by KERRY BARNES
He turned away and pulled out one of the white cups and poured a black coffee from the percolator – he remembered Zara didn’t take milk. Then he placed the cups on the small kitchen table. As Zara took a seat, Mike pulled out the chair opposite. He sipped his coffee and then nodded. ‘What is it, Zara?’
Nursing her cup, she leaned forward with her elbows on the table. ‘Frank Harman.’
‘What about him?’
‘I saw what you did to Scottie. Did you kill Frank and cut him up like the police are saying?’
He could have taken exception to a question like that, but he felt more drained and concerned with Ricky being missing, than worrying about Zara making disparaging insinuations.
‘No, Zara, of course not. Look, love, this has all got so outta hand. Your father’s involvement is ridiculous, and I made a mistake in going to him for help. Now you’re immersed in it, and I understand that you wanna take over ya ol’ man’s business, but, Zara, there are other ways. Watching a man getting tortured proves nothing. It doesn’t make someone tough. It can, though, brand a person a monster and distort the overall picture.’
He placed his cup down and clasped his hands together. ‘What you saw me do is the dark side of my line of work, and I know it has made you question who I am. And now I look at you, Zara. You are a good person but you’re continually trying to prove your worth to your father. It’s not who you are, babe. And me killing an old man is not who I am either.’
Like Mike, Zara would also have flared up at those words, but something between them both had changed. The bitterness had subsided.
‘Sorry, Mikey. I should have known that.’
He smiled. For a second, she thought she saw the former twinkle in his eyes that she remembered so well.
Without thinking, she said, ‘Did you ever really love me, Mikey?’ As soon as those words left her mouth, she wished she’d never said them. It was such a long time ago and so much had changed – for both of them.
‘Yes, babe, I did, but you just fucked off out of the blue and left me wondering what the hell I did wrong. Anyway, you obviously got on with your life, but so did I.’
She wanted to tell him the truth about why she’d gone, but she just couldn’t. Her fingers toyed with the chain around her neck, and she swallowed the emotion that felt as though it would strangle her. However, Mike noticed her tender expression.
‘Zara, I only married Jackie because she was expecting Ricky. I wouldn’t have otherwise. I liked her. She was fun and sweet, but I never loved her, not like I loved you. But she was expecting my son, and so I had no choice. I got wed and now …’ he paused and sighed. ‘Now Ricky is out there somewhere. I pray to God he’s not hurt or worse.’
She realized this wasn’t the time or place to talk about herself. Mike was too distraught about his son, and she knew exactly how that felt.
‘Now, first thing’s first, we need to get the Ol’ Bill off your back. You said to Izzy that you believe Mrs Harman killed her ol’ man.’
‘I can’t be 100 per cent sure. Anyway, I took her down to me holiday pad in Rye, to get her outta the way. She’s a real sweet ol’ girl, she is, and if she did kill Frank, I can’t blame her.’
Zara nearly spat out her coffee. ‘Sweet? She tried to flush her ol’ man down the loo and you call her sweet?’ She laughed, a wholesome laugh, and for the first time in years, Mike’s spirits lifted when he saw the real Zara.
Their laughter was cut short, however, when her phone rang. It was Izzy.
‘Zara, are you with Mike?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘The DI has been on the phone. He seems to think we know of Mike’s whereabouts. Someone has definitely been talking. Anyway, he had some interesting news about Frank Harman’s murder. It appears that he died of arsenic poisoning. They found cakes in that house laced with enough poison to bring down a fucking elephant. So, unless Mike is into baking cakes, then the old girl is the likely suspect. Interestingly, they reckon they found remnants of a cake in the bin. It looks like someone had a bite and spat it out. Lucky for them, or it would have killed them. That wouldn’t have been Mike by any chance, would it?’
Mike was leaning in to hear the call. He smiled and nodded.
‘Dad, it was Mike.’
She handed Mike the phone.
‘Izzy, have they let the boys go or are they still down the nick?’
‘They’re out. And the Harmans, I take it, are still walking the streets?’
