Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) (21 page)

It was chaos outside the school as usual. The mums who moaned about their children’s safety never seemed to worry when it came to parking dangerously outside the gates to drop off their squealing sprogs. Obviously the double yellow lines and big signs saying: ‘Do not park here’ and ‘Danger! Children! Absolutely no parking’ did not apply to them.

David was held indicating left, flashing to let a woman out. But she was too busy nattering to her daughter to notice. Why let the kid have dreadlocks? Where did the silly cow think she was, Kingston, Jamaica? David opened his window and drummed his fingers impatiently on the side of the car. A motorcycle edged around the back of the 4x4 and slowly nudged forwards to avoid the oncoming traffic.

‘I’ll jump out here,’ said Katy. ‘Look, there’s Sophia.’

They were the last words David Nelson ever heard. When the motorcycle had drawn level with the driver’s window the pillion passenger raised a handgun. The first two blasts hit David on the temple and jaw. The first shell ran around the line of the skull, under the skin, following the contours of the bone before ripping out the back, taking bone, skin, hair and a part of his brain with it. David slumped forward at the wheel. The pillion passenger dismounted, stuck the barrel hard against David’s temple and put two more shots into his head. The barrel was so close it left burn marks on the skin. Katy was screaming, not so much because she had realised what had happened to her father but because of the sound of the gun. The gunman disregarded her. As pandemonium broke out around the Mitsubishi he calmly got back on the motorcycle and roared off down the road. Behind him, chaos reigned. Mothers ran screaming across the street holding their children. Others, too numb to move, stood paralysed, staring in disbelief. Not one single eye-witness could improve on the description given to the police: two men, both in black, both wearing full-face crash helmets with black visors; both medium to large build … and that was it.

The motorcycle sped through the backstreets for little more than a mile before pulling up next to a white Transit van where a third man was waiting at the wheel. As the two riders dismounted and headed for the back of the van, the driver quickly covered the bike with a waterproof sheet, which he roped down before getting back in the vehicle and driving off. In the back the two riders stripped off their clothes and put them into black plastic refuse sacks, helmets and all. They then dressed in garage mechanics’ overalls. Neither man spoke. The pillion passenger dropped his handgun into the sack and began to peel off the surgical tape that was wrapped round each individual finger and his palms under latex gloves. The bike rider looked at him, puffed his cheeks and exhaled.

‘You sweet?’

Bernard Nelson looked back at him and simply nodded.

In Essex, Harry Tyler found himself a phone box and placed another call.

11.15am. Georgie Nelson opened the door of his Ponders End apartment to a familiar face: Clyde Ward, a heavy trader out of Southampton.

‘Clyde, my friend, how are ya? You’re looking well, son.’

‘I’m sweet, Georgie.’

‘You wanna cake, mate? Debbie left us a box of éclairs before she went out.’

‘No, mate, I’m on the Atkins.’

‘Not you and all. Mind you, you’re looking good on it, son. How much you lost?’

‘Ten pounds in a month.’

‘Nice one. So tell me, can you take the pipe on the Atkins diet?’

Georgie indicated the kitchen.

‘Better wait till after we’ve done a bit of business.’

‘What you got for me?’

‘I’ve got a cotchell of snide Scottish scores. The East End’s been flooded with ’em. They’re shit easy to move.’

‘Let’s see ’em.’

Clyde produced a wad of notes.

‘I wouldn’t know a Jock score if it played the fuckin’ bagpipes, but they look quality to me. How much?’

‘Six quid each.’

‘Who else is moving ’em?’

‘I’ve got a guy in Bermondsey, a guy in Hackney. No one up this way.’

‘I’ll take a hundred off ya, see how they move.’

‘Sweet.’

‘So, ten pounds you’ve lost. Any side effects? Don’t it give you bad breath?’

‘My Jane says it’s an improvement. No, mate. The only problem I’ve had is the other end. I’ve been constipated for fucking days. In fact, I wouldn’t mind using yer bog while I’m here ’cos I think there’s some internal combustion imminent.’

‘Fuck me, you’ll stink the place out. Go on, up the stairs, first on the right. I’ll be in the kitchen.’

Clyde’s phone rang. He had a hurried conversation. ‘OK, OK, I’ll call you back,’ he said, ending the call.

‘Women,’ he shouted to Georgie. ‘Just because you give ’em one they think they own you.’

