Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) (20 page)

She grinned.

‘That’s the thing, there is no meaning of life. Do what they wilt shall be the whole of the law. What would your ideal of hell be?’

‘Oh, I dunno … impotence, loneliness, domestic subjugation …’He paused and added, ‘Rejection.’

Daisy smiled.

‘I’m going to kiss you,’ he said.

‘Uh-uh, no you’re not. Drive me home now please.’

Daisy was quiet in the car; monosyllabic even. Harry wondered if he’d read her wrong. She wasn’t like the women he usually went for. For starters she was a lot more opinionated but with a definite twist of eccentricity. She directed him to a street in Stifford Clays. All the houses were identical, they were council or ex-council – Maggie’s gift to the working classes. As he pulled up in the drive Daisy reached over and kissed him passionately. He kissed her back. Her left hand went straight to his groin, which responded with impressive speed. His right hand cupped her left breast. She broke away.

‘See,’ she said. ‘The Devil makes work for idle hands. Come on …’

She let them into the small terraced house. All the curtains were pulled. Everywhere was black. Daisy pushed him against the wall and kissed him again, rubbing herself against his erection.

‘Go up to the bedroom, second on the left,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring up some drinks.’

When she came up five minutes later clutching an armful of cheap imported French bottled beer, Harry was standing naked by the bed his erection proudly on display. He gripped it in his right hand and started singing, ‘Daisy, Daisy, give us your answer do …’

Daisy laughed.

‘What do you call him?’

‘He’s El Diabolo to you.’

‘He’s certainly a horny little devil …’

‘Not so much of the little.’

Dropping the beers on the bed, Daisy knelt and took him all in her mouth.

‘The girl from Del Monte, she says YES!’

Harry rubbed her shoulders as she went down on him for about two minutes, kissing and sucking, gently grazing his skin with her teeth. Then she stood up and took his hands, pressing them against her huge breasts. They were 36DD if they were an inch. He lifted her T-shirt over her head and admired them. No wonder the goat on her baphomet looked so chuffed. Daisy found his balls with her left hand and gently stroked the bell-end of his penis with the long, blood-red varnished fingernails of her right hand. She had never felt a cock so hard. Harry, fearing the worst, stopped her caressing him and reached behind her back to undo her bra. Dropping it to the floor, he hungrily engulfed her newly liberated nipples with his mouth, flicking them with his tongue. Daisy groaned and slid down his body, taking his cock up between her breasts and squashing it as she rocked backwards and forwards. Harry had to have her. ‘Lie on the bed,’ he commanded. ‘I feel like pushing up the Daisy’s …’

She giggled. He went to go down on her. ‘No,’ she said, grabbing his head. ‘I’m ready. Fuck me, Harry, fuck me hard.’

There was a bang behind them.

‘What the …?’

‘Ignore it, it’s an old house, it creaks a lot.’

‘That wasn’t a creak.’

Harry shot off the bed and headed for the direction of the noise. He heard another scuffling sound. It came from the wardrobe. He jerked the door open.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.

‘Hardly,’ Daisy muttered.

Harry dragged Stewart out from the wardrobe by his hair. He was naked with a camera in his right hand. It was fairly obvious what had been in his left one.

‘Why you little weasel …’ Harry went to hit him.

‘Yes! Beat him! Thrash him!’ Daisy shouted enthusiastically. ‘He is our slave. He wants us to punish him. He wants to watch you shag me and then suck your hot dribbling spunk out of my gratefully quivering vagina.’

‘Fuck that.’ Harry knocked Stewart out with a straight right and ripped opened the camera, exposing the film to the light.

‘Spoilsport,’ said Daisy.

He started to dress.

‘Aren’t you going to fuck me?’

Harry hesitated. He wanted to say, ‘You’ve fucked yourself, love,’ but she did have great tits and lover boy was out for the count.

He grabbed the back of Daisy’s head, pulled her towards him and kissed her greedily. She fondled him. He was ready for action already. She took a bright red condom from the bedside table and rolled it neatly over his erection.

Then, laughing, Daisy went down on all fours on the floor. ‘Get thee behind me, Satan,’ she said.

Afterwards Harry argued that, as he had given Daisy one on her terms, she now owed him one on his. She didn’t disagree, which is how Stewart ended up strapped to the bedpost by a dog-lead while Harry drove his wife to a lay-by on the A13 and boned her to the backseat of his car, to the delight of the three passing lorry drivers who spotted them and the shock of a coach-load of nuns.

