by Andy Wiseman
‘You‘ll have to ask him yourself. It’s not something he likes to talk about.’
‘Give me a clue,’ she said.
‘I can guarantee you, it’s higher than both mine and yours.’
‘You don’t know my IQ level,’ replied Izzy.
‘I don’t need to,’ said Steve. ‘Anyway, I don’t think Harry’s choice of path was entirely of his own making. It could be said he had some help. Was coerced, if you like.’
‘In what way?’ asked Izzy, eager to know.
‘Lillian was an actor. Her fellow actors and colleagues would often visit the house, to say hello or maybe run through their lines. They were an eclectic mix of personalities. It was always a busy household. Then there was the tall, elegant, and dignified gentleman who would occasionally call. Whom I, as a child, assumed was part of Lillian’s acting fraternity.’
‘Solomon!’ said Izzy.
Steve raised his eyebrows, and then nodded his head. ‘Yes, Solomon.’
Izzy beamed back, pleased he was impressed.
‘Henry Solomon. An accountant, a small-time crook, and soon-to-become one of the biggest gangland crime boss’s London has ever seen - with Harry’s help.’ Steve briefly paused in the stirring of his coffee, and then continued. ‘Harry got himself expelled from school for attacking two other boys. Lillian was deeply upset, because Harry had been doing well at his studies, ‘knuckling down’ as they say. It may have been a coincidence, but Henry Solomon turned up not long after Harry had been escorted home by the school’s headmaster. Personally, I think Lillian rang him. Why, I have no idea. But it wasn’t long after that, that Harry started working for some of Solomon’s legitimate businesses. I guess the rest is history.
‘Do you think he was guilty of the drug offences he was jailed for?’ asked Izzy.
‘I’ve asked myself that question many, many times. Solomon and Harry were old-fashioned villains. They weren’t into drugs. So I was surprised when drugs were found in Harry’s car.’ Steve sighed heavily. ‘It was myself and D.I. Carson who arrested Harry. Back then, Carson was a Detective Sergeant, and I was a uniformed officer. Why he took me along, I don’t know. There were two other Uniforms, waiting outside as back-up. He could have taken one of them.’
‘Maybe he thought your being there would make the arrest a smoother transition,’ said Izzy.
Steve gave a snort of derision. ‘I think it more likely it appealed to his twisted sense of humour. In the months leading up to Harry’s arrest, he’d vacated his rented flat and moved back into Lillian’s home to care for her. Lillian it seems, had had lung cancer quite some time and managed to hide it well. She was diagnosed as terminal... Anyway, after searching Harry’s car, Carson arrested him at Lillian’s bedside.’ Steve swallowed hard, and then carried on. ‘It was not one of my finest moments. Certainly not one I’m proud of. In fact, the only man who kept his dignity was Harry. The three of us exited the house, that’s when Harry made me promise Lillian would be looked after. I of course agreed.’
Steve abandoned his methodical stirring of his cold coffee, to look up and gaze out of the window. It had begun to rain. He watched the droplets of water run down the glass, chasing each other. Izzy watched and waited. Then, when he didn’t look like he was going to continue, she asked, ‘What happened next?’
Steve blinked two or three times, returning to the present. ‘That’s when Harry head-butted me in the face, breaking my nose - for the second time - and gave Carson a left hook, breaking his jaw.’
‘Ah, the “mitigating circumstances”,’ said Izzy, remembering.
Steve continued. ‘Harry then stood back, raised his hands, and allowed the Uniforms to take him in.’ He pushed his untouched cappuccino away from him. ‘Lillian died while Harry was on remand. He attended her funeral in handcuffs. He was sent for trial a few weeks later, and subsequently jailed for three years. D.S. Carson and I were promoted on the strength of Harry’s conviction. And ever since then, Harry has carried the guilt that he wasn’t there for Lillian in her last moments, and that his arrest may have speeded-up her passing. He may well be right. Up until today, Harry and I haven’t seen or spoken to each other since his trial...’
Izzy could see Steve was struggling with his emotions. She laid a hand on his forearm, and squeezed gently.