‘Was that Janey?’

‘Was it fuck. It was her daughter.’

Georgie laughed. From a flight above Clyde smelled the ammonia rising. The crack pipe was on the go.

Clyde Ward dropped his strides and prepared for the pain. Fucking Patsy Palmers! He had never had piles before this poxy diet and now he was getting through germaloids like a cock-daft arse bandit. As he shut the toilet door, the front door was kicked open with a tremendous bang. Clyde heard Georgie emerge from the kitchen, shouting. There were four shots and the shouting stopped. Clyde’s constipation was cured. When he was sure the intruders had left, he crept downstairs to find Georgie Nelson’s lifeless body lying face down in the hallway. His lighter, foil, rocks and spoon lay a few inches from his hand.

Coolly, Clyde Ward gathered up his Scottish £20 notes, emptied Georgie’s wallet and helped himself to the rocks before stepping over the crashed-in front door and driving back to Southampton.

The two murders made the lunchtime news. Opposition politicians had a field day. This was ‘violent London’, the ‘worst outrage’. It was Blunkett and Blair betraying Joe Public again. There were half-hearted attempts to portray the killings as gang war, but no one could put a name to a rival gang. Who was mad enough to take on the Nelsons? One expert speculated that this might be connected to a series of two brutal and apparently motiveless attacks on known villains in the East London area, but the MO was so different that that theory didn’t hold water either. Inevitably, as the day progressed, the spin doctors got busy and the dailies got hold of it, all the blame seemed to end up pinned on the cops as usual. ‘Where were the police?’ screamed the
Express
the next morning. Harry Tyler grimaced as he threw the paper to one side. Where were the cops? Sitting in classrooms being taught not to be ‘racist’, that’s where.

Buck Nelson wasn’t given the news. He was in hospital in Southgate undergoing his final course of chemotherapy. Charles broke down when he heard about it over the phone from Nicky.

‘Who could do this, Nick?’ he screamed into the mouthpiece. ‘Who could do such a thing? The fucking sick bastards. David’s kid was in the car. Poor little Katy …’

At the other end of the line, Nicky stood next to the coffee table he had already shattered in a blind fury. ‘I don’t know, but I will and I will personally crucify whatever piece of shit is responsible.’

‘What about Silky’s firm? Georgie knocked him over some toot last year.’

‘He ain’t got the bollocks.’

‘What about that Clyde?’

‘What fucking Clyde?’

‘You know, slippery Clyde, Clyde Ward out of Southampton. He stabbed a Tiddly in Tenerife for drinking his pint once.’

‘Don’t talk out yer arse, he was Georgie’s pal. And Clyde’s got nothing to do with David. Dave never touched Charlie or any of that shit.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘First off I’m going to go round and see Steph. She’s at her mum and dad’s with Katy. The Old Bill have already been sniffing around for her but she needs to duck her nut until we sort this out. Poor cow. She’s in a state of shock.’

‘What about …’

‘Stop playing guessing games. I’ll sort Steph out, you have a meet with Mickey K, see if him and his firm has heard anything. I’ll meet you at three pm in the Duke Of Cambridge, St Peter’s Street. OK?’

‘OK.’

‘I’ll be in the patio garden.’

‘OK.’

‘And Charles …’

‘Yeah?’

‘Make sure you’re carrying.’

Over in Essex, Harry Tyler was feeling quietly exhilarated. Two down, two to go. He knew, of course, that he was now in the frame for murder.

Simply by obtaining and supplying their details he had involved himself in the conspiracy. Now the deed was done he could be looking at a life sentence. He didn’t give a toss. Harry Tyler had crossed the line. There was no way back.

The following morning at 6am, Harry rang Bernard’s number from a call box in Tilbury. He was genuinely surprised when it was answered.

‘Yes?’

‘Hope you’ve scrubbed your fingernails, you naughty boy.’

‘Go on.’

‘You know Bush Hill Park golf course near Grange Hill?’

‘Yeah, go on.’

‘From there, driving to Bush Hill Park, in that road, right on the bend on the left-hand side, big drum, two eagles on the pillars on the drive. It’s called the White House on account that it’s painted white.’

‘Which one is that?’

‘Nicky.’

‘I want the other one too.’

‘205 Park Gate Crescent, Hadley Wood. Not far from your dad’s. Make the piece of shit suffer.’

Bernard ended the call.