Mike chuckled. ‘Not all of them.’ His voice turned sour. ‘And, Izzy, you need to keep up your end of the bargain. My son is still missing.’
There was a silent pause before Izzy coughed. ‘Mike, bitterness is a dangerous emotion. It can turn people. It can stop them from seeing the wood for the trees.’
‘Izzy, stop with the fucking philosophical lectures, will ya? I’m not at fucking school.’
‘Zara gave me the low-down on what happened yesterday, and your temper may well be misplaced. You want someone to pay for your boy’s disappearance, and yet you’re not facing facts. This wife of yours is the likely culprit, so, for the time being, concentrate on saving your own skin, or, I warn you now, you’ll be inside serving a great lump.’
The message was exactly the sobering wake-up call that Mike needed. He handed the phone back and rolled his eyes. ‘So, you’re still determined to have me under your control, Zara, eh? Running to daddy and telling tales?’
She shook her head, her eyes pleading. ‘No, Mikey, it’s not like that. When you were asleep, my dad called me and asked what was going on. I couldn’t ignore him. He can tell if I’m lying. How the hell can he help if he doesn’t know the facts? Yeah, look, initially, when you and Izzy made a deal I was …’ She stopped and took a deep breath. ‘I was pleased. I had been angry for years that you got married and your life was hunky fucking dory, when I had nothing. To have you answering to me, it seemed like payback. The truth is, Izzy does want you in the firm. I’m taking over, and, in fact, Mikey, I’ve already been running a big part of it. I ain’t the simple girl you once knew.’
Mike’s mind switched off. He was pleased that they’d both adjusted to one another again; but, as much as he liked Zara, he wasn’t interested in renewing their former relationship. His priority now was his son, and so the most pressing concern was to have a plan in place to find him. Time was passing by, and he was not going to spend all day hanging around.
‘Look, I’m going to Rye. I need to talk with Mrs Harman, the poor cow.’
Mike’s dismissiveness left Zara feeling empty. ‘Um … what shall I do?’
‘Go and talk to Izzy, because now your clock is ticking. Izzy made a deal and he’s not making good on his promise. I want my boy and the rest of the Harmans found.’
She looked down at the dregs in her coffee cup and held in the sigh that wanted to leave her lips. The reality was that last night didn’t mean as much to Mike as it did to her. But it had felt as though it did – at the time.
* * *
The rain had left the roads flooded and Mike was frustrated with driving an old banger. The windscreen wipers squeaked as they flicked back and forth, and that was grating on him. As he hit the A21, the traffic slowed down.
Crawling along in the single lane gave Mike time to calm his overactive mind. Which was fine until a troubling thought came out of nowhere. How did the Harmans know about the arms deal in the first place? The only people who knew about it were Izzy, the Irish buyers, and, of course, his own men. So at least one of them had informed the police. As much as he disliked Izzy, he knew in a strange way he could trust him. He thought about Jackie shagging Scottie and then hearing him say that Frank and Harry had it in for him. None of it made any sense. What the hell did they want?
He couldn’t get his head around it all. First, he needed to persuade Doris to own up to her husband’s murder. He felt guilty about it because she was just a sweet lady who probably lived a cruel life at the hands of her own family.
He wouldn’t tell her what he’d done to her youngest son, though. It would break her heart, and she might inform the police.
As he drove up the hill towards the cottage, he tried to prepare mentally for how he would break the news to Doris that she would have to go to the cop shop with him. Mike parked the car directly outside and climbed out. Maybe being older she felt the cold because strangely all the windows were closed. He jangled the keys in his pocket and thought it better to knock than to let himself in.
With no response, he decided to go in and wait for her. He suspected she was out shopping or had gone out to eat. After closing the door behind him, he called out, ‘Hello? Mrs Harman?’
Satisfied that he was alone, he wandered past the living room and straight into the kitchen. He noticed a china teacup and saucer lying on the draining board; it wasn’t one belonging to the cottage and he smiled. She must have treated herself in one of the antique or vintage shops; Rye was full of them.