He dropped her home at 7.30pm. ‘I won’t say thanks for the mammories,’ he said. ‘It’s too clichéd.’

‘But you slipped it in anyway.’

‘Not as often as I’d like to.’

‘You certainly enjoyed a variety of openings. That was a bit of a surprise, you, umm, changing lanes without indicating back there. Not that I minded.’

‘That’s what I call the tunnel of love. Can I take your number?’

She nodded and wrote it on the pad in his dashboard.

‘Thanks for an interesting day.’

‘Are you converted?’

‘No, no. Y’see Daisy, as I see it all of the individual freedom in the world makes no sense out of context, and this is our one: we don’t exist separate from the human race. We’re just carrying on the genes for the next generation.’

‘Did this occur to you while we were shagging?’

‘It did. It also occurred to me that the purpose of life is a life of purpose.’

‘And you think you have one?’

‘Oh, I haven’t had much trouble finding one or two before. Now go untie Fido before he needs walkies.’

H
arry got back to South Ockendon in the early evening. There was still no message from Dawn. He showered then settled down to watch the rest of
The Gangs Of New York
. At 9pm he went up to bed. By 9.15 he was asleep. At 9.30 the phone was ringing. He ran down to answer it, half-awake.

‘Dawn?’

‘It’s Cheryl.’

Dawn’s sister. Harry could tell from her voice that something was wrong.

‘What’s up?’

‘Harry, she really needs you. Can you get up to us up here? Harry, she’s in a terrible state.’

‘What the fuck’s going on? No, save it. I’m coming up. I’ll leave here now; I should be with you by 2am.’

That was optimistic. Roadworks on the M1 and M6 meant that even averaging ninety on the clear roads, Harry didn’t reach Cheryl’s house until 2.55am. He listened with mounting anger as Cheryl told him what Dawn had endured, and then had to suppress it when she took him through to see her. She looked terrible, like a hospice patient. She was pale and drawn, trembling. She could hardly speak, but as soon as Dawn saw him she smiled and wrapped her arms around him. He kissed her forehead tenderly and held her close until she dropped off.

Later, when he was alone with Cheryl, Harry asked why Dawn hadn’t reported the incident to the police.

‘I wanted her to, but she wouldn’t. She refused point blank. She made me swear she would respect her wishes and not get the police involved. I only called you because, well, you can see the state she’s in.’

Harry nodded, and began to pump Cheryl for every bit of information he could get out of her. What little she knew tied in with what Dawn had told him before. The men were to do with Bernard Nelson. Bernard was the key to this whole rotten mess. Harry knew instantly that he wouldn’t inform the authorities. This was something he would have to sort out himself. Not only to respect Dawn’s wishes, but to make sure justice was done. He told Cheryl to get a doctor in, private if need be. No expense was to be spared. On the long drive back, a plan began to formulate in Harry’s mind. It wasn’t a pretty one.

By the time he got back to Essex, Harry Tyler’s face was a fist. He knew he was standing on the brink of Armageddon, but he had no doubts or reservations about what had to happen next. There was no way he was going to let the Nelson brothers get away with such a sickeningly evil, mindless assault; and in Harry’s eyes a seven-year jail sentence would have meant they had got away with it. Only one thing could calm the fire raging inside him: VENGEANCE! Fuck police procedure. He had to get even. And that meant pulling favours and mixing with the kind of shit he’d rather be putting away.

The law might not be on his side, but natural justice was.

Marcus Robinson had been employed as a technician with the National Crime Squad for fifteen years. He had regularly fitted bugging equipment in vehicles Harry had used in his UC work, and helped to wire him up so many times he’d lost count. And Marcus, well, he owed Harry big time. In 1999 he’d been out with H and the squad to celebrate an impressive victory against a London-based crime mob centred around a group of Charlie-head rock roadies. The bust had resulted in heavy jail sentences for heroin trafficking, cocaine possession and counterfeit currency offences. The drunken coppers ended up at an after-hours stag party upstairs in the reception area of the Quasar arena at Bromley, Kent, and it had been quiet, respectable Marcus who was pushed forward to frolic with the strippers – ‘genuine sisters’, their publicity handout said; although ‘spunk-loving sluts who would swallow your load for a fiver’ would have been both a more accurate and a more enticing description. Marcus, a happily married man and the father of young twin sons, ended up stark naked in the middle of their faux-lesbian finale. His flaccid manhood was slapped, caressed and sucked as his body was covered in whipped cream. Fifteen baying cops had cheered as Marcus was trussed up and abused with a nine-inch vibrator by the two naked girls. They laughed when one detective, Joss Halfin, took a Polaroid of the scene and concurred enthusiastically when he mooted the idea of sending it on to his wife. Wouldn’t that be funny? Mercifully, Harry Tyler intervened, retrieving and destroying the picture and smashing the camera on the floor. Marcus had been so grateful it was pathetic. ‘I owe you one, H,’ he had mumbled drunkenly time after time. Harry had never called in the favour, but now he needed it. Marcus knew he would be sacked on the spot if he were discovered undertaking illegal scanning to house Bernard Nelson, but he also knew he had no choice. Reluctantly he obtained a triangulated reading on Nelson’s mobile, and homed in on the signal to place him as being in one of two properties in Beckton, East London; one, as it turned out, was unoccupied.

