Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) (24 page)

The spooks had set him up in a cosy little flat in the university area. Now he just needed a woman on the firm. Not just because he was a randy, sexist bastard either. It was far easier to establish himself as his alter ego if he could be seen to be part of a rooted relationship. This was established practice. And, of course, it never hurt to have a little bird about to do his washing and ironing. Besides, he had gone without for weeks and his plums had swelled up like mangoes. It was no good trying to pull the women either side of the flat. One was a dyke; the other described herself as ‘chair’ of the Socialist Worker Student Society. He even drew a blank with the two barmaids in the nearest pub, although his opening gambit – ‘Fuck me if I’m wrong, but is your name Hilda?’ – might have been a little on the strong side.

With the second, an attractive redhead, he opted for a straightforward, ‘Fancy going for a shag and a pizza after work?’ And when she swung at him, he said, ‘Sorry darling, how was I supposed to know you didn’t like pizza?’

This got a laugh from a short Oriental woman. Harry gave her a wink. She was a pretty half-Chinese sort, five-foot-nothing with the face of an angel and the arse of an Angelina Jolie.

‘Hello, beautiful, what do they call you?’

‘Right now, I’d say unlucky,’ she said in an accent that could have been on loan from
The Liver Birds
.

‘Nice one. I like a girl with a sense of humour.’

‘You’d need one wearing that shirt.’

‘What d’you mean? This is me best Ben Sherman.’

‘Exactly. Who wears Ben Shermans now? They went out of fashion when you started getting YSL for the same price.’

‘I bow to the voice of youth and beauty.’

‘Well, I like a man who knows when he’s wrong. I also like a man chatting me up who looks older than twelve and isn’t texting away on his mobile. Honestly, the lads round here. Every time an ice-cream van goes past they all reach for their mobies.’

Harry was hooked. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘They’re going to be born soon with their hands shaped to hold a mobile. They won’t have thumbs, just six fingers for texting. After three days the mother will get a text saying, “Mum, I’ve shit meself,” and all the women will go, “Ah, look at the way he’s spelt ‘shit’.”’

‘I like you. You can buy me a Bacardi Breezer if you like, and you may remain in my presence as long as you mention neither Everton Football Club nor the TV sitcom
Bread
. I’m Sabrina by the way …’

He opened his mouth. She spoke first: ‘And no witch gags neither, and before you ask, no, I haven’t got a bun in the coven.’

‘You’ve got a lot of rules, Sabrina.’

‘Including never to sleep with a man on a first date; so after half an hour, if I like you I’m going to go and sit over there by the telly and then you can come and ask me out on our second date. But there’ll be no kissing ’cos I’ve got a phobia about cold sores.’

She liked him. Two hours later they were back at Harry’s flat making love energetically standing up against the wall. ‘It doesn’t matter how hard you pump,’ she gasped ‘You’re not going to make me any taller.’

That made him laugh so much he lost control and came.

Sabrina smoothed down her skirt, went to the bathroom and washed. Harry lay on the settee feeling pleased with himself. One day he might lose his power to pull, like Alfie and Don Giovanni both did, but not for a few years yet.

‘Right,’ said Sabrina on her return. ‘I reckon that was about fifty quids’ worth.’

‘What?’

‘Well, a girl’s gotta eat. And I’ve got two kids to feed.’

Harry studied her. ‘You ain’t joking, are you?’

‘No, luv.’

‘Isn’t it normal to mention this up front?’

‘Why, did you really think your Cockney charm could peel a girl’s knickers off that quickly?’

‘It has in the past.’

‘Did they have colour tellies then?’

‘Right, if you want fifty notes you can get back here and give us a nosh. I’ll get me money’s worth.’

‘No, you’re all right. Me old man’ll be worried sick if I’m not home by eleven. Tell you what, just sling us a score for me cab home. This made a nice change from Netherfield Road. This place is almost civilised.’

Harry obliged. Fuck! MI5 would be taping this. He would never live it down. Shame they weren’t videoing it too, he could have played it backwards and watched himself get his money back.

‘Shall I leave you my card?’

‘No thanks, dear, I’ve got one of me own.’