He put the kettle on and wandered into the lounge to open a window and let out the slight odour in the warm stale air. He had to stoop to enter the lounge.
Just as he was about to stroll towards the window, he noticed an opened photo album, letters, and a note, all spread across the large steamer trunk coffee table. Then his eyes were drawn to Doris, who was sitting in the chair sound asleep. He didn’t want to startle her, so he stepped back. But as he kept his eyes on her, a strange feeling came over him. She looked odd. Her lips were a shade of purple and her waxy skin was a creamy colour. Shit! She wasn’t asleep, she was dead.
‘For fuck’s sake, that’s all I flaming well need,’ he said aloud. For a few seconds, he studied her carefully to check that she really was dead, but it was obvious; her chest was perfectly still. Then guilt swept through him. He was initially annoyed because his only ticket out of jail was if Doris made a statement to the effect that she’d killed her husband – if she actually did do it. Now she was dead. The poor woman hadn’t even died in her own home.
His eyes fell back to the photo album and the note, and then he saw the empty prescription medication bottles. There was such a mixture, but among them were sleeping tablets, so he assumed they had knocked her out before she died. He didn’t want to touch the paper, but he felt the urge to read the message, assuming the album had been left open at a poignant moment in Doris’s life. He looked more closely. There were little handwritten comments inside the cellophane that held the photos in place. He kneeled down and studied them closely. The first photo was of Doris on her wedding day. She was not the typical glowing, blushing bride, that was for sure. In fact, she appeared sullen with her high cheeks thin and tight and her eyes looking at the floor. Frank Harman, with a cocky grin on his face, looked a flash bastard with his thumbs up as if he’d won a bet. The note beside it read: The day when I said until death do us part, well, it couldn’t have come quickly enough for me. You lived for too long. I had to end it.
Mike reread the note. Bingo! This was the confession he needed to get the police off his back, but his sudden elation was dampened when he glanced back at Doris. ‘You poor cow.’
Then he looked at the next photo. It was of her again, this time holding a baby. However, what should have been a picture of a proud mother looking adoringly at her precious bundle was a shell of a woman – she was thin, pale, and almost grieving. The note read: Harry, you were my first-born devil, like your father. If you read this, then you will know how much I wanted to be free of you.
The third photo was of her and the four children, each one of them with sneering smiles. There was nothing cute about them.
In the next photo, Frank had a pint in his hand. Alongside him was another man. They were so much alike, they could have been twins. It put him in mind of the Kray twins, albeit an uglier version. The other man, obviously Frank’s brother, had a girl on his lap. She was a pretty little blonde child, approximately the same age as Doris’s youngest son, Scottie. They were on a beach, probably Margate, and yet, once again, Doris seemed so miserable. He suddenly felt a lump in his throat. His mind turned to his mum and their family photos; she always had a beaming smile on her face.
The note next to it read: I was never a part of this family, I was just a breeding machine for your father. You all used me and abused me, your father most of all. So, if you hate me for taking his life, then so be it. You never loved me anyway, not even you, Paris.
Unexpectedly, Mike felt a wet tear trickle down his cheek. He rarely cried and hastily brushed it away. Why Doris was getting to him, he didn’t know, but he felt a deep sadness; it was because he was glimpsing into someone’s past and witnessing how life had dealt her such a raw and cruel hand.
The fifth picture was a black-and-white one of her and his own father, Arthur. He stared as if he was looking at a photo of himself. That had to be the most moving picture of all. The difference in Doris – looking so young, beautiful, and happy – was amazing. Her smile went from ear-to-ear, showing off her glowing complexion, and the shine in her eyes was like the moonlight on a summer’s evening.
‘What did you do to her, Frank, you fucking bully?’ It was a strange feeling. She meant nothing to him, and yet she represented so much. She’d obviously loved his father, and yet she’d ended up with Frank, who, from the photos and the notes, had clearly made her life a misery. He read the letter next to the picture.
