Windsor Place

by Russell Robertson

  “You know that I have to call you in for another formal interview and I just want you to know that no matter what happens at the end of all this we will come out with our friendship still intact.”

  “I appreciate that Jim. At the moment, the most important thing to me is to know that you and Moira believe I had nothing to do with this crime.”

  “Harry, I wouldn’t be sitting here if I had any doubts and Moira feels the same way. But the wrinkle in your alibi is that you have no willing witnesses and that’s what my colleagues will be concentrating on.”

  “That makes me feel good. The sound of optimism.”

  “By the way, who won the golf the other day?”

  “As usual, like a true blue, I let Blair win.”

  They stayed on, had another tea and talked about better times in the future once this whole thing was over. They then said goodbye to each other before going their separate ways.

  Chapter 47

  The next day followed the same ritual as yesterday except Marty was met at the cafe by a female that Harry recognised. Marion ‘Banksy’ Scott, a local brothel owner who got her title from her early prostitution days using the back of the local junior football stand at Olive Bank before setting up a very successful massage parlour in the High Street in Musselburgh and was known to still bang like a dunny door in a cyclone.

  What was Banksy doing with Marty?

  Same as yesterday, they swapped packages, Harry assumed cash for Marty and drugs for the receiver. Made sense, Banksy would not want to deal direct with the main dealer for the supply of drugs for her girls.

  Marty then accompanied her to the parlour.

  Some twenty minutes later he came out the front door with a skip in his step. He had obviously received his bonus.

  The prerogative for a private detective was to tell the employer only what they needed to know and his client did not need to know about the drugs deal only the adultery. That is what she hired him to find out. No point in adding to the women’s problems.

  He always preferred to break the good or bad news to his clients face to face rather than on the phone.

  Sandra Urquhart seemed to be dressed in the same clothes at the last meeting but appeared to be less nervous. Perhaps she already knew what he was about to tell her.

  She listened to Harry’s report. Then thanked him for his work.

  “If your girl could give me the bill, I would like to pay for your services in full, in cash, before I leave. I will not require a receipt. I’m sure you will understand why.”

  He got the feeling that she was disappointed that there was no girlfriend involved. He guessed that the fact that her partner was using a prostitute was more embarrassing to her. Her emotion had now changed to anger.

  Harry ushered her to the reception. She thanked him once again and he passed her over to Sofie.

  Chapter 48

  Harry enjoyed long drives, he was used to them in OZ. Sometimes driving two hours to a barbecue then driving back the same day. The trip to Fortrose would be a challenge weather-wise at this time of the year. And he decided it would be wise to stop overnight.

  Fortrose was situated just north east of Inverness in an area known as the Black Isle. A beautiful spot in summer with palm trees and dolphins due to the warm Gulf Stream that passed through there. A far cry from the traditional Scottish countryside.

  ‘Tich’ Cameron, an old school friend, was dying from terminal cancer and his wife Iona had called Harry recently, as her husband had asked to see him.

  Light snow was falling as he passed through the outskirts of Edinburgh heading for the Forth Road Bridge that led to the Kingdom of Fife.

  Light snow in Edinburgh inevitably meant severe weather heading north and the real possibility of snow blocked roads. Maybe a night in a cosy hotel in the Highlands complete with a roaring log fire and a good range of malts may not be a bad option after all.

  As he drove his thoughts were with his old friend and their fun times together before Harry left for OZ. Harry and Tich had gone to high school together and played football for the same teams before Harry went professional.

  Richard Cameron earned his nickname from his lack of height. Tich was a name given to small men in Scotland and was generally accepted by the recipient as a badge of honour.

  If you didn’t have a nickname in Scotland, you were considered to be ordinary or boring or both.

  Tich was an old-fashioned style of man who retained his sense of humour despite his condition and was always the comedian in any group. He had moved to the north after university where he met Iona, a local lass from Inverness. They then moved to Fortrose for her job as a teacher and stayed there for the rest of their lives. They brought up two boys, who now lived in London and were employed in their chosen professions. Tich had worked as a janitor in the same school as his wife taught, until recently, when bad health had forced him to resign.

  He was not sure what to expect when he arrived but he was looking forward to catching up with his old friend.

  The snow was getting heavier and the roads more treacherous, so he decided that Pitlochry only a few miles ahead would be a good choice to stop overnight. As a popular holiday resort, there would be plenty of hotels to choose from. Nature throws everything at us including life-threatening weather and it seems to always point its anger towards the Scottish Highlands in winter.

  He pulled into the first hotel with a vacancy sign, parked the car, pulled on his beanie and gloves and made a dash through the blinding snow and gale force icy wind to the warmth and safety of the reception and a comfortable night’s accommodation.

  The last leg in the morning was a drive through the beautiful Cairngorms National Park and fortunately the snow had eased off overnight allowing Harry to get safely through the mountain passes to his destination around noon.

  Iona greeted Harry at the door. “Hiya Harry, thank you for coming. come in. Tich is sleeping at the moment – cat nap, he calls it.”

  “Come out to the sitootery,” a phrase she always used to describe the conservatory.