She shrugged and walked away, pulling her lime green mini skirt tight over those gorgeous cheeks. Harry watched entranced. It seemed such a shame to waste them.

‘Oi, Sabrina, on second thoughts, leave us a card please.’

She wriggled back with a pout and gave him a cheaply printed business card with her mobile printed on it and the motto: ‘Sabrina, little hands make you look so big.’ Harry grinned.

‘It’s OK, love,’ she said. ‘That’s one area you don’t need any help with.’

Harry was wearing his new YSL button down for the crossing over to Ireland. The journey was uneventful. He didn’t hang about to take in the famous hospitality of the South. There were still parts here where an English accent didn’t play well. Harry made straight for the coffin makers’ yard on the outskirts of Moneymore. It was a fairly large warehouse in a compound shared with a panel-beating and car-spray business. The lacquer from the spray shop stuck in Harry’s throat, making him cough. He was greeted by his contact, Michael.

‘It’s not that coughing that carries you off …’

‘It’s the coffin they carry you off in. Yes, very good.’

‘Would you like to come and see the goods?’

‘Yeah, but I don’t want to try one on for size.’

‘Oh, you’re not to worry about the people working next door, they’re not a problem.’

Harry nodded. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant, probably that they worked for the same ‘company’ business. His van was being loaded as they spoke. Michael took an envelope containing photographs from the pocket of his camouflage jacket.

‘You’re to see the man in disgrace before you go home, I understand.’

‘Yes, just to show my face again.’

‘You’re to take these to him. It’s the latest batch he wanted developed. There’s no need to look at them unless you want to. It’s probably best you do, then you’ll get a true idea of what the man’s about. A man of religion as well, it’s unbelievable. A man of the cloth. What a tragedy.’

Harry looked at the photos, some good quality, others out of focus. They all told the same sick story.

‘The negatives are in that little compartment at the front as well. He’s very fussy that he gets the negs. I suppose you can understand why.’

Harry went to the rear of the box van and hopped up on to the back rather than use the tailgate. He walked to the front and pushed a coffin aside. Built into the floor, almost invisible to the naked eye, was a false floor section that had to be pushed at an angle to move and open. Inside was an open box space that was barely large enough for one child, let alone two.

Michael climbed on to the rear of the van as Harry looked down into the tiny chamber and tossed in the pack of pictures.

Michael spoke over his shoulders as he began to seal it.

‘Did they tell you that’s pretty much a carbon copy of the one that his regular supplier uses to bring him kiddies in?’

‘No, they didn’t.’

‘Yes, of course that’s all at an end now, the fella’s little business venture has come to a very definite full stop. He was detained down South taking a child for a little ride to see a farmer.’

‘Did he anaesthetise them?’

‘Only for the long runs up to the North. He used to administer a drug to them that made the muscles relax, but I’m sure you’re familiar with all of that already.’

‘I’ve had the course.’

‘So you’ll be off then. You just need to sign this paperwork for the coffins.’

It took Harry twenty minutes to drive the single-track road to the village. It was a real one-horse town: a grocery store that doubled as a pub, and just a sprinkling of houses. The church was a five-minute stroll out of the village and up a hill. There was a small cottage set behind it. The graveyard was at the other end, separated from the garden by a whitewashed breeze-block wall. Harry stopped the van on a bed of gravel by the cottage door. The Rev Porky Pig was nowhere to be seen. Probably off rooting for truffles, thought Harry. He strolled over to the church, which was empty, so he carried on to the graveyard and through the rusty iron gates. Walking towards him through the cemetery dressed in his flowing black robes and holding the hand of a little boy was fat fuck Christopher. As he caught sight of Harry he released the child’s hand. Harry felt the bile rise. The priest noticed the look on his face. ‘No, Harry, have no fear. I don’t do little boys. That’s not my pleasure.’

‘I’ve got an envelope for you.’

‘God bless you, my son. I shall risk self-blinding tonight.’

Harry went and retrieved the package from the rear of the van. He kept trying to picture the fat man in a cannibal’s pot. The image just about made speaking to the piece of shit tolerable.

‘Anything else in there for me?’ Christopher said hopefully.

‘No, not this time.’

