from the paper’s snidey gossip column. It was Dougie The Dog kicking the tea machine. Joey laughed, chucked the paper back in the bin where it belonged, and strolled over.

  “What’s up, mate?” he asked.

  “Fucking thing,” said Doug. “Taste this. I pressed tea and it’s given me Oxtail soup.”

  Joey sipped it and pulled a face. “It’s too salty for Oxtail. You sure you didn’t press Bovril.”

  “It don’t even do fucking Bovril,” Doug exploded.

  “Guys, please!” It was Steven.

  “Come on, Doug,” said Joe. “Let’s go get a beer. Gi’s a bell if anything starts happening, Steve.”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  Still shaking with frustration, Dougie The Dog and Pyro Joe made straight for a sports bar just off Bexleyheath Broadway. They got there 13 minutes after a mob of British National Party bootboys who stood around the bar like a clenched fist. By coincidence, the neo-Nazis were there for the court, too. One of their heroic number had courageously chucked a bucket of human excrement into the worst of the four curryhouses in Sidcup High Street. Several locals opined that the crap could only have improved the menu, but the cops weren’t as forgiving. The chucker, David O’Dell, an IT recruitment consultant from Erith, was popular with his comrades for his cruel sense of humour. The previous year O’Dell had seen a group of Asians collecting for Bangladesh Flood Relief outside Somerfield and had contributed a bucket of water flung from a moving car.

  The BNP contingent were all in their early 20s, dressed to a man in football shirts – two West Ham, five Chelsea. Dougie The Dog walked straight up alongside them. “I thought you Chelsea cunts hated these West Ham wankers,” he said, adding as an after-thought, “Two pints of lager, and three packets of crisps, love. Do you do hot grub at all?”

  The barmaid stood motionless as the six-foot-six gorilla in the Chelsea top turned and snarled, “What did you say, you little prick?”

  Dougie looked straight at the barmaid. “Make that Fosters, darling. There’s a good girl, and cheese and onion crisps.”

  “Are you deaf as well as fick?” Chelsea snapped. “What did you fucking say?”

  All seven men moved into a semi-circle around The Dog. Pyro Joe reached over for a heavy glass ashtray and slammed it hard against the giant Chelsea supporter’s head. The big man went like a bought-off boxer on a Don King bill.

  “He said, what fucking team do you tossers really support?” Joe explained helpfully.

  Doug slammed his fist into the nearest West Ham face. His mate spun and delivered a perfect round house karate kick that knocked The Dog off his feet. As he fell, three BNP boots went in. Pyro Joe grabbed a heavy bar stool and spun it round like it was made of plywood, smashing into all of them. Coughing up blood, Dougie struggled to his feet, grabbed an empty Budweiser bottle and smashed it over David O’Dell’s head. Claret spurted all over his Dennis Wise shirt. The BNP had four men down. The remaining three backed off as Joey kept the bar stool swinging.

  “When them cunts come round, tell ’em they met Millwall
,” grinned Dougie.

  They left the pub colliding with a teenager in a Charlton shirt who was chatting into his mobile phone. Joe grabbed the mobile and smashed it into the kid’s face.

  “There y’go,” smirked Dougie. “It’s true what they say, using a mobile is bad for your health.”

  “MILL – WALL!” Joey chanted. “MILLLLLWALLLLLL!”

  Laughing, they jogged up the road towards an old white van that Doug had borrowed from his painter and decorator dad for the day.

  “White Van Man says messing with Millwall is too risky,” Dougie joked.

  Pyro Joe laughed too. “I fucking needed that,” he said.

  “Me, too.”

  “Where did those wankers get to? Shitters! They didn’t even come out the boozer.”

  Doug opened the van and they got in. “Here, Joe,” he said. “Remember that time in Bulgaria when we were drinking in that bar full of secret police and you went in and picked up those two stools with the tarts sitting on them and held them above yer head?”

  Joey nodded.

  “What did you say again, Joe? How did it go?”

  Pyro smiled. “We’re English, how d’ya wanna be?” he recalled.

  “They bought us drinks all fucking night!”