  “I trust the drive wasn’t too bad? You’re looking well. How are you anyway? Take a seat.” They both sat down.

  She had obviously not heard about the situation in Edinburgh. Better to keep it that way.

  “I’m feeling fine. How are you coping?”

  “I’m okay. Can’t get over how strong Tich is, considering he may not see Christmas.”

  “Christ. I had no idea it was that serious.”

  “Lung cancer, probably started when you two smoked behind the bicycle sheds at school.” She smiled.

  “Small cell lung cancer; very aggressive and most people are lucky to get six months.”

  “I’m sorry, Iona. Does he know it’s terminal?”

  “Not officially, but yes he is aware it is close. He wants to die at home, so we will do all we can for that to happen. The kids are due home next week.”

  “Harry, I know there is something he wants to talk to you about. Would you like a coffee?”

  “Thanks. No sugar.”

  Iona returned with two coffees and a small plate of caramel biscuits.

  They talked some more about Tich’s condition, then Iona decided that she would go and get him.

  Iona wheeled him into the sitootery. “Long time no see partner,” was the opening greeting from Tich.

  Harry took a deep breath, he was not prepared for what he saw. Skin and bone, gaunt and looking extremely weak. He hardly recognised his old pal. “Great to see you, Tich.”

  Tich coughed, wiped his mouth and mumbled, “It’s not the cough that carries you off it’s the coffin they carry you offin.”

  They laughed. He had not lost his sense of humour.

  “Well I better leave you two schoolboys to catch up, I’m off to the shops. See you both in a couple of hours. You staying the night, Harry?”

  “Of course.”

  “You okay, Tich?”

  “Yeah, I’m in good company.” />
  Tich and Harry spent the next couple of hours catching up on lost time and reminiscing about their school days together and the harmless pranks they got up to.

  “Harry, there is something I need to discuss with you.”

  “Fire away, Tich.”

  “Do you remember a school friend called John Dwyer? He was in the grade above us.”

  “Yeah, I do. Bit of a character; very flamboyant and a favourite with the girls if I remember correctly.”

  “Well, he went out with Carole for a while before she had her first child Morag.”

  “You mean that Morag could be his child?”

  “Yes, I met Carole a few years back after she got hooked up with Alf Hunter and she told me that Dwyer was the father.”

  “Did Dwyer know he was the father?”

  '“Yes, and so did Alf Hunter.”

  “Tich, you obviously know about what happened in Portobello?”

  “Yes. That’s why I asked you to come up here. Did Carole tell you he was the father?”

  “No.”

  “Probably didn’t want to tell you in case you thought badly of her.”

  “Carole and I kept in touch over the years. We met up for coffee when I went to Edinburgh for treatment and more recently by telephone. Iona knows, no problem there. Sometimes she joined us for coffee when we went south.”

  “Where is Dwyer now?”

  “Changed sides. Now known as Dolly Dyson.”

  Harry was stunned. “So Alf protects him?”

  “Yes. Insurance for Carole. She told Alf that if he ever harmed him she would pack her bags.”

  “Seems like Dyson is now uninsured,” added Harry. “Who else knows about this?”

  “Apart from Alf, you, me and Iona. I don’t hide anything from her.”

  Harry took a deep breath. “This adds a new twist to things. I need to digest this before I decide what to do next.”

  “Whatever you decide to do it will be the right call. Now, how about we open a nice bottle of malt whisky for old time’s sake?”

  “You know it’s not fair what’s happening to you.”

  Tich replied, “The bed of fairness has no place in death. Anyway, here’s to tomorrow cause sometimes tomorrow never comes.”

  Harry and Tich sat talking about some of the other school friends that they could remember, wondering what life had thrown at them until Tich became tired and had to retire.

  He had explained to Harry his concerns for the younger generation including his grandchildren. He called digital technology as disruptive technology and felt that they were in his words: ‘Suffering from buffering and that was not good for the future. We needed to get back to basics. Social media is anti-social, but it is what the masses demand. We live in an instant world where 24/7 really means 24/7.’

  “One thing I do know, Harry, is what will keep you young – is your achievement list should always be longer than your bucket list.”

  Harry couldn’t disagree with his sentiments that society was heading towards a long race to the bottom.

  They shared their last whisky together and said their goodbyes as Harry was leaving at dawn the next morning to return to Edinburgh.

  As he made his way back south, Harry’s mind was consumed by the fact that one of his best pals may not see the end of the year. It was a reality check on your own life and could happen to him at any time were his immediate thoughts. Seeing a friend come close to the end of the road makes you slow down to the posted speed limit but as time passes, you ignore the speed limits and revert to normal.

  The sun was trying to break through. The snow was slowly melting but it was still slow dangerous driving conditions as he drove south through the Highlands with his target set for lunch at Perth. This would leave him a short two-hour drive back to Portobello. This would get him home in his apartment around half past three, just in time to relax for a couple of hours before meeting Alex and Curtis for dinner at The Quay in Musselburgh.

  After a quick pit stop at Perth, Harry continued on his way and wondered what he would tell Alex and Curtis when he met them for dinner tonight.

