Read Online The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) by Garry Bushell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Garry Bushell
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Johnny was too smart ever to go up front for any serious dealing. They had plenty of soldiers for that. Problem two was could the local uniform be told in advance what was about to happen? How many owed it to their snouts to tip ’em the wink and keep ’em out of the Ned on the day?
Shaw went to his boss the first thing Monday morning. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Detective Chief Inspector Gordon Hitchcock was a nice enough bloke, it was just that … well, he was end-of-century man personified. Hitchcock was one of that breed who had done so well under Major and Blair. He didn’t believe in anything except management, order, and personal advancement, which meant toeing the PC line at all times, no matter how illogical or insane it might be. All his service, Hitchcock had been a good, honest uniform man, but not a crime fighter. Becoming a DO had been a career move. He didn’t want to be a detective but, like most modern policemen of rank, Hitchcock had viewed the move as a springboard to the Superintendent job he could ride out to retirement time. His experience of prosecuting publicans didn’t stretch beyond catching a landlord serving a couple of regulars ten minutes after last shout. Much easier to roast Albert and Mary for provoking the police by being up past their bedtime than to take on a pub that Tony Soprano would have thought twice about frequenting.
To his credit, Hitchcock knew about the Ned, and the grief that the Baker firm had been giving the police for years. Now was the time not so much for revenge, he said, as justice. Shaw listened open-mouthed as that word tripped off the DCI’s lips. He could almost hear the fanfare of trumpets and the heavenly chorus burst into song.
“Yes, sir,” Shaw said. He couldn’t bring himself to say “Yes,
guv’nor
” cos guv’nor was a term reserved for
real
CID men who warranted respect.
“Let’s get hold of the Licensing Inspector and the late-turn relief Inspector for Friday,” Hitchcock said in an Estuary drawl that positively screamed
Guardian
reader. “We can have a scrum down on Friday on how we’re going to do it.”
That was it. Gary Shaw’s interest evaporated as each familiar catchphrase came into play. “Hit the ground running … community consultation … operational co-ordination …” it just went on and on. The pub raid Shaw had envisaged to put away the worst gang of hardcore villains in London was turning into a promotional springboard before his very eyes.
“And you, DS Shaw,” Hitchcock was saying, “you organise the interview teams for the prisoners. Remind me, we must have an outer cordon to deal with drink-drivers who might try to flee the scene.”
Gary Shaw closed his eyes to keep his composure. Beam me up, Scotty, he thought.
Where better to celebrate your 21st birthday with all your mates and family than the Ned Kelly public house, Powder Mill Road, Rotherhithe, London, SE16? Cheap beer, plenty of puff and Charlie, loads of silly slappers ready to drop everything if you powdered their noses … all that and you’re just the lob of a brick away from the New Den, too. They even had a DJ in, Lucy Loud, to crank up the drum and bass till your eye-balls bulged out of their sockets and your chest physically vibrated. “It’s Friday night!” she hollered. “And we are game on!”
Johnny Too was renowned for his generosity. Easy to be when you’re spending other people’s money.
“Johnny, you old bastard,” said Trevor Richards as he ploughed through the throng. “Why you looking so happy? You diddled the VAT man again?”
“No, Unc,” Johnny Too smiled. “Me inflatable girlfriend finally said yes.”
He gave his uncle a cuddle. He was a lovely man –
diamond
! Trev had stood his ground when Millwall played West Ham, Arsenal, Spurs and the shitters from Chelsea, too. Johnny, Joe and Trev had been at Stamford Bridge the night Fashanu dumped Chelsea out of the FA Cup on their own turf. When it all
Shaw went to his boss the first thing Monday morning. He wasn’t looking forward to it. Detective Chief Inspector Gordon Hitchcock was a nice enough bloke, it was just that … well, he was end-of-century man personified. Hitchcock was one of that breed who had done so well under Major and Blair. He didn’t believe in anything except management, order, and personal advancement, which meant toeing the PC line at all times, no matter how illogical or insane it might be. All his service, Hitchcock had been a good, honest uniform man, but not a crime fighter. Becoming a DO had been a career move. He didn’t want to be a detective but, like most modern policemen of rank, Hitchcock had viewed the move as a springboard to the Superintendent job he could ride out to retirement time. His experience of prosecuting publicans didn’t stretch beyond catching a landlord serving a couple of regulars ten minutes after last shout. Much easier to roast Albert and Mary for provoking the police by being up past their bedtime than to take on a pub that Tony Soprano would have thought twice about frequenting.
To his credit, Hitchcock knew about the Ned, and the grief that the Baker firm had been giving the police for years. Now was the time not so much for revenge, he said, as justice. Shaw listened open-mouthed as that word tripped off the DCI’s lips. He could almost hear the fanfare of trumpets and the heavenly chorus burst into song.
“Yes, sir,” Shaw said. He couldn’t bring himself to say “Yes,
guv’nor
” cos guv’nor was a term reserved for
real
CID men who warranted respect.
“Let’s get hold of the Licensing Inspector and the late-turn relief Inspector for Friday,” Hitchcock said in an Estuary drawl that positively screamed
Guardian
reader. “We can have a scrum down on Friday on how we’re going to do it.”
That was it. Gary Shaw’s interest evaporated as each familiar catchphrase came into play. “Hit the ground running … community consultation … operational co-ordination …” it just went on and on. The pub raid Shaw had envisaged to put away the worst gang of hardcore villains in London was turning into a promotional springboard before his very eyes.
“And you, DS Shaw,” Hitchcock was saying, “you organise the interview teams for the prisoners. Remind me, we must have an outer cordon to deal with drink-drivers who might try to flee the scene.”
Gary Shaw closed his eyes to keep his composure. Beam me up, Scotty, he thought.
Where better to celebrate your 21st birthday with all your mates and family than the Ned Kelly public house, Powder Mill Road, Rotherhithe, London, SE16? Cheap beer, plenty of puff and Charlie, loads of silly slappers ready to drop everything if you powdered their noses … all that and you’re just the lob of a brick away from the New Den, too. They even had a DJ in, Lucy Loud, to crank up the drum and bass till your eye-balls bulged out of their sockets and your chest physically vibrated. “It’s Friday night!” she hollered. “And we are game on!”
Johnny Too was renowned for his generosity. Easy to be when you’re spending other people’s money.
“Johnny, you old bastard,” said Trevor Richards as he ploughed through the throng. “Why you looking so happy? You diddled the VAT man again?”
“No, Unc,” Johnny Too smiled. “Me inflatable girlfriend finally said yes.”
He gave his uncle a cuddle. He was a lovely man –
diamond
! Trev had stood his ground when Millwall played West Ham, Arsenal, Spurs and the shitters from Chelsea, too. Johnny, Joe and Trev had been at Stamford Bridge the night Fashanu dumped Chelsea out of the FA Cup on their own turf. When it all
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