flirted with him. He watched how popular he was with the regulars. He lost count of the number of times he left the pub muttering into his mobile. The black economy of London E15 appeared to rely on Harry Tyler waking up in the morning.
On day five, Miller was trusted with the biggest secret of all. He was allowed in to Harry’s flat where Elaine made him pie and chips. Peter Miller felt honoured. This he knew was a friendship that would last forever.
Johnny Baker’s fuck-off Mercedes was winding its way over Tower Bridge when he took a call from Geraldine. She was so upset she could hardly speak. Thirteen minutes later he met her in The Soho House. Her face was flushed, her eyes swollen from crying. Gently Johnny coaxed the story out of her. Between sobs, she told him how her ex-lover Golding had called her into his office and closed the door behind them. He’d been drinking. He’d grabbed at her breasts and forced his tongue down her throat. When she pushed him away her ex lost it. He’d slapped her face, called her a slut and a prick teaser and told her he was going to have her sacked. Johnny Too never heard the rest of what she’d said. The red mist had already descended.
It was 8.30 pm when the Merc glided past Golding’s splendid detached home in Finchley, North London. Geraldine pointed the house out. There was a W reg Lexus on the drive, next to a series eight BMW. Johnny got out of the car.
“Be careful,” Geraldine said. Then wondered why. She wasn’t concerned with Johnny’s physical well-being, Golding was a tub of lard who got breathless popping the cork out of a bottle of Dom Perignon. But what had she started? Somehow she didn’t think Baker would be telling Golding he’d been a naughty boy, but having lit the blue touch-paper now all she could do was sit back and wait for the firework display.
Johnny Too told his driver, Tony Boniface, to pull across the drive. Geraldine had the front door in full view through the Merc’s blacked-out back windows.
Johnny walked up the drive and rang the bell. As Golding answered the door, a waft of soothing midbrow classical music filled the air.
Golding studied the man before him suspiciously. He was well-dressed, but looked brutal. “Yes?” he said.
Johnny half-smiled. “What music is that?” he asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“What music are you playing? Who’s it by?”
“What the hell has that got to do with you? Who are you and why are you disturbing our supper? What the hell do you want?”
Johnny Too grabbed Golding’s tie and dragged him out of the front door, nutting him square in the face. Golding’s broken nose went East and West as the claret gushed.
Now Johnny was shouting. “I said what fucking music is that, you snivelling cunt?” Golding clutched his nose and shook like a shellshocked war casualty.
“It’s called ‘Montagues And Capulets’,” he stuttered. “It’s by Prokofiev. P-p-please don’t hurt me. Do you want money? Let me get my wallet. Just d-d-don’t hurt me.”
By Johnny Baker standards, Golding wasn’t hurt. By the standards of reasonable men, he was battered to a pulp. When Johnny Too finally left him unconscious on the tarmac drive, a bloody mass of blubber, he looked like a whale that had been dropped 100 feet, face down on to jagged rocks.
Johnny Too smirked. “Fucking nice music, geezer,” he said. He strolled back towards the car. Geraldine saw him remove a hefty knuckle-duster from the fingers of his right hand. She felt strange. Half of her was horrified by the terrible violence she had just witnessed, but the other half was strangely excited, and just a little turned on. Confused she started to sob. Johnny opened the car door and his expression changed from psychopathic to concerned lover.
“Don’t cry, baby,” he whispered, holding her tight. “Don’t cry. He won’t ever hurt you again.”
“But my job,” she said.
“You just quit, darling. You work for me now. You are
On day five, Miller was trusted with the biggest secret of all. He was allowed in to Harry’s flat where Elaine made him pie and chips. Peter Miller felt honoured. This he knew was a friendship that would last forever.
Johnny Baker’s fuck-off Mercedes was winding its way over Tower Bridge when he took a call from Geraldine. She was so upset she could hardly speak. Thirteen minutes later he met her in The Soho House. Her face was flushed, her eyes swollen from crying. Gently Johnny coaxed the story out of her. Between sobs, she told him how her ex-lover Golding had called her into his office and closed the door behind them. He’d been drinking. He’d grabbed at her breasts and forced his tongue down her throat. When she pushed him away her ex lost it. He’d slapped her face, called her a slut and a prick teaser and told her he was going to have her sacked. Johnny Too never heard the rest of what she’d said. The red mist had already descended.
It was 8.30 pm when the Merc glided past Golding’s splendid detached home in Finchley, North London. Geraldine pointed the house out. There was a W reg Lexus on the drive, next to a series eight BMW. Johnny got out of the car.
“Be careful,” Geraldine said. Then wondered why. She wasn’t concerned with Johnny’s physical well-being, Golding was a tub of lard who got breathless popping the cork out of a bottle of Dom Perignon. But what had she started? Somehow she didn’t think Baker would be telling Golding he’d been a naughty boy, but having lit the blue touch-paper now all she could do was sit back and wait for the firework display.
Johnny Too told his driver, Tony Boniface, to pull across the drive. Geraldine had the front door in full view through the Merc’s blacked-out back windows.
Johnny walked up the drive and rang the bell. As Golding answered the door, a waft of soothing midbrow classical music filled the air.
Golding studied the man before him suspiciously. He was well-dressed, but looked brutal. “Yes?” he said.
Johnny half-smiled. “What music is that?” he asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“What music are you playing? Who’s it by?”
“What the hell has that got to do with you? Who are you and why are you disturbing our supper? What the hell do you want?”
Johnny Too grabbed Golding’s tie and dragged him out of the front door, nutting him square in the face. Golding’s broken nose went East and West as the claret gushed.
Now Johnny was shouting. “I said what fucking music is that, you snivelling cunt?” Golding clutched his nose and shook like a shellshocked war casualty.
“It’s called ‘Montagues And Capulets’,” he stuttered. “It’s by Prokofiev. P-p-please don’t hurt me. Do you want money? Let me get my wallet. Just d-d-don’t hurt me.”
By Johnny Baker standards, Golding wasn’t hurt. By the standards of reasonable men, he was battered to a pulp. When Johnny Too finally left him unconscious on the tarmac drive, a bloody mass of blubber, he looked like a whale that had been dropped 100 feet, face down on to jagged rocks.
Johnny Too smirked. “Fucking nice music, geezer,” he said. He strolled back towards the car. Geraldine saw him remove a hefty knuckle-duster from the fingers of his right hand. She felt strange. Half of her was horrified by the terrible violence she had just witnessed, but the other half was strangely excited, and just a little turned on. Confused she started to sob. Johnny opened the car door and his expression changed from psychopathic to concerned lover.
“Don’t cry, baby,” he whispered, holding her tight. “Don’t cry. He won’t ever hurt you again.”
“But my job,” she said.
“You just quit, darling. You work for me now. You are
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