Two Faced (Harry Tyler Book 2) (9 page)

The following day, just after noon, Harry rang Keith’s mobile number. It was answered on the third ring.

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s Harry. I’ve read the book. Can I drop it off to you?’

‘Call me from a call box on this number in five minutes.’

It was a Fleetwood number. Harry was already near a payphone. He waited and called.

‘Hello.’

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s Harry. I’ve got that book for you. Where and when?’

‘Eight pm by the laughing jester at the entrance to Blackpool Pleasure Beach.’

‘I’ve got half extra for the smaller of the two items if that’s possible.’

Keith went quiet for a few seconds. ‘Say again?’

‘I need five hundred more of the smaller ones.’

‘Oh, you mean the tenners. Why didn’t you say so?’

‘’Cos we’re on the phone.’

‘That’s why we use call boxes, you barmy twat.’

‘Remind me to get the details of that charm school you’re at, mate, they’ve done a fucking blinding job on you.’

Harry paused. There was an odd wheezing sound at the other end of the line. It was Ruddle laughing. Result.

‘OK, me old flower,’ Keith said. ‘I’ll see you at eight.’

Both handsets went down. The difference was that there was a mini recorder taped to the mouthpiece and earpiece of the phone in Harry’s one. He rang Kumble, passing over the call box number and details of the meeting place. The Pleasure Beach. That was nice and open. Plenty of opportunity for surveillance. Harry paused. This could be a tough one. Ruddle played his cards close to his chest and didn’t fully trust him. He’d need maximum charm to keep on board. Still, he thought, get the job done and there might be time to play. He’d pulled a barmaid called Amma from Blackpool in Tenerife once and he’d Amma-d in the morning and Amma-d in the evening all over the land. Harry grinned and held the thought as he drove back to Rugby police station to get wired up by the tech guys.

Kumble was there to greet him in the surgery room. He was beaming. ‘Harry, the call box Ruddle used to ring you comes back to a box in Carr Road, Fleetwood. What’s more, the “BT engineer” we sent in to have a look at it says five houses along is a streetlight, and guess what he saw next to it?’

‘The curtains I described?’

‘No, a man washing a car, the same man he photographed meeting you outside the museum. The car is registered to a Keith William Ruddle at the address where the car is, and who is on the voters’ register at that address?’

‘K.W. Ruddle?’

‘No – that’d be too easy, but it’s a start.’

‘Fuck me, guv, you’re displaying a sense of humour. You’d better watch that.’

‘But the house did have the type of front room curtains and vase that you described.’

‘Bingo.’

‘Precisely. By the way, Harry, your wife has been leaving messages for you. She seems desperate for you to get in touch.’

‘It’ll keep, guv. Believe me.’

Harry swiftly buried all thoughts of Kara. He was elated. The job was still on the tracks.

That evening at 7.10pm, Harry checked in to the Queen’s Hotel on Blackpool’s South Prom, a seven-minute walk from the Pleasure Beach. He showered, took one whisky livener in the bar and sauntered down to the amusement park. There was something about the English seaside that cheered him up, even now. The candy-floss, the squealing kids, the competing aromas of frying onions and freshly cooked doughnuts. This was as magical as trash could ever be. To his right was the beach and the South Pier, to his left the lines of hotels and B&Bs with names like Camelot and Avalon that promised more than they could ever deliver. Above him on the lampposts were giant heads of old
Coronation Street
favourites: Stanley Ogden, Elsie Tanner. He swerved a pair of swarthy-looking herberts who were imploring punters to have pictures taken with their snake, and crossed a small miniature golf course to get to the Pleasure Beach. The laughing jester was just around the corner. It was 7.53pm, so he grabbed a bag of chips and waited. By 8pm he’d had a gut-full of the jester’s insane cackling. The infernal puppet sounded like a seagull being barbecued alive. By ten past eight he would cheerfully have pumped a slug into it. ‘Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha …’ The deranged incubus wouldn’t shut up; and Ruddle hadn’t showed up. Where was he? Eight-fifteen: nothing. Eight-thirty: nothing. Eight-forty-five: nothing. Now Harry started to sweat. Had Ruddle rumbled him? Perhaps asking for more had triggered alarm bells. They might be plotted up now, watching him, checking to see he was alone or how he reacted. If he waited too long he’d look desperate. But if he walked away he might blow the whole deal. He looked at his watch and decided on a 9pm cut-off point.

One minute before nine he heard someone approaching at speed behind him. It was Keith Ruddle, red-faced and panting, his few wisps of hair stuck to his bald pate with sweat, the usual heavy residue of dandruff on his collar.