You, Arthur, were my one true love, and I know how much they detested you. They tried so many times to bring you down, but you were too wise to be fooled by them. I have written down some names and dates, and I hope it will all make sense to you. I only wish I could have done more.
Mike read the words again. Who were they? Mike wondered. He guessed she meant her husband, but who else did she mean? He flipped the page and studied the other photos. Another one showed Frank, his brother, and two other men, all roughly the same age, dressed in dark suits and grinning into the camera; they weren’t broad, beaming smiles, only sly smirks. He peered closer and then he saw something else. Just in view over Frank’s belt was the handle of a gun. Carefully scanning the picture again, he spotted a bat just behind the trouser leg of one of the other suited men. Slightly out of view was another man; just his shoulders, an arm, and a leg could be seen. The arm had a white long-sleeved shirt, rolled up. As Mike leaned closer, he could just about make out a tattooed number along the right wrist. And when he studied the photo again as a whole, he noticed that each of the men was hiding something away from the camera. It was amazing how a photo could tell a thousand words. He wondered who had taken the picture. Would it have been Doris? Surely not. Or maybe she was telling a story.
This was odd. He turned the page and his eyes were drawn to newspaper clippings. One contained the murder of Kenneth Keller. Mike knew that name. Kenny had worked with his father, and as young as Mike had been back then, he remembered him well. Because whoever had killed Kenneth had broken the rules by shooting him in the back.
Below that clipping was another photo of Frank’s brother dressed in a suit. His expression suggested a real touch of arrogance; it was a face you would love to punch. This album really was showing the past. Following on was another newspaper clipping, dated 1995 – it was the murder of Monty Stafford, old Teddy Stafford’s brother.
Mike felt uneasy. He had loved Monty; he’d been so much like Staffie in looks and character. Monty supposedly hanged himself; to this day, Mike’s father and his uncles never believed it for a minute. Much like Staffie, he was built like a brick shithouse and was a tough man with a tough mind. He called suicide victims cowards. So, he definitely wasn’t the type to hang himself. Old Ted, Staffie’s father, had been beside himself with grief, and it was only with the comfort of the others, like Arthur, that he got through it. There below the clipping was the man from the previous photo, the one with the bat.
Mike shuddered.
As he carried on going through the album, he realized that Doris had indeed told the story. In effect, it was a war between the Harmans
and his father’s firm. Yet the difference was the Harmans were slippery cowards – not straight-up men who fought for the manor like honourable gentlemen. He cringed at the sneakiness of them. In the past, his father had mentioned that he always believed there was someone lingering in the background, who knew far more than they should have. Yet he had never been able to discover who had passed on information, resulting in two of his deals being intercepted by the police. There were also a few odd incidents, where he and his firm had been jumped whilst unarmed.
As he turned the next page, he gasped aloud and almost jumped to his feet. There in her wedding dress and standing next to Frank Harman’s brother with a cocky smile was the probable culprit. This was the very same woman who’d come for Sunday tea, who’d taken him to school, and who’d helped their mother with family parties. She was their home help. She was the fucking fly on the wall.
‘Shit me! Carmella, you bitch!’
Doris Harman had indeed set out to tell a story and what a story it was. All those years, his father was fighting with a firm that didn’t play fair. He couldn’t understand though, why now, after all this time, the Harmans were rearing their ugly heads. He’d had no previous issues with the family; in fact, until recently, he’d had no idea who they were. What did they have against him and his father?
Mike glanced over at the four letters. One was addressed to the police commissioner, one was to a lawyer, one was to his father, and the last one was to himself. He stood up, holding the letter addressed to him, and again he eyed the woman in the chair.
He soon realized quite how much detail she’d put into planning all this. Her hair was all curled, she had a tiny amount of blusher on her otherwise white cheeks, and she was wearing an evening dress, a long blue satin gown with tiny sequins around the neck. On her wrist was a charm bracelet, and he recognized that it was the same one she was wearing in the photo with his father. Then he looked at her hands. The wedding ring had left an indent and was missing. He glanced back at the coffee table and there it was on a handkerchief.