Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) (17 page)

T
hree weeks earlier.

Buck Nelson was mellowing with age, everybody said so. He was even showing compassion. Why, when a plumber had overcharged his wife a few weeks before, Buck only broke the fingers on one of his hands. Word was spreading that the tough old bastard was going soft. Only the family knew the change in Buck was down to him being diagnosed with terminal cancer, which had spread unchecked from his bowel to his lungs and liver until it was ‘all over the shop like fuckin’ head lice on a dosser’. It’s amazing how the imminence of death can concentrate a man’s mind. Now Buck’s boys were all out of jail the only thing he really cared about was reuniting them as a family, which meant getting the rest of his sons to forgive the black sheep, Bernard. It wasn’t going to be easy, but Buck always had been a fighter. It didn’t help that he had no point of contact with his former blue-eyed boy. Buck had heard reports that Bernard had been out in public in Purfleet, Essex, with a Doris, but that was over a year ago now. There had been no reliable sightings since.

As it happened, word had filtered through to Bernard Nelson that Nicky, his last incarcerated brother, had just come out of the boob, so he knew it was just a matter of time until the metaphorical sniffer dogs were on his tail. His picture would be circulated to every pub, club and CIU where hard men, plastic gangsters, wannabe faces and the marginally criminal mingled. He wouldn’t be able to set foot out of the house without fear that someone would grass him up to the family.

The timing wasn’t ideal. Since he’d arrived back from Spain things had been looking up for Bernard Nelson. His shady deals had been reasonably successful. He had set up a partnership with a builder from Rainham called Ian Anderson and invested the profits in a building project in Bulgaria. The Black Sea was expected to become the next Costa del Sol, everyone said it. Migration to Spain from the UK and Germany had sent Spanish property prices booming. People were looking around for somewhere else to retire. Where better than Bulgaria? It was hot, cheap – you could get a hooker for the night for under £10, as Bernard gratefully discovered – and it would be part of the EU by 2005. Stability guaranteed. Nelson and Anderson had started with a small development at Sandy Beach. The profit margin on a three-bedroom home, costing just £45,000, meant that they could finance huge developments in the near future. Bernard could make his fortune all over again, and pay back a fair chunk of what he owed his brothers. It was sweet. It just hadn’t been sweet enough yet to buy himself out of danger.

And so Bernard had made the potentially suicidal decision to get back in touch with his old man. Not directly, you understand. That would have been too risky. No, Bernie had used a third party, his old brother-in-law Ross Soloman, son of Buck’s long-time associate Jack ‘Solly’ Soloman. At first Buck had boiled up like an old kettle at the thought of a meeting, but given thinking time he allowed himself to realise that nothing would please him more than to usher Bernard back into the fold and bring peace to his warring family. He had already lost one son, Richard. He really didn’t want to lay another in the family plot before he left to meet his maker himself.

Father and son enjoyed an emotional reunion ‘off the manor’ – in the back room of the London & Brighton pub in Queen’s Road, Peckham, South London. They weren’t alone. Buck had brought along the family solicitor, Louis ‘Little Legs’ Ostrowski, often known as ‘Lou Pole’ on account both of his Polish extraction and also his unparalleled gift of exploiting gaps in the law to obtain acquittals for major charges. The Bulgarian project excited both of them, but Buck was the more sceptical.

‘OK, so you turn the Black Sea into the new Med,’ he said over a Navy rum. ‘What heat are you going to get from the local firms? They must be putting a squeeze on for a nice few quid.’

‘You don’t understand, Dad,’ said Bernard. ‘It’s not like that. They’re a third-world nation just begging for investment. All of the builders are East Europeans on about two Euros an hour and grateful to be earning that. The profit margin is unbelievable. There are no gangs putting the squeeze on.’

‘You’ve always been fucking naïve,’ Buck spat. ‘There’s always a firm on the make.’

‘I’m not saying we haven’t put black money down, Dad. Of course we have, it’s the way the world turns. But these are all white-collar people, land owners, solicitors, suppliers. Honestly. There is no shit from the local Mafiosi. It hasn’t happened. They’re just desperate for the work and the investment. After all those years of austerity and Stalinism, all they want is to be Westernised.’

‘I hear this is true,’ Louis interjected. ‘A fellow in our lodge, Barrie Taylor, he just came back raving about the place. He said you could stand a round in a crowded pub and get change out of a fiver, which I have to tell you impressed him almost as much as the fact that they retire their hookers at twenty-one.’

