The Face (Harry Tyler Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

moved with impressive speed, twisting his torso so the pole just caught his right shoulder before whacking into the bar and sending up a pricey cloud of white powder. Pyro hit the floor and rolled. O’Shea didn’t need to be told that having started this he’d have to go all the way. He lifted the pole quickly and slammed it down, catching Joe hard in the stomach. Sadly for O’Shea, Pyro Joe’s paranoia levels, unusually high even by villains’ standards, meant he had taken to wearing body armour some months earlier.
    As O’Shea raised his tool to deliver the coup
de grâce
to Joey’s head, he made the fatal error of pausing to say, “This is for my sis …”
    This was all the time Rhino needed. He shot over from the pool table like Jenson Button on a promise, his prize pool cue in his hand, and delivered the sort of whack English cricket fans can only dream of seeing to the back of O’Shea’s swede. The Tasmanian Devil hit the floor. Half a second later Dougie The Dog was over his body smacking his skull repeatedly with a 330ml Budweiser bottle. As it shattered, O’Shea’s head became a bloody mess of claret, beer and shards of broken brown glass.
    “That’s it, Doug,” said Rhino. “He’s sparko.” Rhino laughed. “Fucking good night nurse.” Dougie wasn’t smiling, neither was Pyro Joe who had grabbed a handful of O’Shea’s hair and dragged his unconscious body eight feet to the pool table. One-handed , Joey slung his attacker across it. Coolly he walked back for the scaffolding, and with his face a mask of hate he proceeded to smash each kneecap repeatedly. Slobberin’ Ron stopped counting after the 23rd blow. His rage finally vented, Pyro grabbed O’Shea again by the hair and threw him out on to the street. Then he turned to one of the “c” category drinkers and barked, “Scrape that shit up off my pavement and drop him off at casualty.” As an afterthought, Pyro picked up the length of pole, cued up the white ball and potted the black. He turned to the crowd of regulars and said, “How about that for a fucking trick shot?” They laughed and Pyro roared. He hadn’t lost face. He
never
lost face. Dougie The Dog took his cousin’s head in his hands and kissed it.
    “Who luvs ya, baby?” he said. “C’mon, Joe, we’re going up West. I feel like a party.” Pyro grinned. He looked at his watch. It was 9.35 pm.

     
     
    Exactly 43 minutes later the van and car rolled up outside the Ned, blue lights flashing and sirens wailing. Six of the Met’s finest marched in. Slobberin’ Ron was busy polishing glasses with a dirty tea towel. A couple of lads were throwing arrows at the dartboard. An older man sat on his own, absorbed in Lenny McLean’s autobiography,
The Guv’nor
. No one was playing pool because the table had gone. Seeing the police, a little mob of half a dozen Millwall boys laughed into their lager. The boldest of them, Mickey Fenn, clocked the Inspector and said, “Mine’s a lager top, mate, if you’re going to the bar.” His mates laughed. Inspector Frank Turner did not.
    “We got a call to a fight,” he said to Slobberin’ Ron.
    “Spiteful bastards ringing up wasting police time,” the guv’nor replied.
    Turner glared at him. “There is blood on this carpet,” he snapped.
    “Yeah,” said Ron. “Some bird come on all of a sudden. We had to send her ’ome cos the Tampax machine in the Ladies is fucked, know what I mean?”
    The Millwall boys erupted. Slobberin’ Ron rode the laughs. “Yeah, some little toe-rag poured water into it, ripped the dispenser clean off the wall,” he said.
    Turner raised his eyes to the ceiling. What is the fucking point? He thought. But out loud he said, “Where’s John?”
    “Mr Baker’s out,” Ron said.
    “Joey?”
    “Not been in all day, Inspector.”
    “So, no trouble?”
    “I would be the first to call you if there were any, Inspector.”
    Turner nodded his head towards the door. The police filed out. Just a