Harry tossed the envelope full of photos to him.

‘Harry, if you take the road east up the hill, travel along the lane for five minutes, you’ll come across a small cottage pub set back on the left side of the road. There’s nothing else between here and there, you can’t miss it. Follow that road for twenty more minutes, it’s countryside all of the way, and you’ll find a T-junction. Turn left and it will take you in the direction you need to go. The reason to take this detour is for you to find the pub. We have a meeting with the boys there in seven days’ time in that very bar. I’ll make the introduction and leave you to talk business. I’ll have other things to do. They’re bringing me a little present to play with while they talk things over with you.’

It took a superhuman effort, but Harry just shrugged his shoulders.

‘What time have you arranged the meeting for?’

‘They arrange things, not me. I told them when you were next over and they said they would see you then. I rang Bernadette and told her this morning.’

Harry pondered. ‘But they’ve given you no clue as to time, morning, afternoon, evening?’

‘Well, it won’t be morning, will it, in a bar.’

Harry nodded. ‘See you then,’ he said.

Two days later, an urgent meeting had been hastily convened at MI5’s Thames House HQ at Vauxhall in South London. Harry stood outside for a while. It was an impressive piece of architecture, one of the finest buildings in London. Harry estimated it had a frontage of about five hundred feet to the River Thames. Fantastic. He walked up the central flight of steps and entered. There was a sign-board inside with the words ‘Alert Status Black Special’ on display. Harry checked in and was guided to one of the eighteen lifts. He was greeted at the eleventh floor by an unsmiling male secretary who could have made good money as an Edna Everage lookalike. He led Harry to a large but empty conference room.

‘I’ll ask you to wait here for a while please, sir, until the other meeting has broken up. Tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee please, no sugar. Have you got any Camp?’

The secretary left without replying and returned quickly with a plastic cup full of machine gunge.

‘I’m told the meeting will convene in ten minutes, sir, if you could be patient.’

‘No problem.’

Harry looked out over the Thames as he sipped the hot muck and thought of Kara. Was it worth trying to win her back, he wondered? He did miss the kids and, although he would have to climb a mountain to do it, the make-up sex would be sensational. What would it take to win her back? Could he do it? Of course he could. Harry had no doubts about his powers to persuade. He had never met a woman yet that his silver tongue couldn’t dazzle. Maybe it was time to settle down, and if Kara could be persuaded to let him stay in the job then she’d be perfect. Their family was readymade. His job was never a problem for Dawn. Poor Dawn. The love of his life. Sweet sexy Dawn. What those animals had done to her … His anger got the better of him. The cup collapsed in his grip, spilling contents over the window seal. Harry scrambled around for tissues to clean up the mess and ended up making do with a
Mirror
from a bin outside. He had just finished when the double doors were yanked open and a dozen grim-faced men and women filtered in. At the head of the throng was Bernadette. She was deep in conversation with two middle-aged men. Harry recognised them as senior police officers, but didn’t know them personally. He joined them as they sat at the huge mahogany conference table. One of the women was in the chair. She handed out a ten-page briefing package.

‘Have you been waiting long?’ she asked Harry.

‘No, ma’am.’

God, she was a hard-faced bitch, he thought. Unsmiling, cold eyes. The fingers of her right hand were visibly nicotine stained. She made no effort to introduce him to the rest of the table.

‘Harry, I’m Daphne Day. I’m heading up this operation. It’s code-named “Chalk Pit”. As you may have been informed, we’ve had a separate briefing and discussion concerning this matter and your deployment in it. Our intention is for you to be kept under close covert surveillance during your meeting with “the other side”, and to that end we are represented at this meeting by the military and police service who will organise and control the meeting place. You should be aware that the officers in whose trust you are placing your life will be digging into positions in the woods surrounding the target area this evening and throughout tomorrow. The meeting point is also being covertly entered and technical equipment will be up and running in advance of your meeting. Your vehicle already has an array of technical wizardry in place. If at any time you feel you need intervention you will be able to summon aid by simply saying the words “Queen Victoria”.’She looked at Bernadette. ‘Is that correct?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, “Queen Victoria” summons the cavalry.’