  He could not stop thinking about what Tich had revealed and initially was angry with Carole. But when he thought about it, the more he realised that in a similar situation he probably would have done the same.

  His thoughts then switched to “Dolly Dyson.”

  Where was he now? Was he involved or was he in danger? Harry decided then that he needed to talk to him.

  The traffic on the Forth Road Bridge was busy but moving along steadily as he left Fife and entered the outskirts of the Capital. One hour later he was parking his car in the basement car park of his apartment.

  Chapter 49

  The Quay was a popular spot at the weekends and the bistro was run by a group of Indians who were meticulous in their preparations, pleasant in their manners and very friendly.

  Sulek Menon, the manager had his team well-groomed and the place running like clockwork. His wife Aashi was the maître d' and one suspected the brains behind the business.

  Harry had got to know them well and had dined with them at their home in Dalkeith and was treated as part of the family each time he visited them.

  Alex and Curtis were already seated at the reserved table in the Frisco Bay Restaurant enjoying pre-dinner drinks when Harry arrived slightly late.

  “You look tired, Harry,” was the observation from Curtis.

  “I’m okay. Just recovering from a two-day round trip to North Scotland.”

  “I wondered why the travel brochures were on your balcony chair the other day and you didn’t answer my question as to whether you were thinking of a break,” Alex said.

  Over dinner, Harry explained the reason for his trip and the information he was given about Dolly Dyson.

  “Let’s try and forget about this until the next meeting and relax and enjoy tonight,” Alex offered. “After all it is Christmas Eve.”

  Aashi approached them at the table. “Everything okay, Harry?”

  “Wonderful, Aashi.”

  She gently placed a bottle of red on the table. “Compliments of the boss for our best customers.”

  “I thought you were the heid bummer?” Curtis asked.

  Aashi grinned. “Only when Sulek lets me.”'

  The three of them enjoyed their meal and finished another bottle of red before leaving and saying goodbye to Sulek and Aashi.

  They sauntered across to the car park and left for their respective destinations. For Alex and Curtis that meant the Sheep Heid Pub in Duddingston for more drinks. For Harry, it meant a coffee at home alone and some more dark thoughts.

  As Harry arrived home and parked the car in the basement he was aware of how dark it was. Some of the lights were not working, must remember to mention this to the manager the next time he saw him.

  Just as he stepped out of the car and locked the door he felt a searing pain across the back of his head. The feeling of teetering on the edge of consciousness.

  Two or three seconds of total loss of orientation, hands raised to protect his head from the next blow. A knee rising into his midriff. Air expelled too quickly. On the floor. A second blow, this time from another assailant’s foot, a large pointed Italian leather number, directly into the ribs.

  Harry quickly snatched out and grabbed an ankle, twisting the leg viciously and at the same time grabbed an arm to haul himself up. Halfway to his feet, number two was in with a chopping arm which glanced off his right shoulder.

  Harry grabbed the retreating arm and pulled him directly towards him – a swift head-butt to the nose and blood was spilt. Crack, a jab in the ear – left side of Harry’s head, his right elbow cracking the wing mirror on the car. More blood.

  Number two was momentarily stopped. Harry focused on assailant number one. With slightly blurred vision and a spinning head from the jab to the ear, he lunged forward, taking number one in a lunging tackle. Number one’s back collided with the bonnet; he arched in pain. N
erves sending a message. Harry attacked quickly, grabbing number one’s head with both of his hands and smashing it backwards into the bonnet. One, two, three times ... as number two was tackling him into the door frame. A downward elbow jab from Harry had number two stumble, giving Harry time to bear hug him, spin him around and crash him into the wall. More blood from number two.

  Harry rolled both his fists into one and brought them down quickly on the base of his neck.

  Number one was pushing himself up, groggily using the car boot as an aid. Harry’s right foot smashed into his face, followed by a raging left jab, a right jab. Number one was out.

  Quickly turning to finish number two … too late, a blow to the back of the head had Harry spinning and he fell unconscious to the floor. When he came around both assailants had vanished. He realised then that this had been a warning otherwise he would be dead. What he didn’t know was who and why.

  Blood seeping from his right arm he grabbed his hankie and held it against his right elbow, stemming the flow of bright red. He leaned against the side of the car, head hurting, his arm painful. Damaged ribs causing his breathing to be difficult. He made his way gingerly up to his apartment and called Blair.

  “Is that yourself?” was Blair’s standard way of answering Harry’s calls.

  Harry explained what had just gone down.

  “Have you made your will out yet?” Blair joked, trying to lighten the situation.

  “Yes, I have, and everything goes to the doctor who saves my life.”

  Harry also told him about the anonymous email he received a couple of days ago, that simply said. “Back-off or the next suit you wear won’t have any pockets in it.”

  To Blair that sounded like the kind of language Alf Hunter would use.

  “I’ll see you at Christmas.” said Blair.

  Chapter 50

  Harry peered out through the rain-soaked glass of his balcony window where the dark emerald sea was being agitated like a washing machine from the gale force winds. A few hardy souls battled the weather on the near deserted beach, clinging desperately to their beanies and barking dogs. The sky was an angry green and looked like it contained snow.