The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) (11 page)

“How’d he die?” asked Dougie.

“Natural causes,” Joey grunted.

Rhino looked puzzled. “It says here his throat was cut, and his head bludgeoned with a pick-axe handle …”

Pyro Joe shook his head. “He crossed Harry May and Fatty Lol sorted him out,” he said. “Like I say, natural causes.”

“What, Lewisham Lol?” asked Doug. “Ain’t he South London West Ham?”

“Yep,” said Joey. “And they’re not a firm to take lightly.”

Dougie snorted. “’Ere, Rhine, can you stick this on?” He handed over a CD. Rhino read the cover.

“Worldwide Tribute To The Real Oi,” he said. “What’s this?”

“I bought it yesterday,” said Dougie. “A load of Yank bands have done covers of old Oi! songs, Sparrer, Cockney Rejects. They’ve got a couple of Last Resort songs on there, Millwall Roi’s band. They do ‘Violence In Our Minds’, right? But they get the words wrong. You’ve gotta hear it. Roi sings, ‘We go to football matches, we always have a laugh, we always get some bovvr in before the second half, but …’”

“Bovver!” Rhino snorted.

“Yeah, well, it was 1980. Anyway, these Yanks sing we always get some Bovril in. It’s fucking hilarious.”

“They got any Sham on there?” asked Pyro Joe.

“‘Hey Little Rich Boy’,” Dougie replied.

“Not ‘Hurry Up ’Arry’?’” Joe said, disappointed.

“Don’t think so.”

“Nope,” said Rhino, studying the case.

“I fucking love that song,” said Joe, who burst into song. “We’re going dahn the pub…”

“Fuck me, Joe, your voice,” joked Rhino. “I’ll stick the CD on, shall I?’

“Yeah,” Joey laughed. “The Pakis’ll love that when we turn up with a fucking 4-Skins song blaring. They’ll think it’s the fucking Southall riot all over again.”

Madan, Johnny Too’s latest contact in the world of illicit manufacturing, was a Bengali who prided himself on his cunning, but he hadn’t been shrewd enough to meet Mr Baker’s redneck representatives on neutral turf. Rather, he had arranged the meeting at the Latief cafe, a veritable mecca for curry connoisseurs. Such was the quality of its menu, customers were happy to put up with Os the owner’s peculiarities, the chief one being that Os, a Muslim devout to the point of fanaticism, refused to sell alcohol. South London’s finest had arrived early and demanded lager.

“No beer, just food,” Mohammad, the elderly waiter, explained.

“Oi,” snapped Joey. “I want a fucking beer while we’re waiting, capice?”

“No beer,” said Mohammad, shaking his head.

“Look,” reasoned Rhino. “We don’t care if it’s warm or piss weak. We don’t care if it’s shit Paki lager. What d’you call it? Cobra? Just as long as it’s beer.”

“No beer,” Mohammad said. “No beer, just food.”

“What are you, a fucking parrot?” snapped Joey. Hearing the commotion, a young Bengali known as Oli emerged from the kitchen.

“What’s the problem, gents?” he asked in pure Stepney Cockney.

“Ramsammy ’ere won’t serve us a beer,” said Dougie The Dog.

“We haven’t got a licence, mate,” said Oli pleasantly. “People just bring their own.”

“Well maybe Ramsammy can pop down the offie for us,” Dougie said.

“We’re a bit busy, sir,” Oli said calmly. “And we’re about to get our lunchtime rush from the City. There is an off-licence about fifty yards down the road towards the Highway, though.”

There was a malevolent flash in Pyro Joey’s eyes.

“Do you realise,” he said slowly, “if all you runts went home, we’d get an extra hour of daylight in London?”

Oli bristled. This was his home. He’d been born 500 yards from here in the long hot summer of 1976 when British Movement neo-Nazis were prowling the streets around Brick Lane every Sunday looking for confrontation with the immigrant community. Oli weighed up the man, the size of his shoulders, the spread of his nose … this was not a fellow to agitate. Besides, the fact that one of his objectionable companions was black ruled out the possibility that he was BNP. Perhaps he was just winding him up.

“I’ll tell you what, sir,” Oli said brightly. “Give me five minutes and I’ll pop down the offie for you myself. That suit yer?”

“Lovely, man,” said Rhino who was starting to suspect that their mission was going pear-shaped before it had begun. “Very kind of you.”

“Yeah,” said Dougie. “Very considerate. And while I’m waiting I’ll ’ave one of these.”

