Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) (25 page)

‘You will be under control all of the way in, throughout the meeting and out of it. Any questions?’

Only the obvious one, thought Harry. ‘Do we know what the commodity is yet?’

All eyes turned to the chairwoman.

‘No further questions,’ she said.

Harry shook his head. This was like a bad episode of
The Prisoner
. He glanced at the two stony-faced police officers. The nearest averted his gaze as they made eye contact. Harry looked across the table to his left; Bernadette had her serious head on.

Daphne Day continued. ‘Bernadette will be your point of contact throughout the operation. That role will continue until you return to London for debriefing. Good luck. This meeting is at an end.’

With that, they all rose and began to file out except for Bernadette, who came and sat opposite him.

‘So,’ she said. ‘Apart from the obvious, any problems?’

‘Only that the last time I was involved in a job where no one really knew what the product was, a good cop ended up dead. There ain’t no South Africans aboard this one, are there?’

She looked bemused. ‘No, just run-of-the-mill camel shaggers and lunatic Fenians. See you over there, darling. You know the way out?’

Harry nodded and left, walking over the bridge to the north of the Thames and strolling back along the river to Parliament Square. As he stood in front of Churchill’s statue he felt a strange unease. Call it a sixth sense, but he had a definite feeling of foreboding. He turned and walked back to look at the Palace of Westminster. He remembered how many of the villains he had targeted had said after their arrest that they had known it was a set-up. But they had still gone ahead with the job and been caught bang to rights with the parcel. A protesting Kurd came up and thrust a leaflet in his hand. Harry glanced at it but didn’t read a word.

Liverpool, June 12, 2003. One day before the proposed meeting. At 9am Harry’s mobile started to ring. The word ‘Blow-job’ came up to identify the caller. He reached over a sleeping blonde and answered it.

‘Yes, Bernie.’

‘It’s on for nine pm at the agreed place tomorrow. You’re to see your friend at eight pm at his residence. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any questions?’

‘No.’

‘Same agreed alarm call?’

‘Yes.’

She ended the call. The blonde stirred.

‘Hello, gorgeous.’

‘You weren’t kidding about five times a night, were you? I’m worn out.’

‘Want to go for six?’

‘Might do. Are we still going to spend the day shopping?’

‘We can spend the day how you like, my angel.’

She kissed him.

‘Were you really in Atomic Kitten?’

‘No, but you can make me hole again.’

D-Day: Friday, June 13, 2003. Harry had made the crossing and was three miles from Christopher’s cottage when he was flagged down by a traffic cop.

‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to breathalyse you, sir.’

Now Harry was fucked. He hadn’t drunk today but there was so much alcohol in his bloodstream that he knew it would show up. Think, man. This couldn’t happen now. He blew into the bag.

‘How does that thing work, officer?’

‘If you’ve been boozing these crystals will change colour.’

‘I bet you £100 they do.’

The cop covered the breathalyser with his hand.

‘They haven’t,’ he lied.

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out two £50 notes. ‘I’m a cunt with my money, aren’t I?’

‘Drive carefully, sir.’

Harry arrived at the cottage five minutes late.

Christopher opened the door. ‘They’re here already, they’ve gone to the bar.’

He looked flustered.

‘Who, how many?’

‘A woman, two men, two vehicles.’

A bead of perspiration trickled down the right side of the priest’s face.

‘So, what’s making you sweat, then?’

‘Well … I … I was promised something and she said, “Not till later.”’

‘So, just the three of them?’

‘I’m not sure. Three came to the door. The cars were across the road.’

‘And you’re sure that’s all that’s wrong?’

‘Yes. God knows these people make me jumpy. I detest violent men.’

‘Come along then, take me up and introduce me.’

‘They said I wouldn’t be needed. I’m just to ring the bar and say you’re on your way.’

Again, Harry felt a tingle of trepidation. But he had to push on. Nothing was going to progress here until he made the move. He knew the opposition were cautious.

But even the premature darkness, brought on by overcast skies and a complete lack of streetlights, added to his growing sense of distress.

He drove along the lane to the pub, full beams on piercing the Stygian gloom. There was nothing but trees and hedgerows on either side.