Steve then said to Izzy, ‘I aspire to be what Harry could quite easily be. Harry aspires to be anything other than Harry. As a kid, he was my hero,’ he said, quietly. Then, almost in a whisper, ‘Guess he still is...’
‘Do you think Harry had anything to do with Patrick’s death?’ asked Izzy.
‘In what way? Responsible? Capable?’
Izzy stared back, noncommittal.
‘Harry’s a hard man. I’d say he’s capable of most things.’
‘You said yourself, Harry very rarely starts a fight.’
‘Let us hope so,’ replied Steve.
‘I believe in him,’ said Izzy.
‘Maybe you know him better than I do.’
‘Woman’s intuition,’ said Izzy. ‘A bit like you aren’t what you appear to be.’
Steve shifted, uncomfortable.
‘So, Stephen,’ continued Izzy, ‘what are we going to do about Mollie? How do we go about getting her out of that club?’
‘We?’ replied Steve, surprised.
‘Yes, we! We can’t just leave her there, for God’s sake. If “hostess” means what I think it means, then Christ knows what acts of sexual depravity they are forcing her to carry out, just to pay off her father’s debts,’ she said, becoming more and more animated. ‘I mean, it could be whips, chains and ropes. Bondage!... S&M! -’
‘We don’t know that, exactly. We have to look at the known facts. Weigh-up the available evidence.’
‘Okay,’ said Izzy, ‘what are the facts? What is the evidence?’
Steve took out his notebook and pen, and then paused to gather his thoughts. ‘Mollie Dolan has been reported missing. That’s a fact. But it’s not the first time. The first time she went missing was over a family dispute, confirmed when she was finally found. That’s a fact. Also, we only have Harry’s word that Mollie’s at this so-called gentlemen’s club -’ Steve quickly raised his hand when he saw Izzy on the verge of interrupting him. ‘I’m not disputing what Harry said. What I’m saying is, does he know for a fact she’s there? Did he see her? By his own admission, his information she’s “working legitimately” is second-hand. That is a fact as we know it, but not evidence. Would you not agree?’ he asked Izzy, reviewing what he’d written so far.
‘Okay. Yes, I would,’ said Izzy, reluctantly, before reaching across to relieve Steve of his notebook and pen.
‘Patrick Dolan is in debt,’ she said, writing. ‘Threats have been made against his family -’
‘Both of which may be fact,’ said Steve, ‘but solid evidence?’
Izzy looked at Steve, coolly, before continuing to write. ‘Patrick Dolan found dead! Fact and solid evidence!’ she said, with an exclamation mark flourish, for emphasis.
‘Fair point,’ replied Steve. Then, after a pause, ‘Have you ever been to this club?’
‘Once. A charity function a few years ago.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Affluent. High-brow,’ said Izzy, pulling a face. ‘Can’t say I saw any prostitutes or Russian gangsters, though,’ she admitted.
‘To go in officially, we’re going to need a search warrant. And I’m afraid there is nowhere near enough evidence to obtain a warrant,’ said Steve.
‘But we’ve got to try, surely?’ said Izzy.
After a moment’s hesitation, Steve put his hand into his jacket pocket and dug out his mobile phone. He made a call to D.I. Carson. Izzy heard Steve request a search warrant, and then outline on what evidence it was based, realising just how flimsy the evidence was. Steve listened, for what seemed to Izzy, quite a long time, before acknowledging his D.I.’s opinion, and then disconnecting.
Steve stared at the blan
k screen of his mobile phone, a puzzled look on his face.
‘Well?’ said Izzy, already knowing what the answer was going to be.
‘Not enough evidence,’ he replied. Then, seeing Izzy’s face drop, ‘He did say he would discuss it with the Super, though - the Superintendent, that is.’
‘Well, that’s something, isn’t it?’ she said.
Steve shrugged, his puzzled look, deepening. ‘It’s weird. He seemed so... reasonable about it. I don’t think I’ve ever known D.I. Carson being reasonable,’ he said.
‘If he speaks to the Superintendent, how long before we know?’
‘Hours... Days... Weeks... Never! There’s no way the Super will apply for a warrant on a rich man’s club without cast-iron evidence. It’s just not going to happen.’
They both stared morosely out at the rain.