  Pyro Joe suddenly looked serious. “Wonder how Steve got on,” he said.

  “Dunno, I’ll ring John, see if he’s heard.”

  The mobile had just connected when the van was swamped by a dozen uniformed cops. Two of the BNP boys were already on their way to hospital with fractured heads and broken bones.

  Steven Richards was remanded on bail and left the court. He arrived home several hours ahead of Pyro Joe and The Dog. No charges ever arose from their sports bar fracas, because no one would ever pick them out from an ID parade, but for some reason Johnny Too didn’t find news of their brutal antics as amusing as they did. The Baker brothers had another almighty row and Johnny stormed off home where Sandra was still percolating with fury over Geraldine. As her brains were never the equal of her beauty, Sandra saw John’s arrival as another opportunity to give her husband a bit of verbal GBH; even the uncharacteristic slam of the front door didn’t warn her off.

  At first Johnny Baker tried to keep calm and reasonable. Lying through his teeth, he assured her that he had finished with Geraldine, that she had meant nothing to him anyway, he was just using her for sex – the usual old fanny. But Sandra kept on like a dog with a bone until Johnny snapped and everything came out in the wash – she didn’t satisfy him sexually any more, she drank too much, she was holding him back … what was wrong with Chislehurst for fuck’s sake? Why not improve yourself?

  “I bet she’d like fuckin’ Chislehurst,” Sandra screamed.

  “Who?”

  “Your fuckin’ WHORE!”

  “Don’t call her that.”

  “Why? She’s a fucking old whore. A slag. A slapper, a fucking prostitute.”

  That was it. Crack! Johnny Too slapped her hard, then hated himself for it. Sandra broke down in tears. He turned round and walked, slamming the door and driving straight back to the Ned.

  Johnny slept in the office that night. He thought of going to Geri’s but wasn’t sure he could afford a divorce right now, not with Chislehurst going through.

  The next morning he summoned Harry Tyler to the Ned for a chat. The conversation threw him entirely.

  “Sit down, Harry,” said Johnny Too. “Beer?”

  “Bit early, mate.”

  “Yeah. Look, H, I’ll get straight to the point. I’ve heard you spend a bit of time across the water in Holland.”

  “Yeah,” Harry said slowly. “Just to the Dam really, bit of social, window shopping for a shag, the odd puff, y’know”

  “I’ve got some business in Amsterdam this weekend and I need a bit of cover.”

  “OK, no problem, John. Tell the old lady you’re doing some biz with me over the East End and stopping out.”

  “No, no, not like that. I’ve had a right up-and-downer with Sandra, but that’ll blow over. No, my problem is Joey and Doug are like magnets for shit at the moment and they need to calm down. They’re attracting attention and I don’t need it. I’ve got some boys coming up from Malaga who want a meet in Amsterdam and I need someone who knows what’s what to watch my back out there.”

  “Right, John. I’m there, I’m your man. I appreciate being asked.”

  Johnny lit a fat cigar and inhaled deeply. “You might wanna invest as well. I’ve got a fuck-off parcel of Charlie on the way up. It’s the bullet, know what I mean?”

  “How much are we looking at?”

  “How much finance can you put up?”

  “John, I ain’t in your division. You’re Premier and I only just got promoted into the first. At tops I can move 5K at the right price. That’s tops. But I can’t finance it till it’s here. Mate, you’re sweet for the offer but I ain’t got that sort of dough around me.”

  Johnny leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Look, H, there’s a lot riding on this. A few faces have sunk their houses into financing it. One fuckup and a lot of questions are gonna be asked. When I say it’s the big one, I mean ’kin’ HUGE. It’s fucking Man United and Microsoft. It’s serious. It’s gonna sort out all my worries and then some.”

  “I’ll put me cards on the table, John. I ain’t a patsy and I ain’t a wrong ’un. If there’s a deal for me, I’m there. I can slaughter a good parcel to trusted people, me to them, one to one for ya, but I ain’t telling no one to get their dough ready up front cos a mountain of snow is on the way. Once it’s here I can move bundles COD to sweet geezers but me, personally, I just ain’t got the wedge.”