Harry sat opposite Helena Keaton’s house for several hours in his unregistered ‘throwaway’ car – an old Ford Granada he had bought several years before at an auction in the Midlands, registering it in a false name to a derelict building. Harry had kept it garaged as insurance for that unexpected moment. This was the moment, and the moment had begun. He had extracted enough info out of Dawn over their time together to have a rough idea of how Bernard Nelson looked: the shape of his head, the colour of his hair, and his peculiar insistence on always wearing a bright yellow tie whenever he was suited and booted. It was just Harry’s luck that when a man left the property just after 11am he was wearing an England tracksuit. But he was close enough to the image of Bernard that Harry had in his head for the detective to follow his instincts and trail him on foot. The man was heading towards the tube station. Drawing level at a crossing, Harry matched his pace evenly, getting right in tight on the guy’s shoulder before he grasped it firmly. Bernard Nelson froze. This was it. He turned, expecting a .45 round to spank his eyeball into the back of his skull.

Harry spoke quickly. His tone brokered no dissent. ‘We have a mutual acquaintance, Dawn Grogan. We need to talk.’

Bernard sighed with relief. ‘Who are you?’

‘The only friend you’ve got. People you know have a bill to pay.’

Bernard stared into Harry’s cold eyes. ‘Like I said, who the fuck are you?’

‘Your new partner. Now let’s talk.’

Bernard looked across the road. There was a café with large open-fronted bay windows. ‘I’ve got time for a quick coffee,’ he said.

They sat at a window table. Harry slowly turned the chocolate in his cappuccino with his spoon. Atkins had gone by the board.

‘I need to know who raped her.’

Bernard, who was finding it hard to look Harry in the face, glanced sideways out of the window. ‘It’s my problem, I’ll sort it.’

‘That’s not what I asked you. I want the names. The sorting bit is personal to me.’

‘Me too, pal. Like I said, I’ll sort it.’

Harry leaned in to him, his face a mask of disdain. ‘I’ll make you a promise, little dick,’ he said slowly. ‘I will break every bone in your worthless body and drill your skull with a Black and Decker if you don’t tell me what I want to know. Do yourself a favour, don’t put me to the test.’

Bernard began to tremble. He meant it, he could tell. Whoever this was, he wasn’t a guy to fuck with. He had the icy look of a professional hitman, the sort who would chat to you as friendly as you like, then draw a revolver and stick a lug straight through your head before casually finishing his coffee, getting up and sauntering away. Bernard opened his mouth and it all poured out of him.

‘It was my brothers – Nicky, Charles, David and Georgie. It’s a long story. I owe them more than money. I’m the black sheep of the family, the runt of the litter. Bottom line is I had to give them fifty grand. I didn’t make the payment, Dawn paid the price.’ He hesitated. ‘I didn’t want it to happen. I didn’t know it would happen. I thought that by clearing out and leaving her I would take the problem away. The cunts didn’t see it that way.’

‘So what do you intend to do about it?’

Bernard visibly shook with rage. ‘I’ve got no future,’ he spat. ‘It’s them or me now.’ His eyes welled up with tears. ‘I loved that girl. My life’s finished. I’m nothing but a disaster, kiss of death to everyone I feel anything for. They’ll come for me next, and I don’t intend just to sit around waiting for it to happen. When you grabbed me, I thought that was it. It all went into slo-mo as you spoke.’ Bernard shook his head. ‘I could run away again but that would just postpone the inevitable. No, I’ve gotta take it to them. I’ve got to sort them out before they get me. Take ’em down. I’ll do it for Dawn.’ And Bernard Nelson dipped his head, put his hand over his eyes and wept again.

Harry sat patiently, letting it all pour out of him. ‘That’s as maybe, fella. I want addresses, phone numbers, that sort of thing.’

