The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) Read online

  “Michael,” Johnny Too smiled. “Delighted to see you. Drink?”

  French nodded. Joey poured him a large malt. French grabbed the glass in his podgy fingers and downed it in one.

  “I was gonna say meet at the Dome,” Johnny said, grinning. “We’d be the only fuckers there.”

  The smile vanished abruptly from his face. He leaned close in to the detective. “Now,” he said sharply. “What the fuck was all that about?”

  “Johnny, my life, it was as big a shock to me as it was to you.”

  Pyro Joe scowled.

  “Are you seriously telling me you didn’t even hear a whisper?” Johnny said.

  “Not a dicky bird, John.” French felt perspiration form on his temples.

  Johnny Too turned to his brother. “Perhaps we’re not paying him enough to keep his ears clean and keen.” He turned back to French, picking up a pool cue and smacking it against his open palm.

  “How much wages have you had off the firm this year?”

  “More than enough, John,” French said.

  “And how much of my cocaine has gone up that big fat Filth bugle of yourn?”

  “Johnny, I swear, there wasn’t a word about the raid up front,” French protested. “No one in the nick knew about it until the last minute.”

  “And phones don’t work?”

  “It was impossible for me to put a call in.”

  Pyro Joe snapped the pool cue in two. “It just ain’t fucking good enough, Michael.”

  “So what happens next?” growled Joey. “Are your mob gonna wanna know again?”

  “No way,” French answered quickly. “I mean, the top brass are shitting themselves now. Word is someone senior is gonna have to take early retirement over this one and the smart money is on Hitchcock. Believe me, you ain’t gonna have no more ag in the immediate future. Oh, they’re watching ya, but no one is gonna move against you unless they can get you hands on, bang to rights and you, of course, are too smart.”

  “Well said, Michael,” Johnny Too smiled. “Y’know, I can almost believe you. You’re like fucking Prozac in human form. Give him another sherbet, Joe. Let’s have a toast, to bent Old Bill. God love ’em, cos no other fucker does. C’mon, Michael, drink. Fill yer fucking helmet, son.”

  Gordon Hitchcock felt nervous, like he was a schoolboy being sent to the headmaster. How was the Chief Super going to be? Monday morning “prayers” with the uniform Chief Superintendent was a three books down the back of the trousers job. He knew that everyone above and below him in rank wanted him to cop it big time over the raid that that Sunday’s Observer had dubbed “the policing fiasco of the decade”. This morning’s Guardian was calling for his suspension pending a full inquiry. Yet Chief Superintendent Neil Walker played it cool. The last thing he wanted was for Hitchcock to go sick and sue the force for causing him stress.

  The meeting, involving six senior officers, began amicably. Hitchcock gave his version of events, details of prisoners, charges, cautions, complaints and an update on the shot officer (the last item on the list). The team of detectives called in to go door-to-door to seek witnesses had turned up just one positive lead, he said. Sadly, Mrs Savage at 46 Powder Mill Road was a certifiable nutter who believed The X-Files was a documentary. This surprised no one. But Hitchcock did get a laugh when he announced that her tip, that Elvis was still alive and living his life disguised as the Ugandan woman next door, had been passed on to Special Branch for closer investigation.

  Every party-goer had been seen, but sadly there was no trace of Mr Liam Gallagher, Miss Sheila Blige, Mr R Poon, or a dozen of the other volunteered names. Naturally, the genuine revellers had all been in the toilets when the raid occurred (but not taking drugs, of course).

  When the dead wood vacated the room, the real meeting began.

  “Well, Gordon,” Neil Walker said. “Where do we go from here? Other than being dragged through the civil courts, that is.”

  Walker came from Birmingham and had a voice like a Brummie Eeyore. He spoke slowly. Every elongated syllable seemed heavy with resignation. Hitchcock shifted uneasily in his seat.

  “I just don’t know, sir,” he said. “DS Shaw has suggested we might look at a U/C operation.”

  “U/ C …” Walker pondered aloud.

  “Yes, Sir. An infiltration by an undercover officer to try and get some sort of damning evidence against the Bakers and hopefully identify who shot young PC Jackson.”

