officially Johnny Baker’s PA.”
“Oh, Johnny,” she said, kissing him. “I love you so much.”
Johnny Too smiled. Then looked down at his suit trousers and scowled. “Who told that cunt he could bleed on my strides?” he said.
He had Boniface drop them off at the Tower Hotel where Johnny helped Geraldine get over the trauma of the day by introducing her to the delights of sucking cocaine off his cock in between giving her one in as many positions as he could manage.
The following lunchtime, Harry Tyler stood alone in the surprisingly busy Ned Kelly while Peter Miller did the rounds of his mates. It was the first time he had brought Harry here and now Miller was making like a bumble bee, buzzing from flower to flower telling everyone about his new pal. Harry was trying to study Templegate, but kept getting distracted by the vision of peroxide perfection that was Lesley Gore, rushed off her feet and cursing Slobberin’ Ron for taking half an hour in the khazi. Harry rang Directory Enquiries, got the number for the Ned and rang it.
“Yeah, Ned Kelly,” a harassed Lesley answered.
“Can you hear me, luv?” said Harry.
“Just about, it’s chaos in ’ere. ’Oo is it?”
“One of your customers, turn left and I’m the one waving.”
“Why are you ringing?” said Lesley, turning.
“I was just worried I was in a no-service area …”
“You cheeky sod … what can I get you?”
“Aroused, I reckon, but I’ll settle for a Bud.”
Lesley hung up and took him a cold bottle from the back of the fridge.
“And one for you?”
“I’ll have a gin and slim with you, please, darling. Thanks.”
As soon as Harry took out a note, Peter Miller was by his side.
“And the usual for Pete, please.”
Lesley pulled him a pint of Murphy’s, gave Harry his change and was off serving on the other side of the bar, giving the handsome stranger a discreet glance. There was something about him she liked, the twinkle in his eye, the rough diamond patter, the whiff of decent after-shave.
Harry downed his Bud and told Miller he had to leave.
“But you’ve only just got ’ere,” Peter protested.
“Business calls, Pete. Deals to do over my side. Laters, mate.”
“Yeah, laters.”
As Harry left, Lesley Gore gave Peter a pull. “Who was that guy?” she asked.
“’Arry?” said Peter. “Don’t worry about him, lov. He’s as sound as a pound.”
“Yeah?” replied Lesley. “Nice arse, too.”
Harry Tyler drove his latest toy, an S-reg Golf, through the Rotherhithe tunnel, turning left towards Wapping. He pulled up at the first phone box and made his call.
“Hello, boss, it’s H.”
On the other end of the line Detective Chief Inspector Lenny Kent brusquely said, “About time,” then joked, “spent all the Commissioner’s money yet?”
“Only the bits that fold. Listen, guv, I’m in. I’ve just left Miller in the Ned doing my references for me. He told me he’ll be picking up the moody scores and tenners tomorrow.”
“Good work. The operational team want a meet tonight. I’ll get a DI to ring you in the next hour on your mobile. I want all deals on tape and as much smudged up as possible. Where are you now?”
“Limehouse.”
“Can you make your way over to Brentwood for the meet?”
“Yes, guv. I’ll be an hour, hour and a half.”
The meeting went ahead and the Bushwhacker was game on. From now on, all of his moves, all of his deals and all of his new chums would be filmed by DCI Susan Long’s team. DI Ryan Suckling would be his night and day contact and DCI Lenny Kent would sign the expenses. A new plague was about to descend on South East London, a plague called Justice. Only the righteous need have no fear.
Over the next seven days, with Peter Miller’s unwitting help, every lowlife in SE1 was doing business deals in Harry’s car, or in Harry’s box van, or in a bugged-up room (but never at Harry’s flat). Concealed cameras whirled
“Oh, Johnny,” she said, kissing him. “I love you so much.”
Johnny Too smiled. Then looked down at his suit trousers and scowled. “Who told that cunt he could bleed on my strides?” he said.
He had Boniface drop them off at the Tower Hotel where Johnny helped Geraldine get over the trauma of the day by introducing her to the delights of sucking cocaine off his cock in between giving her one in as many positions as he could manage.
The following lunchtime, Harry Tyler stood alone in the surprisingly busy Ned Kelly while Peter Miller did the rounds of his mates. It was the first time he had brought Harry here and now Miller was making like a bumble bee, buzzing from flower to flower telling everyone about his new pal. Harry was trying to study Templegate, but kept getting distracted by the vision of peroxide perfection that was Lesley Gore, rushed off her feet and cursing Slobberin’ Ron for taking half an hour in the khazi. Harry rang Directory Enquiries, got the number for the Ned and rang it.
“Yeah, Ned Kelly,” a harassed Lesley answered.
“Can you hear me, luv?” said Harry.
“Just about, it’s chaos in ’ere. ’Oo is it?”
“One of your customers, turn left and I’m the one waving.”
“Why are you ringing?” said Lesley, turning.
“I was just worried I was in a no-service area …”
“You cheeky sod … what can I get you?”
“Aroused, I reckon, but I’ll settle for a Bud.”
Lesley hung up and took him a cold bottle from the back of the fridge.
“And one for you?”
“I’ll have a gin and slim with you, please, darling. Thanks.”
As soon as Harry took out a note, Peter Miller was by his side.
“And the usual for Pete, please.”
Lesley pulled him a pint of Murphy’s, gave Harry his change and was off serving on the other side of the bar, giving the handsome stranger a discreet glance. There was something about him she liked, the twinkle in his eye, the rough diamond patter, the whiff of decent after-shave.
Harry downed his Bud and told Miller he had to leave.
“But you’ve only just got ’ere,” Peter protested.
“Business calls, Pete. Deals to do over my side. Laters, mate.”
“Yeah, laters.”
As Harry left, Lesley Gore gave Peter a pull. “Who was that guy?” she asked.
“’Arry?” said Peter. “Don’t worry about him, lov. He’s as sound as a pound.”
“Yeah?” replied Lesley. “Nice arse, too.”
Harry Tyler drove his latest toy, an S-reg Golf, through the Rotherhithe tunnel, turning left towards Wapping. He pulled up at the first phone box and made his call.
“Hello, boss, it’s H.”
On the other end of the line Detective Chief Inspector Lenny Kent brusquely said, “About time,” then joked, “spent all the Commissioner’s money yet?”
“Only the bits that fold. Listen, guv, I’m in. I’ve just left Miller in the Ned doing my references for me. He told me he’ll be picking up the moody scores and tenners tomorrow.”
“Good work. The operational team want a meet tonight. I’ll get a DI to ring you in the next hour on your mobile. I want all deals on tape and as much smudged up as possible. Where are you now?”
“Limehouse.”
“Can you make your way over to Brentwood for the meet?”
“Yes, guv. I’ll be an hour, hour and a half.”
The meeting went ahead and the Bushwhacker was game on. From now on, all of his moves, all of his deals and all of his new chums would be filmed by DCI Susan Long’s team. DI Ryan Suckling would be his night and day contact and DCI Lenny Kent would sign the expenses. A new plague was about to descend on South East London, a plague called Justice. Only the righteous need have no fear.
Over the next seven days, with Peter Miller’s unwitting help, every lowlife in SE1 was doing business deals in Harry’s car, or in Harry’s box van, or in a bugged-up room (but never at Harry’s flat). Concealed cameras whirled
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