Nicky and Charles had met up, but in the event nothing much had been planned. They had spent the day and most of the night drinking, grieving and guessing, guzzling coffee brewed by Charles’s anguished wife Alison. It was a little after 7am when a bleary eyed Charles noticed the postman flitting past the front-room window.

‘He’s early,’ he grunted.

‘Who?’

‘Postman Pat.’

The doorbell rang.

‘Make us a coffee, Nick.’

Charles dragged himself from the Lazy-Boy leather chair and walked into the hall. He yawned and rubbed the back of his head with his left hand while he opened the front door with his right. As the door swung over, he did something close to a comedy double-take. It was Bernard, dressed in full postman’s uniform, red bag and all. He held a pump-action shotgun at hip height. Charles swung around to flee as the first blast ripped into his hip and stomach. He began to stagger towards the stairs. A second blast knocked him to the ground, face down. Bernard ran up to him. His brother’s blood was spurting everywhere. Without saying a word, Bernard placed the barrel tight against the centre of Charles’s spine and squeezed hard. The blast tore into him, visibly lifting his body off the ground. Blood and tissue caught Bernard in the face, drenching his hands and arms.

He stood up straight, still staring down at the corpse. Upstairs a woman was screaming. He had done it. He had avenged Dawn. Just one more shit-cunt in the frame.

As he turned to leave, Nicky Nelson buried a nine-inch kitchen knife straight into his chest. Nicky drove it with such force that his hand slipped down the handle and he sliced his own palm open on the blade. Bernard staggered backwards, dropping the shotgun as he fell. Nicky ripped out the knife and drove it down harder yet into his brother’s chest. Fountains of blood erupted. Bernard wriggled on the floor like a fish out of water, coughing and jerking. His right hand tried to claw at the shotgun. Nicky pulled out the knife and rammed it into his chest for the third and final time, tearing open a lung. Bright red frothy blood gurgled out and Bernard’s life was gone with a whimper. He had fallen on top of Charles and now both brothers’ blood was running together, mixing as sweet as a nightclub DJ, achieving a unity in death that they had rarely experienced in life.

Nicky staggered towards the kitchen screaming at Alison who sat at the top of the stairs, sobbing and gasping. She held her knees and rocked gently back and forth, sucking in great gusts of air. She was unable to either walk down towards the scene of awful carnage in her hallway or to turn away from it. It was as if she were magnetically held in place by the sheer horror of it all.

‘Get me an ambulance,’ Nicky was shouting. ‘999. Ambulance, Alison, NOW!’

Blood poured from his wound. He shoved his hand under the kitchen tap and turned it on. Water and blood cascaded over the nest of dirty coffee cups in the sink. He grabbed a tea towel and wrapped it round the wound, slumping to the tiled floor. It seemed like only minutes before the police arrived, although it was more like half an hour. The first officer took one look at the corpses in the hall and threw up into a pot plant. The duty inspector arrived and took control just as Nicky was being loaded into the ambulance. He pointed to the young cop who had vomited and barked, ‘You! Grab another officer and get into the ambulance with him. He’s under guard as a murder suspect.’

By 9.30am the street was sealed in tapes and cordons. Murder-squad detectives, forensics experts and photographers had begun to arrive. The house was searched from top to bottom. They needed to call in a locksmith to open the bedroom floor safe. Inside, amongst the fake passports and huge rolls of cash held together with elastic bands, was found a poor-quality video film showing four masked men raping an unknown woman. The duct tape around her mouth made it impossible to identify her.

That evening Harry Tyler sat on his bed reading the late edition of the
Standard
, sipping Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. This was almost the perfect ending. Only Nicky remained at large, and the only direct link to his own involvement was dead. Nicky would put it all down to his brother, and Bernard’s hired hands would disappear into the night. Fate had dealt him a good hand this day.

Nicholas Nelson was formally arrested as a suspect for the murder of his four brothers. He sat tight-lipped in his cell until his solicitor Babar Bhatti got there. He was young but shit hot. He’d been trained by the best – Maurice Bondman, RIP, an old favourite among London’s criminal fraternity and an expert at helping the guilty walk away scot-free.

Their opening gambit in interviews was outraged innocence. Why was Nicky arrested at such a time for the family? He wanted to mourn the untimely passing of his good brothers, and console the rest of the Nelson clan who had been left in a state of shock by the devastation caused by Bernard, the one bad apple.