  “Did DS Shaw have any other ideas?”

  “The only other thing he came up with was Brazilian death squads.”

  “Let’s stick to the sensible options.”

  “Right, sir. Death squads it is then.”

  Both men laughed.

  “This undercover option, what are your views, Gordon?” Walker asked. “Won’t the Bakers be expecting something?”

  “On the contrary, sir. I suspect they’ll be looking to the usual breath tests and car stops, but one thing’s for certain – they think they’re untouchable now”

  Walker stood up. “Feasibility study, Gordon. Get me a feasibility study.”

  “I’m on it now, sir.”

  The local press had a field day, of course. “The Riot Of Rotherhithe” they’d called it, with the sub-head: “Wrong Arm Of The Law”. They couldn’t match the Socialist Worker’s “Police Riot!” splash for partisan reporting, but their pages were awash with quotes from salt of the earth Rotherhithe folk. Gary Shaw marvelled at the selective nature of their observational prowess.

  “Fucking amazing,” he said to Jane. “No one ever witnesses any crime on this patch, not once, but when a police raid goes pear-shaped, the world and his sister all see a copper putting the boot in, and three drug dealers giving one policeman a good hiding in self-defence … Everyone – reporters, politicians, social workers, vicars – is on the side of the scumbags. It’s like the world’s turned upside down.”

  Jane kissed him on the nose. “Were you serious when you talked about taking early retirement the other night?” she asked. Gary Shaw said nothing.

  It would be no great slur on the reputation of solicitors Bondman, Gable & Goode to say that Maurice Bondman was as bent as they come. He didn’t see himself like that, of course. To hear Maurice talk at dinner parties, he was some kind of Equalizer, a low-rent Michael Mansfield, taking up arms for the poor and the oppressed. Right now his biggest client was sipping tea in his Old Kent Road office and reeling off an appalling litany of police oppression.

  “I mean,” Johnny Too was saying, “in my game I expect ag from the Old Bill, but they have gone right over the top this time, Morrie mate. This ain’t yer normal New Labour militia having a pop at the struggling entrepreneur, this lot have really tried to mug me off. They’ve assaulted me, abused my civil rights, damaged me property, scattered half a ton of drugs from the police store all over me carpet. Even my MP is up in arms.”

  “Yes,” Bondman nodded, running his fingers through what was left of his hair. “It’s a terrible business. Tell me, Johnny, how many of your black clientele did they unlawfully stop outside the public house?”

  “Oh, they really had it in for the black ones.” Johnny winked. “Why, one of the lads, poor old Rhino, was called a black cunt and everything. Bastard cop sprayed CS gas right in his boat.”

  “Terrible business,” Bondman said. “This is a very serious matter, I’d be surprised if heads don’t roll. And clearly a considerable sum of compensation is in order.” Maurice allowed himself a smile.

  Johnny Too chucked his solicitor a wrap of cocaine and laughed. “I think the expression is trebles all round, my son.”

  DS Shaw and DCI Hitchcock arrived forty minutes early for the 11 am meeting in the conference room at New Scotland Yard, so they decided to grab a latte in one of the new, fashionable, little coffee houses in the Broadway underground station. It was just under four weeks since the disastrous raid on the Ned Kelly. Hitchcock opened a pack of brown sugar, poured it and began to stir his drink.<
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  “I’ll outline the project, Gary,” he said. “You just come in at the appropriate time to fill in any gaps and answer questions.”

  “Sir.”

  Over the last month, Shaw had seen a stronger side to Hitchcock. He grudgingly admired the way the senior officer had batted off the local Labour MP and had managed to keep the positive aspects of policing Rotherhithe in the public eye. Hitchcock had also parried questions as to why the police hadn’t tried to revoke the Ned Kelly’s licence through the local magistrates court. “Better,” he’d said, “to know exactly where Rommel and his Panzers are.” Besides, he’d reasoned, pushing the Bakers over the border into another patch wouldn’t have dealt with the problem, but merely edged it into darker shadows. Ah, the power of self-preservation.

