Harry's Justice

by Andy Wiseman

  Steve’s place of work was a modern building. He walked through the main entrance and into a lobby area, to then nod a greeting to the uniformed man sitting at the reception desk. ‘Morning, Sarge,’ said Steve.

  ‘Morning, Constable,’ replied the Desk Sergeant, barely raising his eyes from the Sporting Life newspaper spread out in front of him.

  Steve’s office was ‘open plan’, one large room with about two dozen work desks and, as usual at that particular time of the morning, all empty. His desk was across the far side of the room, stuck in the corner. A fact not lost on Steve. The desk - like his house - was spartan and functional: a desktop computer, keyboard, telephone and a nameplate.

  Placing his coffee and briefcase on his desk, he removed half a dozen paper case files from the briefcase before placing it on the floor. After hanging his jacket over the back of his chair, he sat down and turned his computer on.

  While he waited for it to boot-up, he straightened his keyboard and untangled the chord to his telephone. The office cleaner never left things the way he liked. The nameplate - D.C. Stephen Marshall - wasn’t quite parallel to the back edge of the desk. As he straightened it, he idly wondered what the record was for the oldest Detective Constable in service. He contemplated - and not for the first time - on his lack of career success. Would he ever make D.S.? Detective Sergeant? Probably not, for what he suspected could be a number of possible reasons: envy because of where he lived and because he drove an expensive car - which was the reason he no longer used it for work, opting to use one of the pool cars instead - or the suspicion he was a bent copper? It could be one or both of them. More likely though, it was because of his D.I., his commanding officer. In polite terms it could be referred to as a personality clash, in less than polite terms it could be because his D.I. was a wanker, and that he’d got it in for Steve - and Steve hated swearing. He glanced at the case files on his desk. No amount of accepting or volunteering for the dead-end cases, the crappy jobs nobody else wanted - runaways, prostitutes getting beaten up by their punters, car theft etc - or working long hours was ever going to change that.

  At ten minutes to eight, Steve checked his watch, before then deciding to get a coffee to take into the eight o’clock briefing. His intention had been to get a cappuccino from the deli, two doors down from the police station, but as he headed towards the exit, he spotted two of his colleagues talking at the hot drinks vending machine. He veered towards them.

  On most days, Steve would not be seen dead using one of these machines; the selection was limited, and the quality and taste was on a par with industrial cleaning fluid. But today, he couldn’t be bothered to make the effort to go to the deli, and besides, he hadn’t spoken to anyone for at least an hour.

  As he approached, he heard them talking about going out with a few of the other officers for a “Ruby” - a curry. ‘Hi, Guys,’ said Steve. His colleagues nodded acknowledgment, stepping to one side to allow him access to the machine. ‘Did you Guys see the footie last night?’ he asked over his shoulder, as he rummaged for some change. ‘Cracking match by all accounts. Didn’t get chance to see it, myself.’ he reached down for his coffee, grimacing at its colour. ‘The pundits’ reckoned Spurs could go all the way to the final. What do you guys think?’ he said, as he turned, only to find his colleagues had gone. ‘Guess it’s going to be a DVD and a take-away, then,’ he muttered to himself.

  CHAPTER 17

  At eleven thirty five on Sunday morning, Izzy pressed the doorbell for the ground-floor flat, long and hard, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. After a few moments, the door was thrown open to reveal Harry: pencil tucked behind an ear, a battery operated power drill in his hand, wearing jeans, tee-shirt, a fine covering of sawdust, and a heavy frown upon his face.

  ‘Morning,’ said Izzy. ‘My, my, is that a power drill in your hand, Harry Windsor? Or are you just pleased to see me?’

  Harry’s gaze took in a smartly dressed Izzy, wearing sharply cut beige trousers, and a white cotton blouse. ‘You’re early,’ he said.

  ‘My finely tuned reporter’s instinct is telling me you’re not a morning person, Harry,’ said Izzy, eyebrows raised.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ replied Harry, turning.