‘Sorry, Harry,’ he gasped. ‘We had business over in Manchester and it stunk. We thought the rozzers were on it’ – Harry inwardly guffawed at the quaint expression – ‘so we pulled off and, well, you know, something just wasn’t right, so we went back and they were all over it. It was a fucking set-up.’

Harry started twitching. ‘You ain’t got any in tow with ya now, have ya, the Filth?’

‘No, one hundred per cent not, pal. That’s why we’re late. Better safe than sorry.’

‘Look, if it’s on you we can do this another day.’

‘No, no, not a problem. Where are you parked?’

‘The Queens, down the road next to the Viking.’

‘OK, we’ll be outside in ten in a green Sierra; I’ll get in with you and we’ll go and collect the other bit.’

When Keith got in Harry’s passenger door he instructed him to turn right out of the car park and follow the Sierra towards Fleetwood.

‘You ain’t got any headache tablets, have ya?’ Harry groaned. ‘That fucking jester has done my head in.’

‘You should have popped in and watched Vladimir while you were waiting.’

‘Who?’

‘Vladimir, the bloke on the rope. Great act. It’s like the circus but upmarket; aerial ballet, they call it.’

‘Not my cuppa tea, mate.’

‘Cuppa tay,’ mimicked Keith. He paused. ‘You know, I tried that pie-and-mash stuff once,’ he said finally. ‘And what’s that green stuff you put on it?’

‘Liquor.’

‘Tasteless, not a patch on a proper Northern meat pudding.’

Harry shrugged. ‘I’m a curry man meself.’

‘What do you make of Blackpool then?’ Keith asked, almost pleasantly.

‘I like it. It’s like Southend on steroids. I don’t like the animal cruelty, though.’

‘What animal cruelty?’

‘The donkeys.’

‘Donkeys?’

‘Yeah. Look at the way you treat ’em up here, you stick ’em on the beach in ninety-degree heat for eighteen hours a day with only salt water to drink, then stick a procession of fat kids on top of them dribbling Cornettos over their back. Where’s the dignity in that?’

Keith Ruddle actually smiled. ‘You know what they give the donkeys on the beach for dinner up here?’

‘No.’

‘Half a ruddy hour.’

Harry laughed. They had stopped at the lights near the North Pier and he realised that Keith was studying him intently.

‘You say you want fifteen hundred in tenners?’ he said, serious again.

‘Yeah, if that’s OK. I’ve got the dough in the boot.’

‘That’s the problem. We couldn’t get hold of Darren to check if the cops were setting us up. I told Ray we shouldn’t do business until Dazza is back clearing the way. You heard from him?’

‘Nah. Don’t like to intrude on a man’s grief. They were a close family.’

‘Life sucks, friend. That’s why you’ve got to squeeze every drop out of it.’

‘Put it there, a man after me own heart.’

They shook. Ruddle looked thoughtful.

‘That’s one greedy mother,’ he said.

‘Who, Dal?’

‘No, not Dazza – his guv’nor. Greeno. What a greedy, grasping bastard that is. Flipping nasty slag too. He wanted twice as much as Darren to sort things for us.’

Harry nodded but his heart sank. Another bent cop! This made no sense. If there was a second bent Old Bill why hadn’t he tipped Keith off about Darren Blackman? And the name, Greeno – please, God, don’t let it be Barry Green.

‘What, Bazza?’ he said tightly.

‘Yeah, but fuck him,’ Ruddle went on. ‘After we weighed him on the last couple of grand we drained his number and slung the pre-pay mobile so he couldn’t get hold of us again. Greedy cunt. On Judgement Day, friend, God will spew old Bazza out of his mouth and vomit him through the gates of Hell.’ Without a pause, Ruddle changed the subject. ‘Tell me, Harry, do you like variety shows? I’m a personal friend of the great Joe Longthorne and it would be my pleasure to get you in to his show if you’re still up here tomorrow.’

‘If I’m still up here I’ll take you up on it,’ Harry said. ‘Unless Green Day are playing the Opera House.’

‘What are they, some fucking punk shit?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I’d rather hear Darren Day. Listen, there’s a fella you ought to see, a chirper called Patrick Anthony, he’s on in the showbar of the Queen’s where you’re staying. See him, Harry, and you’ll forget all that punk junk. He’s proper class, a bit of Bassey, a bit of Tony Christie, magic.’

‘I’ll give him a whirl.’

Five minutes later, the Sierra turned into familiar territory. Carr Road.

‘Weren’t we here last time?’ Harry asked.

‘Yeah, the top end of the road. Pull up here.’

The Sierra carried on going and circled the block before pulling in behind Harry and parking. A large man approached the passenger side and tapped on the window with a car key. Ruddle gave him a thumbs-up and he returned to the Sierra.