  The two men drank up and crossed the road to New Scotland Yard. Shaw pointed at the famous rotating sign on the pavement. “Did you ever see that sketch,” he said. “I think it was on Monty Python. They had a pipe from that sign going underground and, then up into the Commissioner’s office where he was sitting at his desk pedalling away to keep it moving.”

  “That was coffee you were drinking, was it?” Gary Shaw shrugged. He never felt quite at ease in the Big House. To him, it was the place senior officers went to hide from real police work … the place where Inspectors who had screwed up on Division got promoted to become Chief Inspector of A3 paper, paper clips and staples, if only to hide the embarrassment. So why the fuck wasn’t Hitchcock the Assistant Commissioner?

  Once, he reflected, this building had been staffed with real coppers, real hard men. Now it was a job for academics educated to the point of stupidity. Gary Shaw detested the new Politically Correct officer caste. They couldn’t catch a thief to save their arses, but somehow they emerged as the leaders of men. Well, men, women, homosexuals, bi-sexuals, tri-sexuals, transsexuals, transvestites, and every muddy shade of ethnic minority going. PC was a cancer which as far as Gary Shaw could see was eating the Force away from its insides. It had already taken the heart and was about to engulf the soul. Years ago there had been a bar called The Tank in this building. Now it was a fucking gym! Things can only get better all right. No more could hardworking officers discuss serious crime issues in their own time over a pint in the most private of private clubs. Far better, apparently, that they wandered 300 yards up the Broadway and confer in public bars …

  Hitchcock came to an abrupt stop. They were outside the conference room. Detective Chief Inspector Leonard Kent from the Covert Operations department was there to greet them. He was accompanied by DI Edward “Rottweiler” Richardson. Shaw’s spirits lifted. He and Richardson had been regional officers together 15 years earlier. The guy was all policeman, 110 per cent on the square. Richardson had earned his nickname. He didn’t know how to let go. Once he had his teeth into a case, he wasn’t happy until both legs and an arm were off. Gary Shaw clasped the Rottweiler’s hand with both of his. “Eddie, good to see ya.” Perhaps this place wasn’t entirely staffed with poncified fairies after all.

  Detective Sgt Michael Boyce was already seated and waiting in the conference room. Nicknamed Bond, Boyce was from the Technical Support Unit and renowned for his espionage skills. It was said he could stick a miniature camera up a fly’s arse and give you better reception quality than Channel 5.

  Everyone present was aware of the Bakers, but Hitchcock gave them a full run-down of the major players. Johnny Baker got special attention. “He is one cocky little incubus, gentlemen,” said Hitchcock gravely, “with aspirations to go big time.” He produced surveillance pictures of Johnny dining at The Ivy with Geraldine and a couple of well-known, woolly-brained soap stars who enjoyed the company of villains. “Baker cannot be underestimated. Certainly he is a thug, but he is also intelligent. He has a bit of form for thieving and ABH but nothing recent. Behind his jolly hardcase act, Baker is a shrewd and cunning criminal entrepreneur. He has investment portfolios, legitimate business plans. If we don’t capture him soon, Baker may become so far removed from crime as to be as untouchable as he already believes himself to be. He has two weaknesses, his arrogance and his brother.” Hitchcock placed a picture of Joey on the table.

  “Joey Baker is 100 per cent evil,” he said. “You can’t rehabilitate a scumbag like Joey any more than you could rehabilitate a cockroach. He has a record as long as your arm for violence and armed robbery. His preferred weapon is a Stanley knife. He jokes that he performed his own Caesarean with it. Joey never goes out without his “squirter”, a nasal spray full of ammonia. He calls it Easy Stop.”

  Hitchcock reeled off a list of Joey’s convictions and a further set of crimes with which he was suspected of being involved. He produced a picture of a man whose face appeared to be covered in miniature railway lines.

  “David Long, a small-time con artist,” Hitchcock said. “We know Joey Baker did this to him, but Long would never testify against him. These are his main accomplices.” He removed pictures of Dougie The Dog and Rhino from his folder. “Douglas Richards is a violent psychopath, who has been heavily involved with football disturbances since his teens and was the brains behind the M25 raves. John Irvine, known as Rhino, is a more serious villain. He began life as a doorman and plays on his blackness. Irvine swallows a live goldfish every time he is about to go into battle. He says it gives him ‘two souls’ and the strength of ten men. He is reputed to have skinned a small-time Scouse villain called Terence Whicker alive. Whicker has indeed vanished but his body has never been recovered. Richards is married to a black girl, former pickpocket Antonia Hodge, whose brother Oggy is on the fringes of The Firm. Oggy connects the Bakers to the Brixton boys.”