  Izzy followed Harry into the hallway, past the stairs leading to the upper floors, and through to his flat. She glanced through open doorways as he led her through to the kitchen at the rear.

  ‘Wow! Nice kitchen,’ said Izzy, running her fingers along the shiny black granite worktops and highly polished stainless steel appliances. ‘It looks like it’s unused,’ she added.

  ‘That’s because it’s not,’ he replied. ‘Used, that is. At least not much. I prefer to eat out.’

  ‘Kitchens excite me,’ she said.

  Harry paused in the filling of the kettle, and gave Izzy a quizzical look. Weird. ‘Coffee?’ he asked. Izzy nodded, making herself comfortable at the kitchen table. From a wall cupboard, Harry got out a clean mug, into which he then put a spoon of instant coffee. ‘Milk’s in the fridge,’ he said, indicating with a nod of his head. ‘I’m going to take a shower.’ He started to head towards the kitchen door, but stopped, remembering. ‘Oh, yeah.’ From a kitchen drawer he extracted Mollie’s bag, and put it on the table in front of Izzy. ‘See what your finely tuned reporter’s instinct makes of that.’ He then walked away.

  Izzy glanced into the bag, and then at the retreating figure of Harry. ‘Why do you disappear off to the shower whenever I call to see you?’ she called after him. ‘Do I make you feel dirty?’ she added, with a grin.

  Harry carried on walking.

  As soon as Izzy heard the sound of running water, she was on her feet and wandering around the flat, looking into rooms, cupboards, and drawers, as any good investigative reporter would - or so she told herself. She saved the bedroom until last, conscious of the fact that Harry was in the en-suite bathroom. Naked.

  She was looking through the contents of Mollie’s bag, when Harry walked in. She studied him closely, peering at him.

  ‘What?’ said Harry, under her scrutiny.

  ‘Haven’t you got a shirt?...With a collar?... And ironed?’

  Harry looked down. ‘This tee-shirt is clean,’ he replied. ‘And ironed.’ He looked up to see eyebrows arched, lips pursed, and a steady look staring back at him. He sighed heavily, turned, and headed back to the bedroom.

  On his return, Izzy was staring out through the French doors. ‘This really is a lovely view,’ she said, before turning to look at Harry. A frown of annoyance started to form on Harry’s brow as he saw Izzy’s eyes drop. ‘I don’t think the blue jeans really go.’

  ‘Where-the-fuck,’ asked Harry, arms wide, palms upwards, ‘are we having Sunday lunch? The fuckin’ Ritz?’

  ‘It’s a surprise. And there’s no need to swear,’ replied Izzy, turning her attention back to the view through the French doors.

  Ten minutes later, Harry was wearing a smart pair of Chinos and they were out in the street, standing next to Izzy’s car. ‘I’ll drive,’ said Harry. Izzy’s eyebrows shot up. ‘If you don’t mind,’ he added, seeing the look. ‘I don’t make a good passenger.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘And I could do with the practice.’ Izzy, not looking the least bit convinced, threw him the keys anyway. When Harry noticed the broken wing mirror that had been duct taped back into position with all the finesse of a five year old wrapping a Christmas present, he said, ‘What happened to the mirror?’

  Izzy shrugged indifferently. ‘You know how it is in London,’ she said, as they climbed into the car.

  Harry turned the ignition, and felt the rumble of the Saab’s engine.

  Izzy glanced across at him as she buckled her seat belt, a look of concern crossing her face. ‘Have you flown one of these before?’ she asked, referring to the Saab’s power and aviation link.

  Harry grinned broadly. ‘Where to, your ladyship?’ he asked, as he quickly pulled away from the kerb.

  Izzy told him to hea
d towards Chertsey. Harry’s only comment at the distance of their destination was to say it was a nice day for a drive. Izzy assumed he would take the simplest route: the North Circular around to the M4, out to the M25, and then down to Chertsey, but Harry surprised her by cutting through Central London towards South West London, passing Richmond upon Thames, and then onto Chertsey. It was clear he knew his way around London; Izzy found herself seeing parts of the city she didn’t know even existed. She soon relaxed back into her seat; Harry knew how to handle a car, lack of practice or not.

