Read Online The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) by Garry Bushell - Free Book Online
Authors: Garry Bushell
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whim Harry rang Directory Enquiries and got numbers for Metropolitan Police recruitment and Essex police. For no reason at all he rang Essex first and the forms were in the post. The summer of 1979 was a blur. He joined the police, married Dawn and got a flat in Braintree, all to a soundtrack of The Jam and Ian Dury. Harry was happy. Or at least he was until Dawn started playing away, and the great betrayal brought the whole house of cards crashing down around his ears. Thank fuck they hadn’t had kids. It was the lowest point in Harry’s life. He had briefly considered suicide but decided that, the way his luck was poxed, if he’d hanged himself the rope would have broken.
To escape the pain, Harry flung himself into his work. It was amazing how fast “Please come back, darling” turned into “Fuck her, the prat.” Harry learned how to use a washing machine and that funny metal thing that straightens out the creases of your trousers. He never did master the oven.
Harry Tyler stayed in uniform for six years. He was a natural thief-taker and made the inevitable transition into the CID and then the Essex wing of the Regional Crime Squad. He loved the fringe benefits of coppering back then, the hard drinking, the easy access to strippers and Toms. Harry amassed snouts the way Jim Davidson collected speeding fines. He moved easily in the criminal underworld, and had the innate ability to persuade the best lying thief to give an honest confession.
His bosses soon noted his gift of the gab. Harry’s patter was like a force of nature. Forget Parkinson, Harry Tyler could talk to anyone and get them to open up. It made him an obvious choice to go on an undercover officers’ course in Bristol. He learned quickly. At first Harry was second fiddle to the experienced players, acting as their pretend gophers, but within months he was pushing himself forward. He wanted to be the main man, the guy the faces would show their parcels to, and when he got the chance he performed with breathtaking self-assurance. The ritual was always the same. Target the bad guys, gain their confidence, see their parcel, and then send in his gang – more undercover men – to collect the goods. And, as Cilla would say, surprise surprise, one of them turned out to be a lousy, no-good cop. Harry would be long out of the frame by now, of course. He always distanced himself before the trade fell down, so he would retain his integrity and “honour” among the thieves, most of whom were soon doing deals with the feds, sacrificing other faces in exchange for lesser sentences.
By the time he met Kara Cooper, Harry Tyler was acknowledged to be one of a dozen key players in England who were regarded as the masters of their art. He was a consummate professional. A true thespian. Police colleagues called him “The Bushwhacker”.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE UNTOUCHABLES
J ohnny Too couldn’t remember the last time his cock had felt this sore. Five times he’d fucked it, six if you count the time he didn’t come. Geri was worth seeing again. Dirty bitch. John smiled. He tucked into a fry-up in Mario’s cafe in Covent Garden, sipped a cup of extra-strong espresso with four sugars and started reading that morning’s
Sun
from the back page. He’d see what John Saddler had to say about Tottenham getting hammered 4-1 at home then bowl over to Mr Eddie’s in Dean Street and get measured up for a new whistle. Sweet.
Gary Shaw felt good. For the first time in years he was actually excited about the job, despite, perhaps even because of the hurdles he had to negotiate. Shaw knew the Bakers were flagged targets of just about every big squad in London and the national boys as well. Hitting their drinker was problematic for a number of reasons, the main one being getting permission from the major players. They were supposed to be watching the Bakers round the clock, waiting for them to go “hands on” the big parcel. Hands on, bollocks. Shaw knew
To escape the pain, Harry flung himself into his work. It was amazing how fast “Please come back, darling” turned into “Fuck her, the prat.” Harry learned how to use a washing machine and that funny metal thing that straightens out the creases of your trousers. He never did master the oven.
Harry Tyler stayed in uniform for six years. He was a natural thief-taker and made the inevitable transition into the CID and then the Essex wing of the Regional Crime Squad. He loved the fringe benefits of coppering back then, the hard drinking, the easy access to strippers and Toms. Harry amassed snouts the way Jim Davidson collected speeding fines. He moved easily in the criminal underworld, and had the innate ability to persuade the best lying thief to give an honest confession.
His bosses soon noted his gift of the gab. Harry’s patter was like a force of nature. Forget Parkinson, Harry Tyler could talk to anyone and get them to open up. It made him an obvious choice to go on an undercover officers’ course in Bristol. He learned quickly. At first Harry was second fiddle to the experienced players, acting as their pretend gophers, but within months he was pushing himself forward. He wanted to be the main man, the guy the faces would show their parcels to, and when he got the chance he performed with breathtaking self-assurance. The ritual was always the same. Target the bad guys, gain their confidence, see their parcel, and then send in his gang – more undercover men – to collect the goods. And, as Cilla would say, surprise surprise, one of them turned out to be a lousy, no-good cop. Harry would be long out of the frame by now, of course. He always distanced himself before the trade fell down, so he would retain his integrity and “honour” among the thieves, most of whom were soon doing deals with the feds, sacrificing other faces in exchange for lesser sentences.
By the time he met Kara Cooper, Harry Tyler was acknowledged to be one of a dozen key players in England who were regarded as the masters of their art. He was a consummate professional. A true thespian. Police colleagues called him “The Bushwhacker”.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE UNTOUCHABLES
J ohnny Too couldn’t remember the last time his cock had felt this sore. Five times he’d fucked it, six if you count the time he didn’t come. Geri was worth seeing again. Dirty bitch. John smiled. He tucked into a fry-up in Mario’s cafe in Covent Garden, sipped a cup of extra-strong espresso with four sugars and started reading that morning’s
Sun
from the back page. He’d see what John Saddler had to say about Tottenham getting hammered 4-1 at home then bowl over to Mr Eddie’s in Dean Street and get measured up for a new whistle. Sweet.
Gary Shaw felt good. For the first time in years he was actually excited about the job, despite, perhaps even because of the hurdles he had to negotiate. Shaw knew the Bakers were flagged targets of just about every big squad in London and the national boys as well. Hitting their drinker was problematic for a number of reasons, the main one being getting permission from the major players. They were supposed to be watching the Bakers round the clock, waiting for them to go “hands on” the big parcel. Hands on, bollocks. Shaw knew
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