silently, tapes turned. Every snide note, every knocked-off computer and every ounce of stolen Tom was recorded while the back-up team “housed” every thief and made due note of the future exhibits. Each day brought Harry an inch closer to the Bakers.
Gary McCourt, a long-standing friend of Miller’s, had put several small amounts of counterfeit currency in Harry’s direction, and was now so confident of his contact that he, along with Miller, was even offering up small parcels of fake designer clothes and moody notes to punters in the Trojan.
Harry had to give them a pull. “Knock it on the head, lads,” he’d warned. “Christ! You’re treading on serious toes over here.”
Miller was contrite. “Sorry, H,” he’d said almost tearfully, although that might have been the gin. He’d shaken Harry’s hand and hugged him. “Here’s my ’and, here’s my heart,” he said. “It won’t happen again, mate. My life.”
That night Harry made contact with DI Suckling who told him that the Church – the Customs & Excise – had seized a substantial quantity of wines and spirits from a Brummie blade-runner . The lorry driver had been captured with 20-foot of tax-avoided booze, when his ticket said “office equipment”.
“This could be the bait you need to raise the stakes,” Suckling observed.
“Isn’t it just,” Harry replied. “This is too big for Miller and McCourt.”
“So approach Johnny Baker.”
“Not yet, Ryan. Let the mountain come to Mohammad. I’ll dangle the hooch under Slobberin’ Ron’s greedy schnozz.”
“You know what you’re doing.”
“Too right I do.”
It was late Thursday morning at the Ned Kelly, just ahead of the rush. Harry Tyler perched himself on a stool near where Lesley Gore was serving, and flashed her a smile. “When you’re ready, luv,” he said.
She smiled back. “Be right with you, handsome.”
Doreen the cleaner was just leaving. “’Ere,” she said. “Did you see that Big Bruvva last night?”
“I would rather poke me eye out with a lit fag,” Slobberin’ Ron sneered.
“No, it’s brilliant,” said Lesley. “They’ve gotta chuck that Nasty Nick out soon.”
“Why do you want him out?” asked Harry. “Cos he’s one devious shit,” Lesley replied. “But ain’t that why it’s good telly?” said Harry. “I mean, I’ve only caught it once or twice, and to be honest I couldn’t give a shit if I never saw it again. But if you throw out all the bastards and eccentrics what are you going to be left with? It’s a soap, and soaps need villains.”
“Yeah, I s’pose …”
“I like that Caroline,” said Doreen.
“No!” exclaimed Lesley.
“What old Medusa chops?” said Ron. “Leave it out, Dor.”
“I feel sorry for her,” Doreen said defensively. “She said she needed to be ’eld last night.”
Slobberin’ Ron laughed. “I’d hold her all right, under bath water for about three hours.”
“You’re a pig, Ron Sullivan,” said Doreen, walking out.
Harry grinned. “Pork scratching, Ron?”
Slobberin’ Ron furrowed his brow. “Wouldn’t that be cannibalism?”
The two men laughed.
“You’re wicked to her, Ron.”
“Never mind,” he replied. “Worse things happen at sea.”
Harry leaned over the bar and gripped Ron’s forearm. “Listen, Ron,” he said. “Can I have a quick word while it’s quiet?”
Lesley moved down the bar. “Fire away, son,” said Ron.
“You be interested in a case of Johnny Walker at three sovs a bottle?”
Ron looked at him blankly.
“Pukka Johnny Walker,” Harry went on. “The real deal, nothing snide … I can get me hands on plenty.”
“Whoa!” said Ron. “You’re knocking on an open door, H. How much you got?”
“Lorry-load.”
“Three quid a bottle? That’s a done deal, my son.”
“Nice one.”
“How soon can you deliver?”
“Three hours?”
“The money will be waiting. We’ll break one open to taste?”
“Goes without
Gary McCourt, a long-standing friend of Miller’s, had put several small amounts of counterfeit currency in Harry’s direction, and was now so confident of his contact that he, along with Miller, was even offering up small parcels of fake designer clothes and moody notes to punters in the Trojan.
Harry had to give them a pull. “Knock it on the head, lads,” he’d warned. “Christ! You’re treading on serious toes over here.”
Miller was contrite. “Sorry, H,” he’d said almost tearfully, although that might have been the gin. He’d shaken Harry’s hand and hugged him. “Here’s my ’and, here’s my heart,” he said. “It won’t happen again, mate. My life.”
That night Harry made contact with DI Suckling who told him that the Church – the Customs & Excise – had seized a substantial quantity of wines and spirits from a Brummie blade-runner . The lorry driver had been captured with 20-foot of tax-avoided booze, when his ticket said “office equipment”.
“This could be the bait you need to raise the stakes,” Suckling observed.
“Isn’t it just,” Harry replied. “This is too big for Miller and McCourt.”
“So approach Johnny Baker.”
“Not yet, Ryan. Let the mountain come to Mohammad. I’ll dangle the hooch under Slobberin’ Ron’s greedy schnozz.”
“You know what you’re doing.”
“Too right I do.”
It was late Thursday morning at the Ned Kelly, just ahead of the rush. Harry Tyler perched himself on a stool near where Lesley Gore was serving, and flashed her a smile. “When you’re ready, luv,” he said.
She smiled back. “Be right with you, handsome.”
Doreen the cleaner was just leaving. “’Ere,” she said. “Did you see that Big Bruvva last night?”
“I would rather poke me eye out with a lit fag,” Slobberin’ Ron sneered.
“No, it’s brilliant,” said Lesley. “They’ve gotta chuck that Nasty Nick out soon.”
“Why do you want him out?” asked Harry. “Cos he’s one devious shit,” Lesley replied. “But ain’t that why it’s good telly?” said Harry. “I mean, I’ve only caught it once or twice, and to be honest I couldn’t give a shit if I never saw it again. But if you throw out all the bastards and eccentrics what are you going to be left with? It’s a soap, and soaps need villains.”
“Yeah, I s’pose …”
“I like that Caroline,” said Doreen.
“No!” exclaimed Lesley.
“What old Medusa chops?” said Ron. “Leave it out, Dor.”
“I feel sorry for her,” Doreen said defensively. “She said she needed to be ’eld last night.”
Slobberin’ Ron laughed. “I’d hold her all right, under bath water for about three hours.”
“You’re a pig, Ron Sullivan,” said Doreen, walking out.
Harry grinned. “Pork scratching, Ron?”
Slobberin’ Ron furrowed his brow. “Wouldn’t that be cannibalism?”
The two men laughed.
“You’re wicked to her, Ron.”
“Never mind,” he replied. “Worse things happen at sea.”
Harry leaned over the bar and gripped Ron’s forearm. “Listen, Ron,” he said. “Can I have a quick word while it’s quiet?”
Lesley moved down the bar. “Fire away, son,” said Ron.
“You be interested in a case of Johnny Walker at three sovs a bottle?”
Ron looked at him blankly.
“Pukka Johnny Walker,” Harry went on. “The real deal, nothing snide … I can get me hands on plenty.”
“Whoa!” said Ron. “You’re knocking on an open door, H. How much you got?”
“Lorry-load.”
“Three quid a bottle? That’s a done deal, my son.”
“Nice one.”
“How soon can you deliver?”
“Three hours?”
“The money will be waiting. We’ll break one open to taste?”
“Goes without
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