  ‘Where did you learn to drive so expertly?’ she asked.

  Harry merely shrugged. ‘Part of the job,’ he replied.

  She flicked him a glance, but he was straight faced and had his eye on the road. “Part of the job”! What did he mean, “Part of the job”? Recalling Harry’s checkered past, Izzy wondered if he meant a ‘bank job’. Was he the ‘get-away driver’? Izzy was trying to decide whether to ask him or not, when he spoke.

  ‘What did you make of the contents of Mollie’s bag?

  ‘Well...’ said Izzy, searching for the right words. ‘Its odd... Odd in the fact that all the day-to-day things a woman needs were in there. Everything. Meaning, why hasn’t she got the bag with her? Money, birth control pills, phone... credit cards! What girl leaves home without her credit cards? Also, her bank statements show there have been no transactions of any kind for almost two weeks.’ Harry nodded in agreement. ‘And the regular monthly payment into her account stopped some weeks before that,’ she added.

  ‘I didn’t see that,’ said Harry, briefly taking his eyes off the road to glance at Izzy.

  ‘You said she was a student?’ Harry nodded. ‘At a guess, I’d say they were payments from her parents for rent and bills and stuff. But why would they stop? She hasn’t finished her course, has she?

  ‘No,’ said Harry, shaking his head. Then, after a pause, ‘Did you read the diary?’ A shadow passed across Izzy’s face. She nodded her head. ‘And?’ prompted Harry.

  ‘It reads like she was being... abused... Sexually abused. She writes how “he” likes to call her “daddy’s little girl” when they are having sex, and how he likes to beat her...’ Izzy shook her head in disgust. ‘She never mentions his name. It’s always “he”. I thought it was her father - and maybe it is - yet I also got the impression there was more than one “he”, and that maybe... just maybe... she likes it, sometimes.’ Harry threw her a sharp glance. ‘I don’t know,’ said Izzy, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Call it woman’s intuition - or barking up the wrong tree.’

  The rest of the journey was spent in silence, both of them with their own thoughts.

  As they approached Chertsey, Harry asked for directions, so Izzy directed him through leafy suburbs, to eventually arrive at a large set of imposing gates and a long sweeping drive up to what looked like a small mansion.

  ‘Bloody hell! What is this place?’ asked Harry, as they slowly cruised up the driveway towards the house. ‘A hotel?’

  ‘No. It’s my father’s home.’

  ‘What?’ replied Harry, braking sharply, forcing Izzy’s body forward against the seat belt. ‘You’re taking me to meet your mother and father?’

  ‘Stepmother and father,’ she corrected.

  Harry stared at her.

  ‘Don’t worry, Harry, I’m not going to ask you to marry me. My father has been badgering me to visit, so I thought I would ‘kill two birds with one stone’, as they say.’

  Harry looked back towards the imposing period house, shook his head, then put the car into gear and drove-on towards the main entrance.

  Harry and Izzy were met by a butler, who opened the huge solid timber front door just as they reached the top of the stone steps. Izzy warmly greeted the butler - who was called Stanley - by calling him Stan. As they entered into a large entrance hall, Harry took in the scene: a wide staircase led-off the hallway to the upper-floors, the walls were covered in a dark timber panelling, and this in turn was covered with paintings, carvings, and other such fine items of artwork; a few antique dressers stood against the panelled walls, and on top of them were more antiques, while the flooring was old marble mosaic, which echoed footsteps - as it did now, drawing Harry’s attention to the couple that approached.

  They were greeted by a distinguished gentleman who Harry put to be in his early sixties, and who was smartly dressed in what was undoubtedly a tailored suit, with shirt and tie. Accompanying him was by an attractive woman who Harry figured to be late forties, and who carried herself in what might be termed as a ‘woman of breeding’. She wore an electric-blue wrap-over cocktail dress, which was tied at the waist, and finished just above the knee. She clearly looked after herself as the dress showed by the way it hugged the curves of her figure.