‘OK, let’s roll,’ Keith said. ‘You need to get your stuff from the boot?’

‘Yeah.’

Harry took his bugged moneybag from the boot and followed Ruddle. They walked straight up, avoiding the alleyway they had turned up before. Ahead Harry noticed the familiar streetlight and call box.

‘I’m confused,’ he said.

‘What, me walking you round a few detours to get to my address? I thought you’d appreciate the tour of beautiful downtown Fleetwood.’

‘You crafty git.’

Keith turned into the front garden of his house and opened the door. ‘Come on, H.’ he said. The big lump remained in the Sierra. Harry followed Keith into the house. He pushed the front door to behind him, but deliberately didn’t shut it. Keith was already in the living room. Harry handed him the bag of real money.

‘That’s for what I’ve had and the other bit, thanks.’

Keith stooped down and pulled a heavy hold-all out from behind the sofa. He placed it on a cushion and unzipped it.

‘Oops, wrong one, that’s the twenties.’

He replaced it behind the sofa and lifted out another, this one stuffed full of new counterfeit £10 notes. He began counting out the new order.

‘Don’t mix them up with the real ones.’ Harry laughed.

‘You’d have a job telling them apart, son.’

Harry scooped up a wad of notes and started holding them up to the light, admiring the craftsmanship. There was a sudden commotion outside. Men were shouting and screaming in the street. Terror flashed over Keith’s face. He jumped up and darted to the front window. As he did so, the front door burst open and a dozen uniform cops and plain-clothes detectives rushed in, hollering at the top of their voices. Some rushed up the stairs yelling ‘Police! Police!’ Other cops bomb-burst into the living room, crashing into Ruddle and Harry, ramming them both straight onto the floor.

Harry Tyler was handcuffed and left lying face down on the carpet. To his right, little Keith, who was also flat on his face and cuffed, took a boot in the guts from a detective who shouted, ‘You fucking piece of shit!’ He was pushed out of the room by other officers. DI Kumble came in as he went out. He looked into the open bag of counterfeit notes, just as a uniformed cop found the second hold-all behind the sofa. Kumble opened it and examined a wad of notes.

‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Twenties, and very nice ones too. You two gentlemen are in a lot of trouble.’

‘It’s fuck all to do with me,’ Ruddle shouted indignantly. ‘I’m looking after them for some bent Old Bill. I want to talk to your guv’nor. I’ve got all the names and all the numbers. You’ve just opened yourself up a can of shit, cocker.’

Kumble squatted down next to him. ‘Yes, my friend,’ Kumble said evenly. ‘I’m sure we’re going to have a nice long chat.’ He brushed some dandruff off his collar.

Harry turned his head away.

‘There’s two of the bent bastards,’ Ruddle spat angrily. ‘Both out of the West Midlands. It’s nothing to do with us. This is a fucking fit-up.’

Kumble ignored him and stood up, barking orders to the officers: ‘Get that one out first, take him to Lytham. This one and the one outside can go to Blackpool.’

It was a done deal. Harry completed his evidence, had a debrief, and drove back to Blackpool with every intention of checking out of the Queen’s and heading south for home. But certain things conspired to delay him: there was the mess he would be going back to indoors, of course, but what bothered him more was the possibility that Barry Green was bent, which meant that this whole operation stank, and Darren Blackman’s suicide stank more. He pulled up and parked round the back of the Imperial Hotel at the north end of town and wandered down the backstreets to find somewhere he could drink to his old pal’s memory.

The bar had a giant of a bouncer on the door but inside it was nothing special. Dark and dingy. Harry walked down some stairs to reach it, through a small deserted dance floor. There were two men at the bar talking intently. Harry’s sixth sense told him they were traders. One was about six-foot-two and had the bearing of an ex-squaddie. The other was shorter but stockier. Harry ordered four double Scotches ‘on the rocks and teased gently with ginger’ from the sullen barman. He put his hand in his pocket and realised he still had the wad of snide notes on him. He must have stuffed it there during the raid. Ordinarily Harry would have handed them in the next day, but he found himself paying cheerful Charlie with one of the Sextons. It didn’t seem to matter much any more. Harry took his drinks to a table in the far corner and proceeded to sip them as he mulled over the day’s mind-fucking events. Barry Green. There could be other Barry Greens in the force, of course, but how many Barrys were also known as Bazza and could be linked in to Darren? And if his own boss was rotten, how far up did the corruption go? He should have mentioned it to Kumble but decided to front his guv’nor himself as soon as. None of this made any sense. Harry was on the fourth Scotch when two women sauntered up, pouting and preening, and asked if they could join him. They were in their early thirties, one blonde, one brunette. The women were heavily made-up but attractive. Harry motioned for them to sit.