  Hitchcock gave his assembled colleagues “the SP” on the rest of the hardcore Baker henchmen then opened the meeting for discussion. It was generally agreed it would take real cunning to put them away. Shaw couldn’t help but be impressed by the level of questions put to him by DO Kent. He wanted to know everything – what kind of people drank in the Ned Kelly, what were their ages, what cars did they drive, had any got legitimate jobs, did they have regular meeting places away from the pub, a cafe or a second-hand car plot? Was there anywhere that could be bugged where they think they are safe to talk? The only area skimmed over was details of police operations against the Baker firm to date. Every decent cop in London was fully aware of that particular catalogue of failure, involving the police and Customs & Excise.

  The use of informants was kicked into touch when Kent revealed that two previous informant-led operations had been a disaster. One had resulted in the informant going “missing in action”, the second had given Joey the opportunity to play Doctors and Nurses with a poor sod who thought he was helping the community by letting the local plod use his bedroom as an OP on Joey’s front door. It had taken two weeks for all the body parts to wash up.

  Gary Shaw appreciated Kent’s energy and his thoroughness, but what next?

  “So what direction do you see this going, guv?” he said.

  Kent took a deep breath. “There is no question that the Bakers have got to go and a major operation has got to be mounted,” he said. “I’ve been in touch with one of the National Crime Squad teams who have been working alongside the Church on this.”

  “Church?” said Hitchcock.

  “Customs and Excise, C of E,” Shaw explained.

  “Sorry, Gordon,” Kent said. “Bloody police speak. Work up here for five years and you don’t even realise you’re doing it.”

  “So how do you see this going forward, Len?” Hitchcock asked.

  “Well, clearly you wouldn’t have the back-up and resources to service a U/C officer,” Kent replied. “And the commitment would have to be twenty-four hours a day. Then we have the problem of local officers knowing what’s going on and, of course, that might compromise any covert operation. As I perceive it, any sting or long-term infiltration would have to be serviced by an operational team. I know the National Squad want another go and I think if we tie this i
n with what they’ve got going then we should get to a successful conclusion quicker.”

  Hitchcock looked surprised. “And us,” he said. “Have we got any input?”

  “Only from the intelligence-gathering side,” Kent replied. “The National Crime Squad DI will keep you abreast of developments but not specifically of the details of the operation. Clearly, Gordon, your people will need to link in, but servicing any covert technical equipment and the U/C side of things are best left to them. If I’ve got your backing on it, Gordon, then I’ll put it all into place.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Hitchcock said. “DS Shaw can act as your point of contact for any running around.”

  Over the course of the next week, meetings took place with all interested players. The NCS and the Church sat at the same table and made some effort to try and be honest with each other over who knew what. Slowly, a plan came together that was simple, but clever. But it would need someone with balls to go in and shape it up. This was the hardest part – selecting the right U/C operative. Klan or woman? Geordie, or carrot cruncher, or maybe some flash, good-looking, tough-talking Essex boy? Whatever, the infiltration would have to be done through someone the Bakers trusted. They needed a patsy, someone dumb enough to walk a cowboy into the teepee long enough to catch Johnny and Joey hands on and bring the entire Baker empire crashing down around their ears.

  Gary Shaw was ordered to unearth Rotherhithe’s answer to Homer Simpson, while the top brass decided on the right U/C man. When they did, he was briefed, a convincing background was agreed, and an almost water-tight history put in place.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ONE MONKEY BASTARD

  Outside the front door, a milk bottle rattled on the walkway. Harry Tyler shot out of bed like the five dog at Wimbledon, grabbed his Louisville Slugger baseball bat and erupted on to the third-floor landing looking as mean as any man in Kenneth Williams Carry On boxer shorts ever reasonably could. Half a minute later he was back in the flat.