He produced a fat, ready-rolled spliff, stuffed with finest Dutch super-skunk.

“NO!” snapped Oli. “Not here!”

Pyro Joe slammed his fist into the back of the waiter’s head. It was a race between Dougie and Rhino to punch and kick him across the tables, scattering dinners, drinks and poppadoms everywhere. Then, for good measure, they gave old Mohammad a slap. As they walked towards the door, three kitchen staff emerged brandishing kitchen utensils. The last of them was knocked unconscious just as Madan arrived. Joey Baker poked the snide clothing producer in the chest and snarled, “What’s the matter with these cunts? You tell them to sort the fucking beer next time. People like us expect respect.”

Pyro Joe’s face was contorted with hatred and excitement. He was loving every minute, thought Rhino, who suspected his boss was rapidly descending into madness. As they left the cafe, Dougie turned and put his right hand into the left side of his leather jacket, just under the armpit. He yanked it down to show just enough of a revolver, an ex-US Army Colt .45, to guarantee Madan wouldn’t go screaming to the Filth. That was the key, to keep the thought of what might happen to the victims if the lads happened to be summoned to an ID parade.

“Ever been Jihad?” Dougie sneered. “You fucking tossers, that was for all the British tourists your people kidnap and murder in Chechnya, all right? Cunts.”

Pyro Joe was in hysterics. Rhino was laughing too. “I fucking hate Pakis,” the black man chuckled. “Where did you get ‘Ever been Jihad’ from?”

“The
11 O’Clock Show
I fink.”

Buzzing with adrenalin, The Dog dived into a nearby Asian corner shop and cleared the till at knife point, helping himself to a box of crisps on the way out.

“Sorry, pal,” he smirked at the terrified shopkeeper. “Y’see my problem is I’m just too proud to beg.”

They laughed at that one all the way home.

Johnny Too had heard the bad news from an irate Madan 20 minutes before his away team emerged through the Rotherhithe Tunnel. Joey could not understand his brother’s rage. “Who needs the little Paki cunt anyway?” he growled. The point was, empire-builder Johnny did. Not only had the arse well and truly dropped out of the snide clothing supply route, but also the firm had just lost a new supply of respectable-looking Asian cocaine mules.

Harry Tyler rapped on the front room window of Lesley Gore’s flat. It was her afternoon off, and Harry knew what to expect. He’d taken a couple of Ginseng tablets to help him keep up with the barmaid’s insatiable appetite for sex. Harry had always fancied himself as a stud but he had never met a woman as demanding and inventive as Lesley. He liked the girl, probably too much. She had a good heart and she was obviously concerned about him. Before she had even ripped off his strides, Lesley was questioning Harry about the incident with Dougie.

“Be careful with Doug,” she counselled. “His temper is shorter than his dick.”

Lesley had already told her mum she had fallen for this rough diamond dodgy dealer who treated her well and made her laugh. On their second night in bed, she’d asked him what his favourite position was and the silly sod had looked at her straight-faced and said, “Centre forward, I think.” It still made her grin even now. Lesley had no idea that the ultimate joke was on her; and that her employers would get the punch-line.

Harry was now an almost daily commuter into the South East London heartland. To the casual observer, he and Lesley had a good thing going which is why he was spending so much time away from Stratford. Obviously. In truth, Tyler’s mission was long-term. Against a firm like the Bakers any attempt to move quickly would smell whiffy. But his infiltration had purpose and strategy and now Harry judged it was time to move from the outer ring of the Firm towards the centre. The lovely Lesley and Slobberin’ Ron Sullivan were merely his stepping stones.

A report had appeared in Tuesday’s
Sun
about a lorry hijack on the outskirts of Coventry. The cab and trailer had been found abandoned, minus the load, on farmland near Harold Hill, an East End overspill council estate area not far from Romford in Essex. The usual faces on the estate would have been looked at but, as the report said the police were appealing for information, none of them were in the frame.

The trailer had been wedged top to bottom with export whisky. Anyone doubting the veracity of the
Sun
’s story could have made enquiries that would have allayed all their suspicions. A call to the West Midlands police would have confirmed that they were indeed looking for three or four men. Romford CID were certainly aware that West Midlands detectives had travelled down making all the right noises. They even brought down their own photographer and forensic guys. If anyone had looked further the police national computer would also have revealed that the lorry and trailer were reported stolen and that the driver had been beaten about the head, tied and taped and left in a hedgerow – surely enough to satisfy anyone? It was, only then that more prying would have uncovered the unexpected. Why, for example, had the driver never gone to hospital? Why were the investigating officers not local but a special squad working out of Lloyd House, the Birmingham force HQ? The stolen load was, in fact, another gift from the Church, and there was no danger of the £15K reward ever being claimed, because no one was ever going to get nicked.