‘It’s true,’ affirmed Bernard. ‘And you can get one for eight quid a night’ – he didn’t mention the two 16-year-old sisters he’d enjoyed for 24 hours; real stunners and it had only set him back a hundred notes.

‘We have white flight from this country, that’s a fact. People want somewhere to go that is hot, peaceful and a world away from our shitty inner cities. That’s what this place is like, Dad, it’s bang in between Sunny Beach and Vlas. There’s a nudist beach down one end, a decent hotel, The Palas, if you want that sort of place. And the thing is, unlike Costa Blanca and Northern Cyprus, there are very few British investors doing what Ian and me are doing. This is virgin territory, Dad. It’s a gold mine.’

His enthusiasm was infectious. Buck stroked his chin. ‘I’ll talk to the boys about it. They’re not going to be happy, mind, they ain’t never forgiven you for letting Richard die inside for nothing, not that it would have been any different outside, the way ’is heart was.’

‘Dad, I’ve explained the shit I was in back then. I went for broke. If it had come off we would all have been holding, but it didn’t and I lost a packet, but I will make it all back with time. You know I will.’

‘OK, what return can they expect on what you owe them?’

‘If they give me eighteen months, two years max, I reckon I will have enough to pay them back what they asked me to look after.’

Buck’s face showed no emotion. ‘What profit can they expect?’

‘If they reinvest what I pay them, I would say in five years they’ll treble their money at least.’

Buck held out his hand. Bernard shook it gratefully.

‘I’ll do my best for you, boy,’ he said.

Louis smiled. ‘Bernie, my boy, I might have some of that action myself.’

‘He wants a go on them Bulgarian drippers,’ Buck roared. ‘And knowing Louis he won’t even expect them to shave off their moustaches.’

‘Oi,’ said Louis. ‘As long as they’ve got a cunt and a heartbeat I’m not fussy. To be honest, even the heartbeat I could live without.’

When the laughter died down, Buck turned to Bernard with a concerned look.

‘Where are you living now, son?’ he asked.

Bernard, who was holed up in Beckton, East London, with an actress called Helena Keaton from the Channel 5 soap
Family Affairs
, replied, ‘Over Tott’n’am way, Dad. Here, take my mobile number and let’s see how it goes.’

They stayed behind for afters, finally leaving the pub a little after 3.30am. Louis chauffeured Buck away in a sleek silver Mercedes, registration L1L LEGS. Bernard walked around the block slowly to make sure he had no tail before climbing in to his 3 series BMW. He hadn’t driven more than a quarter of a mile down the road when the marked police car behind him rolled its blue light. Bernard pulled in and sat tight. He had been knocking back Virgin Marys for most of the night so he had no problem with drinking and driving.

‘Step out of the car please, sir,’ said the young uniformed constable.

‘Yes, officer.’

The policeman smiled. ‘I’m sorry to stop you but we’re getting a few of these nicked in Peckham and New Cross. Is it yours?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘The car is registered to a company with a post box address; can you tell me which company it is registered to?’

Bernard nodded. ‘Yes, Neland Overseas Development, Ltd. The address is in Basingstoke.’

‘Would you mind if I look in the boot and inside the vehicle?’

‘No, officer. I’ve nothing to hide.’

The copper carried out a cursory search.

‘Thanks very much, sir. It’s a nice change to deal with someone so polite on this god-forsaken manor. Have you got your driving licence?’

Bernard reached inside his jacket. ‘Oh bugger, no, I’m afraid I haven’t. It’s in my other wallet.’

‘I’m going to give you a form to provide your documents at your local nick then, can you give me your full name and address.’

‘Certainly,’ said Bernard. ‘It’s Bernard Tindall, 25 Fullarton Crescent, South Ockendon, Essex. The postcode is RM15 … nope, sorry, I can never remember the rest.’

‘That’s fine, sir. Thank you very much. Drive home carefully.’

Bernard thanked him and got back into his car, allowing himself an inner chuckle as he drove off towards the Blackwall Tunnel and his Beckton hideaway.

As soon as he was out of sight, the copper got out his mobile and punched in a number.

‘Hello, Mr Nelson, it’s Colin,’ he said.

‘How are we doing, Col?’ Buck replied.

‘Yes, I have that address. Do you want to meet me now or later.’