‘Right, then,’ said Izzy, ‘in that case we move to plan B. If that fails, plan C, and then finally plan D.’
Steve looked at Izzy with some trepidation. He knew he was about to get sucked in. He knew the best thing he could do, would be to climb off his stool, and leave. And he certainly knew he shouldn’t ask what plan B was. So he didn’t. But, being too polite to walk away, and too much of a gentleman to ignore Isobelle’s comment, he instead found himself asking what plan D was.
‘Plan D,’ replied Izzy, ‘is when we give up the cause, go to a bar, and then get shit-faced,’ she said, smiling demurely.
Once again, Steve found himself musing over Isobelle Harker’s eloquence.
CHAPTER 44
Harry had opted to walk the few miles from the police station to his flat. While he didn’t have any money to pay for bus or taxi fare, he could have quite easily made a phone call and called in a favour for a lift home. But the real truth of the matter was he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, to try and make sense of recent events. The nature of Patrick’s death still haunted him, and after his imprisonment, being outside in wide open spaces in the fresh air - such as it was in London - was a relief.
As he strode along, he realised he had no idea what day it was, or how long he’d been kept prisoner back at the club. Pausing at a street vendor’s news stand to check the day and date on the front pages, he was shocked to discover it was only yesterday that he’d been taken prisoner and tortured. It seemed to Harry as though the ordeal had lasted much longer. He also realised it was almost two weeks since Mollie was first thought to have gone missing, and a week since he’d started his search.
Let the police do the rest, he thought.
At his local convenience store, Harry had talked the proprietor into allowing him some credit to stock up on some of the basics: bread, butter, milk, baked beans, bottled water and a newspaper - and cigarettes.
Tired and weary, Harry was now back home, in his flat. The doors were locked, the blinds were pulled, and for the first time since it was fitted, he was attempting to prepare some food in his kitchen.
Harry had always eaten out; he never cooked - didn’t really know how to cook. But at that particular moment in time, he couldn’t face people, didn’t want to talk to anyone, so he decided to eat in. He was attempting beans on toast. After burning the toast for the third time, as he struggled to master the multi-function electronic display of the built-in oven grill, he gave up, and had baked beans on thickly buttered bread instead. But to Harry, who hadn’t eaten a proper meal for almost two days, it was a meal fit for a king. After he’d finished, he dumped the pots and pans into the sink, grabbed a large bottle of mineral water, and then trudged off in the direction of his bedroom. There, he stripped off, leaving his clothes where they fell, and wearily slipped in between the sheets, instantly falling into a deep and tormented sleep.
CHAPTER 45
The blare of a car horn was left trailing in their wake as Izzy and Steve battled their way through the London evening traffic in Izzy’s hire car. Izzy was driving.
Try as hard as he might to appear calm and collected, Steve was a bag of nerves; the knuckles on the hand that gripped the door handle had turned white, and his right foot repeatedly pressed down on an imaginary brake pedal. ‘Couldn’t you have hired a slightly bigger, more solid type of car?’ he said to Izzy, feeling extremely vulnerable to a potential crash, physical harm, and decapitation.
‘Don’t you like it?’ she asked, taking her eyes off the road for far longer than Steve was comfortable with. ‘I think it’s quite cute - and they’re extremely nippy,’ she then added unnecessarily, as she switched lanes three times over a distance of less than a hundred metres, before slowing to join a queue of traffic for a roundabout up ahead.
She turned to Steve. ‘You look good in a tux,’ she said, admiring his evening wear. ‘Is it rented?’
‘Certainly not,’ replied Steve, desperately trying to focus on his breathing and prevent a full-blown panic attack. ‘Waxman Brothers, Bethnal Green. Made-to-measure.’
‘It fits you well... in all the right places,’ she said, as she put the car into gear and eased forwards.
Steve flicked her a sideways glance, looking for meaning, but Izzy’s eyes were on the traffic ahead, as she once again put the car into gear, eased forward, and then braked.
Steve returned his gaze out through the windscreen.
‘Do I look okay?’ she asked him.
‘Very nice,’ said Steve, still looking ahead.