Slobberin’ Ron had read the article and given it some thought. Johnny Too was also aware of it and had assumed it to be the work of a bold little crew from Harlow, Essex, who had been going countrywide ripping off lorries. No one knew who they were, but Johnny knew of a connection down at Canvey Island. The one thing that was certain was this crew were making bundles and the Bakers weren’t on the gravy train.

Slobberin’ Ron was slightly flabbergasted when Lesley Gore gave him a tug and asked if Ron could meet Harry at her flat after closing time to discuss some “private business”. Ron couldn’t wait, and smelling pound notes he jogged straight round.

He found Harry dressed in shorts, T-shirt and moccasin slippers, watching
EastEnders
.

“You’ve got yer feet under the table with Lesley,” Ron smirked. “You want a chat?”

“Yeah. I’ll turn this shit off first. I couldn’t bear to see Frank humping Fat Pat again.”

Harry switched off the TV and poured Slobberin Ron a large brandy.

“Ron, I know you’re sweet,” he said. “Here’s the situation. I’ve got a parcel of export gold watch, forty-foot of it. It’s gotta be placed cos the Filth are doing the rounds on the slaughters. The fella who would have had it has shit out cos there’s a
red-hot
scream on it and he won’t play. Can you help?”

“Where’s it from?”

“Up North.”

“That lot in the Currant Bun?”

“Could be.”

“You’ve got a 15-large price on your head, me old son.”

“Only to any cancerous bastard that puts it up.”

“How quick’s it got to go?”

“Yesterday.”

“What price are you looking for?”

“I ain’t in a position to turn down a fair offer. The geezers who went upfront have fucked off to Marbella till it calms down. They’ve hit too much recently, chasing the big ’un.”

“Yeah, it’s always greed that fucks ya. Let me go talk to Johnny Too …”

That’s your first cock-up, thought Harry. Never show your cards, never reveal who is going to finance anything. He grinned inwardly and went to the broom closet by the front door. Slobberin’ Ron could see 12 or 13 cases under a bedsheet. Harry pulled out one case and covered up the rest.

“Do you want to take one of these as a sampler?”

“What’s that come to, H?’

“Fuck off. Nix, it’s for Larkin.”

Ron tucked the case under his arm and left. Half an hour later Lesley was back indoors.

“Ron gave me the evening off,” she said. “He said for us to go back about closing time. I’m starving. Have you eaten?”

“No, darling. In fact me belly thinks me throat’s been cut. Fancy a Ruby?”

It was 10.33 pm when they arrived back at the Ned, stinking of madras and Cobra. The pub was strangely quiet. Johnny and Joey were up at the bar with Dougie and Rhino. Slobberin’ Ron was behind the jump. In the corner near the stage were a couple of unfamiliar faces and that was it.

Harry said, “Ron,” and nodded hello to the others.

“What’ll it be, Harry?” Ron asked.

“Fosters and a G&T and whatever anyone else wants, please, mate.”

Johnny Too sat on his customary stool with his back to the happy couple. The other three men were standing in a semi-circle around him all in sight of Harry.

“Johnny, would you like a drink with Mr Tyler?” asked Slobberin’.

Johnny Too didn’t swivel round. He just pushed forward his near-empty bowl glass and said “Yeah, stick a fucking large Scotch in that.”

The others laughed, Ron grinned and nodded. They all got the joke but Dougie was staring straight at Harry and let a knowing smile crease his face. Harry knew the look. He also knew not to make eye contact with violent scum like Dougie The Dog. He averted his gaze and said, “How much, Ron?”

Ron shook his head. “No, mate,” he said. “It’s sorted.”

Johnny Too rose and began to bark orders. “LES! Get behind the jump, sort out the glasses, luv. Ron, go and sort the books.”

Lesley drained her gin and disappeared into the kitchen with Ron. Johnny Too got up from his stool and without saying a word strolled off into the gents.

As the door shut behind him, Dougie the Dog stepped up close to Harry. So close the detective could smell the chilli sauce from his last kebab on his breath.

“So who are you then, Harry?” he said softly.

“Sorry?” Harry replied.