There were, indeed, two large saloon cars on the gravel bed car park as he pulled up outside, and a third vehicle, some sort of Jeep with the shapes of two people smoking inside of it. He could just make out the burning amber glow and the lead-blue smoke drifting out of the windows.

Harry entered the bar. It was deserted except for two men, both dressed in the same navy blue sweaters and black trousers. They stared at him. The nearest looked about 55. He was short, five-foot-two, with pinched features, and spoke with a heavy accent.

‘You’d be Harry?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Get you a drink, Harry?’

‘Yeah, lager please.’

The man who hadn’t spoken rang the bell. A tall man with a familiar face came from the back and began to pull a pint. Harry looked puzzled.

‘He’s one of ours,’ said Shorty. ‘We’re all of one mind here. Come on, sit down then, Harry.’ He directed him to sit with his back to the window in full view of the only door.

‘My name is Donovan. Tell me about yourself, Harry, where are you from, where were you brought up? That kind of thing.’

This at least was familiar territory, standard operating procedure, a little like two stags showing off their antler size before clashing. Harry expected to be called a liar and have his motivation picked apart.

The other man, taller, heavier but of similar age, placed a pint in front of him and introduced himself as ‘Mr Moran’.

‘I’m Essex born and bred, and I’m living on Merseyside. What else do you need to know?’ Harry was careful not to say too much. After all, he was only supposed to be a van driver who liked a gamble and who ran kids for sick-fuck churchmen.

Donovan spoke. ‘How much will you be looking for to take this little package across the water for us?’

‘No one’s told me what it is yet. Just that I’m going to make a proper drink from doing it. Five grand was mentioned.’

The conversation dragged on for nearly three-quarters of an hour, with no one saying anything of value. Then Donovan’s mobile rang. His ring tone was the ‘Forty Shades of Green’. He got up and retrieved it from the bar. Harry caught the sound of a woman’s voice on the other end.

‘You’re to wait here,’ he said finally. ‘I need to speak with someone outside.’

The barman had retreated and Moran said nothing. He and Harry sat in silence for half an hour before the door burst open and Donovan returned followed by two more men who looked like building workers. They were taller, heavier and rugged with red weather-beaten complexions. They sat at the table nearest the door, three up from Harry. As Donovan sat, Moran rose and edged away from the table.

Donovan stared at the beer mat in front of him as he sat thinking. He then rapped the table slowly three times with the middle finger of his right hand. The hand didn’t rise after the third knock. Finally he spoke.

‘We have – or, more accurately, you have – a problem, Harry, a very serious problem. It seems that you are not who you say you are.’

‘I’m not with you.’

‘We have a friend with us, a lady friend, who tells us that you’re an undercover policeman who has been recruited by the security service and that you are here to do us damage. Now, we really can’t allow that.’

With that the two big men stood and pulled handguns from their jacket pockets. Donovan held up his right hand for them to stop and gestured for them to sit down.

‘So, Harry Dean – I understand that’s your real name – what are we to do with you? There’s no way home for you, that much is for certain.’

Harry felt sick inside. Now he knew he wasn’t being tested. Someone had told them the lot. He had no option but to carry on fronting it.

‘Harry Dean? Someone’s stringing you along, mate. Listen, I know you’re dangerous men, I’m not silly. But I am who I say I am and I’ve got the passport to prove it. My grandma was from County Cork, I hate the Filth, I drive vans for a living and I drink at the Queen Victoria in Liverpool. End of story. Who is this bird you’ve got on the firm? ’Cos she’s got the wrong guy.’

Donovan sat thinking. He began tapping the table with his right hand, then slowly looked Harry straight in the eyes. Harry held his gaze. ‘Let’s sort this out, bring her in here and I’ll put her right.’

The small man got up without saying a word and left the pub. Five, maybe ten minutes passed, but it felt like an hour. The barman came back out and began polishing glasses. Now Harry recognised him. It was Dinger Bell, the UDA man he’d chummed up with in Blackpool. He must have been working for the spooks all along. Or worse, PIRA. Dinger made no attempt to catch Harry’s eye. Then the door opened and behind Donovan in walked Bernadette. Harry’s jaw nearly dropped. He was expecting the cavalry to burst in, not Bernie on her tod. Then the realisation hit him like a slow ripple of pain.
Bernadette was their lady friend. The bitch had gone over to the other side!