  “Right, I get the picture, mate, and it’s digitally enhanced. It’s not a problem. The main thing is you’re on for Amsterdam. I need someone I can trust. I’ll get us booked on a flight for Friday coming back Monday. What’s a good hotel?”

  “The Jolly Carlton off Dam Square works for me. What time scale are we working to for the parcel, or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “If all goes well, my old son, we’ll have a result in two weeks. It’s already on its way. I’ve just got to sort a few loose ends out.”

  “And you’re sure you want to meet in Amsterdam?”

  “There’s a reason, H. Nothing to fret about.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “That’s right, pussy cat. And I’m SMOKING.”

  Harry Tyler left the Ned as quickly as possible. He was screaming inside. He was IN! He was on the firm. Then the doubts came screaming in. Why wasn’t Baker using someone else, an old-established soldier? That didn’t quite gel, and yet the vibe with him and Johnny was good. Harry felt cautiously optimistic. His immediate priority was to get authority to travel overseas. Then surveillance at Gatwick and on the aircraft had to be sorted, Dutch cooperation confirmed and surveillance from Schiphol Airport until they came back to Blighty. Harry’s head was buzzing. He had to discover the cocaine’s point of entry into the UK, how it was coming, where it was going, who would receive it, would the Baker clan have hands on, who were the other major players involved in financing it…

  Harry was on autopilot for the remainder of the day. He drove back to East London first, just in case he was being tailed, took the last lager out of the fridge – a can of Heineken export, all the way from Holland, an omen? – then made his coded calls on his mobile. Within the hour he was winging his way to Southend for a top-level conflab. He was given authority to travel, and assured full back-up. It was agreed that if anything urgent arose he was to leave a message in a sealed envelope in the wall-safe in his room, which the locals would pick up while he was out of the hotel with Johnny Too. Harry left his superiors feeling tired but elated. The future of the Baker firm was now in the hands of the national police élite.

  The early morning call at 4.30 am proved unnecessary. Harry had slept fitfully and had been watching the clock since 3.13 am. He showered, shaved and left the flat, pausing momentarily outside El
aine’s place, imagining he’d caught a whiff of her L’Eau D’Issey and fantasising briefly about rekindling fading passions. It was a beautiful but chilly Friday morning. En route to Gatwick, Harry made a quick call, a simple coded message and was assured that not only was everything in hand but also, even as he sped along the M25 towards the M23, that he was “under control”. Harry marvelled at how shit-hot the surveillance on him was. He would often look for “ghosts” but seldom detected any. He glimpsed in his rear view mirror. A blue Vauxhall saloon was holding its distance behind him. Harry knew instinctively that this was his escort. He knew it until the moment it sped past him with a woman driving and kids who stared blankly at him, all asleep with eyes wide open.

  At 7.30 am, Harry nestled the motor into the longterm NCP car park, missing the connecting bus by seconds. He was maybe five minutes late when he reached the British Airways check-in desk, but it wasn’t that making him feel flustered. Johnny Too was where he said he would be and looking sharp, dressed head to toe in the finest designer clobber the black market could provide. No, what threw Harry out of his stride was the sight of Geraldine and Lesley standing next to Baker, Armani-ed up to high heaven clutching passports and tickets in their hands.

  “Surprise, surprise,” Johnny Too sang like some demented Cilla, a banana smile wedged across his face. “The unexpected waits with open thighs…”

  He high-fived Harry boisterously. “Knew you’d appreciate my little twist,” he said. “What better cover, eh?”

  “Yeah, nice, yeah, great,” Harry said, as enthusiastically as he could. “We’re all in the same hotel I hope?”

  “Are you taking the piss?” Johnny replied. “Of fucking course. You like their gear? New outfits courtesy your old pal Johnny Too. Got ’em from the Armani And Navy surplus store.”

  “Ouch, John. That fucking pun hurt.”

  Baker roared. “Who loves ya, baby?” he bellowed. “Harry, we have got one fuck of a weekend ahead of us.”