‘No, call it out over the dog, Col. I’ll be sending you a nice little present tomorrow.’

The next morning, Buck called a family meeting in the indoor swimming pool of his mansion in Hadleigh Wood. His paranoia fuelled by
The Sopranos
, he always expected to be bugged at home by the Old Bill and the pool seemed the least likely place. Nicky and Charles thought he was nuts – Buck had been so long out of serious hands-on villainy it seemed beyond belief that their dad would even expect to be worthy of the top squad’s attention. Their drums, yeah. But why here?

At 11am they filed in as requested: Nick, Charles, David and Georgie; all wondering what the fuck could be important enough to drag them out of their pits so early. When Buck told them, the news hit them like a kick in the nuts.

‘Where is the little prick?’ Nicky exploded. ‘I’ll get the Browning now and blow his fucking fat head off his shoulders.’

‘C’mon, Dad, where is the slag?’ erupted Charles.

Buck held his right hand up. ‘Woah. Your brother just wants to come home and make the peace …’

‘I bet he does,’ said Georgie through gritted teeth. ‘Have you forgotten what he did? How Richard died in the slammer while that two-bob cunt was out spending our money, getting Charlied up and sticking his dick up some whore’s fat arse?’

‘The slippery git needs topping, Dad,’ said Charles. ‘He’s a wrong ’un.’

Buck looked to David for some show of support. David shook his head. ‘Run over the offer again, Dad.’

‘Why fucking bother?’ fumed Nicky.

‘Because Dad wants us to listen.’

Patiently Buck explained the whole Bulgaria deal.

‘So,’ said David calmly. ‘He’s offering us a chance to get our wedge back, so we can invest it with him again and then maybe after five years we’ll be in clover … what Jackanory story did this come out of? He must be off his head.’

‘He’d only knock us again,’ said Charles with conviction.

‘So it’s a non-starter then?’ said Buck, disappointedly.

‘Where’s he living?’ asked Nick.

‘Don’t have a clue, son. Got a mobile number.’ Buck hesitated. None of his sons had picked up on the lie. He was too good at it. He decided to play the old man Steptoe card. ‘Y’see, boys, I know you hate him and I can understand why. But he’s your brother and I’m not long for this world. It’s almost like my last wish that my lads can be reunited as a family again. I’ve already lost one son. I don’t wanna bury another. Can you do it? Can you put the past behind you, for my sake?’

He studied their faces. David was wavering. Charles and Georgie exchanged looks. It all hinged on Nicky. Buck didn’t have to wait long.

‘I can’t forgive him, old man,’ Nicky spat.

‘Me neither,’ said Charles.

‘Nor me,’ spat Georgie.

‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ said David.

‘So what do I do?’ asked Buck.

‘You arrange a meeting,’ said Nicky. ‘Tell the slag we’re ready to forgive and forget. Tell him we want to discuss terms, how much extra it’s going to cost him. He’s always been a greedy cunt. He’ll believe we’re motivated by money, same as he is. Let’s see if he’s got the balls to show.’

Buck shook his head. ‘You think I’m going to put his balls on the chopping block for yer?’

‘Nothing is gonna happen, Dad,’ Nicky said evenly. ‘I just wanna see the little worm squirm. Tell him to his face what a piece of shit I think he is. He can make arrangements to weigh us in then, without this Bulgaria bollocks.’

‘But I think the Black Sea is going to happen, so does Little Legs. This is the big one.’

‘Not with my money, it ain’t,’ said Charles.

‘Dad, even if it was a smart investment we wouldn’t play ball with Bernard,’ said David wearily. ‘But it’s not even that smart. You know full well where the real money is nowadays. It ain’t drugs no more. It’s identity theft. All them greedy, grasping illegal immigrants pouring in wanting IDs – fake gas and electric bills, driving licences, birth certificates …’

Georgie laughed. ‘All so the dirty ponces can claim their bit of benefits from the British state, a nice bit of dole money, free medical care, and on the rarest of occasions a FUCKIN’ job … all at the expense of those honest, ’ard-working citizens, Mr Muggins – Joe Public.’

‘What do you care about hard-working citizens?’ Buck half smiled. ‘The only jobs you’ve ever done were bank jobs.’

‘This country is finished, Dad’ said Nicky.

‘Ain’t that the truth,’ agreed Charles.

‘All the more reason to expand abroad,’ argued Buck. ‘Talk to your brother. Will you? For me.’ He was almost begging.