‘I can’t help you, friend. I’ve been off the scene for years. I don’t know where none of them are since they came out of nick. My old man Buck tried to sort it all out but they didn’t wanna know. He’s the only one who could house them for us, but to be truthful he’d stick a knife in you first. He’s on borrowed time, terminal cancer. I couldn’t go to him.’

‘So you’re talking bollocks then. How are you going to sort it?’

‘By laying down money. That’s where I’m off to now.’

‘Which one filmed it?’

Bernard shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. David, I think. Nicky started the rape, that evil scumbag.’

‘I know Buck’s name, where from?’

‘North London. He was up there but time’s caught up. He got old.’

‘Not everyone gets old.’

‘So, pilgrim, whoever you are, leave it to me because their death warrants are ready to be signed.’

‘So how do I stay in touch if I need to pool information?’

‘You don’t.’

Bernard stood up and left the café. He hoped this was the last he’d hear from the mysterious stranger with the piercing eyes.

He knew it wouldn’t be.

Harry checked into his office late afternoon and explained that he was going over old case files preparing for a forthcoming job. No one questioned him. He was so dedicated to his work. ‘Job-pissed’ the CID called it. Harry trawled through the Intell data bases for all the up-to-date info on Buck and his boys. Booking himself out to enquiries, Harry disappeared over to North London. It took him less than twelve hours to check each address and get a car registration for each of his intended victims. He slipped into Stoke Newington police station and ran all the checks through the police national computer, downloading mug shots of each of the men whose futures he had already decided.

Harry had moved out of Dawn’s house as soon as he had heard the bad news. It hadn’t seemed right to stay. He’d got himself a one-room bedsit in Forest Gate while he sorted out somewhere permanent. He was the only English man in the street. It was a dingy place – ‘a shit’ole’ – but it served its purpose. When he got in that evening, Harry put the Libertines album on his portable CD player and got to work. He emptied a large buff envelope full of papers and printed-out pictures on the bed and began to pin them up on the board fixed to the opposite wall. When he had finished, he sat on the bed and studied the results. He had set up a mini operations room. Satisfied, he laid back on the bed, fully clothed, and drifted off to sleep.

At 6am he snapped awake and showered, the plan fully formed in his head. By 6.20am he had left East London and was heading out into Essex. At Epping Forest, he spotted a call box, parked and strolled over to it.

Bernard heard his mobile ringing. He didn’t recognise the number but he answered anyway, fully prepared for trouble.

‘Yes?’

‘You got a pen handy?’

‘Who is it?’

‘Your coffee buddy.’

‘Go on.’

‘132 The Chalfonts, Edmonton. That’s where you’ll find brother David. Blue 4x4 Mitsubishi on the drive, this year’s model. Big metal gates. See how you perform on that and I’ll ring you later. But move on it today, OK? Move now. Time is against us and you may not get a second chance.’

Harry hung up. He cleaned the handset and strolled back to his car. There was no one about. He headed west to Woodford and parked up his Granada in a hired garage; then Harry went off to work by cab as if nothing had happened.

At 8.15am, the electric gates swung open and the two state-of-the-art CCTV cameras moved like synchronised swimmers. David Nelson eased the 4x4 out of the drive as normal. He took pride in running his eleven-year-old daughter Katy to school. He loved the look on the faces of all the poor bastards – the muggles in their cheap little cars – as he sat up high in his pride and joy like a knight on a charger. And there was an additional plus the manufacturers never mention – it gives you a handy vantage point to study the legs of the young mums sitting beneath him in their cars. David angled the nearside mirror to get a flash of panty from the blonde in the BMW behind, chuckling to himself when he realised she’d come out without them. Natural blonde too.

Katy sat strapped in the back, chattering away on her mobile. She had been conceived during a prison visit – it was amazing how much privacy a few quid could buy inside. David hadn’t seen much of her before he got out – he wouldn’t have her come on visits – but, boy, he was making up for it now. She was a sweetheart, a miniature version of her mum but without the compulsion to nag. She finished her call.

‘All right, love?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

‘Soon be at school. Don’t forget you’re going to Alice’s tonight.’

‘Can I sleep over?’

‘Not on a school night, hon.’

The traffic was slow moving. Red Ken’s congestion charge seemed to have pushed all the traffic out of town and into the suburbs. He hadn’t ended the jams, just moved them.

As they turned into the school road, Katy spotted some friends.

‘Daddy, look, there’s Amelia and Shaquira, can I walk to school with them?’

David laughed. ‘No, it’s only up the road. By the time I pulled over and you got out you’d be there.’