Izzy had opted for a formfitting black trouser suit. The trousers were a slim fit, emphasising her long shapely legs and accentuating the roundness of her buttocks; the jacket was a collarless box type, finishing short of her midriff, a single button holding it closed. Underneath, she wore a cream satin camisole-type top - no bra again - complemented by a pearl choker and a cream clutch purse. She wore her hair up in a topknot. The charity function at the gentlemen’s club hadn’t stated evening wear, but past experience told Izzy it would be quite formal. Her choice of attire had been more from a practical point of view rather than style.
‘I really don’t think this is a good idea, you know,’ said Steve.
‘What’s not a good idea?’ she said, turning back to him.
‘Tonight,’ he replied. ‘Anything we find will not be admissible as evidence without a warrant.
As Izzy reached the roundabout, she tapped on the brakes, glanced to her right, and then stamped on the accelerator, shooting across and around.
‘We have an official invite - or rather the Gazette does, and we are attending on its behalf - and it’s a worthwhile charity.’
‘Who’s the charity?’ asked Steve.
‘Err... that’s not important. The important thing is, we are quite innocently attending, and if by any chance we ‘stumble’ across anything that may be ‘helpful’ in the future...’ Izzy then gave Steve an exaggerated wink of the eye, before saying, ‘Covert.’ Then, as an afterthought, she said, ‘Do you think Harry should be here, too?’
Steve shook his head. ‘D.I. Carson is looking for an excuse to ‘throw the book at him’, as they say - and probably at me, too.’
‘You worry too much,’ said Izzy.
‘That’s what my therapist says,’ replied Steve, more to himself.
‘You’ve got a therapist?’
Steve risked releasing his grip on the door handle to check his watch. ‘We’re going to be late,’ he told her, ‘and I hate being late.’
‘Fuck-a-duck!’ said Izzy, amazed that Steve had a therapist, before flooring the accelerator and jumping a red light.
‘Fuck!’ said Steve, simply, stamping on the brake.
CHAPTER 46
Harry’s return to waking consciousness was, at first, agonisingly slow. His unconscious mind slumbered peacefully in a deep, dark, womblike sanctuary until the razor sharp talons of consciousness hooked themselves in to his unconscious mind, and drew him upwards to the surface of harsh reality. Though his mind refused to relinquish the warmth and safety of oblivion, it was a losing battle. Upwards and onwards his mind rose, through a morass of old thoughts
and old images, up through new ones struggling to form, picking up speed and accelerating through the light spectrum. Going from the safety of darkness, through the uncertain greys, accelerating towards the harsh reality of daylight, and with it, the unknown, the unsuspecting, the dangers, the fears, the threats: all unwelcoming.
Harry opened his eyes. It was dark. He blinked a few times, trying to focus. It was still dark. For a brief moment, he had an unsettling sense of déjà vu, a sense of panic, he couldn’t quite place. He turned his head; the digital display on his bedside alarm clock read six in the evening. He was in his own bed, he was in his own flat, and he knew his name was Harry Windsor. Other than that, everything else was a blank.
He pulled back the duvet, swung his long legs out, and then eased himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He rested his forearms on his knees for a moment, head dropped, hair hanging down, while he waited for consciousness and memory to fully return. He wondered whether he’d been drinking heavily, out on a bender, maybe. He didn’t feel like he was hung-over, in fact, physically, he felt quite good. If only he could wake up.
He reached out for the bedside lamp, fumbled, and then switched it on, blinking at the sudden harsh light. He attempted to massage some life back into his face, to wipe the remnants of sleep from his eyes, only to be surprised by the length of stubble on his face. It must have been quite a bender, he thought to himself, as he pushed his hair back from off his face, only to catch sight of the soiled clothing, unceremoniously dumped on the bedroom floor.
The memories came flooding back like a tidal wave, like a tsunami threatening to overwhelm him: images of blood, ripped flesh, and the pleading eyes of a dying man. He fought to quell the panic that rose within him, feeling the room start to tilt, and forcing him to grip the edge of the bed to steady himself. He took a deep breath then slowly exhaled, then repeated the process, drawing in fresh air, feeling his rapidly beating heart start to slow.
He sat for a moment to collect his thoughts, a sheen of cold sweat covering his naked body, before finally standing and pulling on a full-length bathrobe, tying and knotting it at the waist.