Two Faced. Garry Bushell

and Renato, can’t you tell?’

      David’s stare could have shattered stone, but he backed off.

      ‘Ignore these soppy cunts,’ Buck barked. He turned to Harry Tyler.

      ‘Tell Mr Clavin he’s got a meet with me on Monday, twelve noon at the George in Islington, OK son? He’ll turn up; he’ll know it makes sense. And if he don’t’ – Buck flashed a crocodile smile – ‘then Georgie and David will be back with their big brother Nicky. And he ain’t as reasonable as I am. Know what I mean?’

      Harry nodded and watched the Daimler pull away. He shook hands with Potman and Noodles and hit the office phone. The dog had slept through the whole exchange.

      Harry left messages for Ronnie Clavin in pubs, clubs and snooker rooms all over Greenwich borough to no avail. He finally found him in person six hours later nursing a large malt at the Liberal Club in Charlton Church Lane. When he passed on Buck’s message the colour drained from Ronnie’s face. He nodded and asked Harry to go. Harry didn’t see Ronnie again until the following Thursday, and by then he was in hospital.

      HOW IT WAS

      Three months earlier: it was the oddest picture that Limp-wrist Larry Steinmetz, the rampantly gay Bristol police college photographer, had ever been asked to take. Nine detectives, four female and five male, were lined up in front of him with their backs to the camera.

      ‘Now,’ said Limp-wrist. ‘Should I tell you to say cheese or just ask you to cut it?’

      The Americanism was lost on DI Holmes, who looked on nervously. ‘Please don’t let any of them decide to moon the camera,’ the DI muttered as Limp-wrist fussed about making sure not one of the ensemble’s faces could be seen.

      With such a distinguished surname, the young Holmes was always going to be attracted to detective work. In his early days he had hoped to earn the nickname ‘Sherlock’, but inevitably, given his genial manner and remarkable physical resemblance to Russ Abbot, he had become known affectionately to all and sundry as Barrett.

      From the windows above he could hear the ‘trainee bell-heads’ – uniform probationer constables – jokingly speculate about who this mixed group of strangers could be.

      ‘Muppets’, ‘Wurzels’ and ‘The Wild Bunch’ were some of the kinder comments that wafted down. The odd muttered ‘faggot’ was almost certainly aimed at Limp-wrist, who relished the attention and had dressed to impress in a duck blue suede jacket, white roll-neck jumper and leather trousers so tight that they left less to the imagination than a Ron Jeremy porn movie.

      ‘Look at them leather pants! Mr Magoo could make out his religion, already,’ joked one cop.

      ‘Say cheese!’ another cop shouted camply.

      ‘Knob cheese!’ a third man oafishly guffawed.

      ‘Larry’s got half a lob-on,’ said the first cop again. ‘If he doesn’t get this shot soon, Chernobyl won’t be the only thing in meltdown.’

      Even Holmes smiled at that one. Another heckler yelled, ‘Tell ’im to give his Botox a polish, Barrett,’ but the DI pretended not to hear. He could understand why the probationers were so fascinated by their mysterious colleagues. What branch of the service could possibly employ such a motley crew? One man was clearly from the Bob Geldof school of personal hygiene. Long matted hair. Bearded. Pungent. Revolting. The chap hadn’t washed since he got there, wore clothes Michael Foot would think scruffy, and screeched out of the college gates most nights on a Harley Davidson with sulphurous fumes belching from its knackered exhaust.

      ‘That cunt wants hosing down.’

      ‘He ain’t seen a bath since the vicar ducked him in the font.’

      ‘And I bet he left a ring round that.’

      Another guy was eighteen stone, bald, black and built like a nightclub bouncer. ‘Oi, Mr T, does Hannibal know you’re moonlighting down here?’ shouted one bold bell-head.

      ‘Hey, Limp-wrist,’ hollered another. ‘Is this the closest you’ve ever got to a black mass?’

      Inevitably a woman got the most stick – blonde Denise Watts, who was more top-heavy than Sam Fox in a centrifuge.

      ‘She’ll never drown in a swimming pool,’ cackled one young observer.

      ‘Fuck the pool, let’s see her on a trampoline,’ quipped his pal.

      ‘If they fall out of her blouse, they could have Larry’s eye out.’

      ‘Here, titty, titty, titty …’

      Holmes tutted. It was like working on a building site. But he was relieved that the young probationers had no idea what was going on here. Undercover police infiltration remained a well-kept secret. Despite major successes against some of Britain’s leading organised crime gangs, top-drawer villains were still being caught on the toilet with their trousers around their ankles. Why? That was simple: when the cases came to court, the police were not yet compelled to disclose to the defence that ‘the one who got away’ was undercover Old Bill.

      UC operatives, trained here and known as the Dream Factory team, were a logical response to a drug-fuelled crime wave that was fast turning tidal. Not that you’d know it from their budgets. The dinosaurs who controlled police purse strings could not quite get their heads around the new game of infiltration. UC operations were tolerated rather than encouraged. Many officers of senior rank felt it just wasn’t cricket. They didn’t like to acknowledge that the game had changed and it wasn’t George Dixon versus the Lavender Hill Mob out there any more. Yet it was becoming ever harder even for them to cling on to the old comforting belief that drug culture was safely confined to a few poverty-blighted urban pockets. It was bad, and it was nationwide. And the sheer tonnage of powder and pills recovered by UC operatives in the last twelve months, along with high-value stolen goods, counterfeit currency and firearms, proved it beyond question. Crime in the 1980s was increasingly about supplying a growing and ravenous demand for drugs, and by turning a blind eye to it for so many years the police establishment had allowed a new aristocracy of law-breakers to flourish. Britain’s drug-peddling criminal elite were richer, more ruthless and far more successful than Al Capone, Bugs Moran, Johnny Torrio, the Gennas, the O’Banions or any other of the organised mobs whose growth was rooted in the fertile soil of the Prohibition years in 1920s America.

      Alerted by a cough behind him, DI Holmes turned to warmly greet his DCI, thanking his lucky stars that the small band of heroes had resisted the urge to drop their trousers. He turned back to see nine bare arses pointed towards Limp-wrist Larry’s zoom lens. ‘Full moon tonight then, Barrett,’ the DCI said with a wan smile, before turning on his heels and walking away.

      Down in the courtyard, the ponytailed Harry Dean smiled as Limp-wrist gave his instructions in a voice that screamed theatrical queen: ‘OK, put your right hand on the left cheek of the person to your right. That’s it, dear. Now, you on the end, put your right hand on your hips.’ This was clearly a shot for his private collection.

      ‘Are you sure you don’t want it mounted, mate?’ grumbled Warren Walker, the black UC officer, in a heavy Midlands accent.

      ‘No,’ quipped Harry Dean. ‘But he’ll help you to get it enlarged.’

      ‘Easy, tiger.’ Limp-wrist laughed. ‘You’ll make Mr Holmes jealous. Now, everyone touching …?’

      Harry glanced sideways to his right at brunette Rachel Freeman, a flirty, loud-mouthed Mancunian detective from the Avon and Somerset force. She wasn’t bad looking but she never shut up. What Rachel didn’t know about anything wasn’t worth knowing – well, according to her, that was. She had turned on Harry in their first week for eating his favourite breakfast – two fried bangers in a crusty roll, smothered in brown sauce and spread with so much butter that it dripped from the sides as it melted.

      ‘Lips