He slumped back in his chair and watched as she whispered to Donovan and Moran, who had joined them at the bar. After a minute or two, she came over to Harry and sat at the table, just the two of them.

Harry glared at her. ‘What the fuck’s going on, Bernadette?’ he said in hushed but angry voice so the others couldn’t hear.

‘Harry, you’ve become a major fucking embarrassment.’

‘What?’

‘You’re a loose cannon. We really can’t have policemen running around the streets like Chicago gangsters.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Bernard Nelson kept a diary.’

Harry didn’t believe that.
She was bluffing.

‘You were right in there with the lizard men. And we have CCTV footage of you running Nicky Nelson down.’

He shifted in his seat. He knew that bit wasn’t true either but she seemed to know everything. How? Thoughts shot round his head like pin-balls. There was only one person who could have grassed him: Marcus. Soppy Marcus Robinson. But everything they had on him had to be circumstantial. There was no direct link back, DNA or otherwise, to any of the Nelson murders.
She had to be bluffing.

‘Bernie, if I was any more framed you could hang me on the wall and call me Mona.’

‘It’s no good, Harry,’ she said softly. ‘We know everything. We know how you got the names and addresses of your victims, how you had them slaughtered. We know everything.’

‘Which “we” are you referring to?’

‘British Intelligence, the Metropolitan Police …’

‘Then why not arrest me and charge me in London?’

‘Who’s being naïve now?’ she hissed. ‘With who you are and what you know? Do you think we need that shit-storm to hit the papers? No, these lads will sort out the Harry Tyler problem. But don’t worry, you’ll die a hero, laying down your life for Queen and country. I’ve already seen the obituary they will be running in the
Telegraph
. You come over very well. It’s just a shame you won’t be around to read it yourself.’

His shoulders sank. ‘You fucking piece of shit, you’re working for PIRA. Queen Victoria!’

The tone of Bernadette’s voice changed. She sounded almost tender.

‘There’s no one out there, Harry love. You can sit and recite the entire Royal Family all the way down to Princess Michael of Kent and throw in Sarah Ferguson’s WeightWatchers class to boot and no one will hear but us.’

She stood up and turned towards Donovan, Moran and the two heavies who had joined them at the bar.

‘Yes, it’s him. He’s a policeman, as I told you. The whole thing is a sting by the Brits. The churchman set it up.’

Harry knew where this was going. He leaped from the seat and smashed Bernadette full in the left temple, knocking her out cold. The two thugs started forward. Again Donovan reined them in.

‘Harry, I really don’t want to have to fill this beautiful bar full of holes. It may help you to know that upstairs the real barkeeper and his wife are sitting, still hoping that we all go away. Another friend of ours is with them. If we have to shoot the bar to smithereens downstairs then I’m sorry to say those two innocents will have to be dealt with as well. So please, no more violence. You have no secrets we need to learn. I promise you a short drive and a swift departure. I would have the priest say a few words to speed you on your way but sadly he couldn’t face his shame any more and he’s already hanged himself in his dear little cottage and left a short note accompanied by a parcel full of photographs to ask forgiveness for his sins, all those crimes against the little children. So cheer up Harry, it’s not all bad news is it?’

Harry looked at Donovan and then at what was left of his second pint.

‘Do you mind?’ he asked.

Donovan shook his head.

Harry lifted the glass and raised it in a kind of toast to acknowledge defeat. He downed the remnants in one and wiped his mouth. There was no way out of this one. No trapdoor, no cavalry. The undefeatable Harry Tyler had finally met his match.

The largest of the two heavies took a pace forward.

‘Come along now, Mr Policeman,’ he said. ‘We haven’t got all night.’

Mum, Dad, Dawn, Kara, Courtney Rose, Ronnie Claven, Johnny Too … a hundred memories flashed through Harry Tyler’s mind in rapid succession as he rose to his feet. Frank Bruno, Del-Boy, Bobby Moore, Bazza Green, Blackadder, Jubilee Day, the 1980 Cup Final, Jimmy Jones, meeting Suzanne Mizzi, Nan’s cooking, bread and dripping, Daredevil comics, Jean-Luc Picard, the Jam at the Marquee, the Cockney Rejects singing Bubbles on
Top Of The Pops
… This was his life, and it was over.