  Harry was feeling a little ‘underdressed’.

  Izzy embraced the distinguished gentleman. ‘Hello, Daddy.’

  ‘Hello, Sweetheart,’ replied her father.

  ‘Barbara,’ said Izzy, coolly, to the attractive woman.

  ‘Isobelle,’ replied Barbara, equally as cool.

  ‘Daddy, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine. This is Harry Windsor.’

  ‘Hello, Harry. Phillip Harker,’ said Izzy’s father, shaking Harry’s hand firmly while looking into his eyes.

  Harry could see that Izzy’s father was a confident and successful man who was now weighing-up Izzy’s new - and Harry guessed probably unexpected - friend.

  ‘Mr Harker,’ replied Harry, politely.

  ‘Barbara-Anne,’ said the well-spoken Barbara, taking Harry’s hand, and flashing him an expensively maintained smile. ‘With an ‘e’,’ she then added, holding on to Harry’s hand longer than was politely required.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Barbara-Anne - with an ‘‘e’’,’ responded Harry, with an even bigger smile.

  ‘Izzy didn’t mention she was bringing a friend,’ said her father.

  ‘No, she didn’t,’ replied Harry, flicking a glance at Izzy.

  ‘Shall we eat?’ said Izzy, hooking her arm through her father’s, to then lead him off, and bring a halt to any further questions. Harry and Barbara-Anne duly followed.

  Sunday lunch was a subdued three course affair, interspersed with brief and polite conversation. Harry thoroughly enjoyed the Roast Beef, which was slightly pink in the middle, came with an array of vegetables, and was served by Stanley. Izzy, being a vegetarian, only ate the vegetables. Barbara-Anne apologized profusely - though not with a great deal of sincerity, thought Harry - for forgetting that fact. Izzy smiled back tightly, saying it was no problem at all, and that Barbara shouldn’t worry her pretty little head - with even less sincerity.

  After the meal had been consumed, and a reasonable amount of fine wine had been drunk - mainly by Barbara-Anne - they retired to the lounge for coffee.

  ‘Harry...’ said Barbara-Anne, to no one in particular. ‘Isn’t that short for Henry?’ Barbara-Anne - who was sticking with the wine - was reclining in a large wing backed chair, the lower half of her wrap-over dress having parted completely, to show her long and elegantly crossed legs while somehow still managing to maintain some modesty - a state of which she was either completely unaware, or didn’t care about. Philip Harker also seemed unaware, but a quick study of his eyes showed he was embarrassed and chose to pretend it wasn’t happening. Harry could see that Izzy, on the other hand, was doing her best - badly - to hide her contempt for Barbara-Anne’s behaviour.

  ‘A bit like royalty,’ Barbara-Anne continued. ‘Are you a prince, Harry?’

  ‘Far from it, Mrs Harker,’ replied Harry, with an easy smile.

  ‘What sort of education did you have, Harry?’ asked Izzy’s father.

  ‘Daddy...’ said Izzy, knowing where the conversation was leading.

  ‘The usual,’ Harry replied.

  ‘The usual?’

  ‘Daddy, I’m sure Harry -’

  ‘Ah, you mean as in grammar school, then on to university. A university educa
tion is good grounding for a young person,’ said Phillip Harker, casting a glance at his daughter. ‘I’ve always encouraged my children to go the route of an institutionally educated career, explained to them that if they didn’t, they could end up like many of the ‘unfortunates’ on the streets - unemployed and dependant on drink and drugs.’

  Harry could see Phillip Harker was warming to his topic. He could also see that Izzy was looking more and more uncomfortable. Barbara-Anne indicated for Stanley to top-up her glass. ‘I can certainly confirm I’ve had an institutionalised education.’

  Phillip Harker frowned at Harry’s phrasing.

  Izzy froze.

  Barbara-Anne sipped her wine.

  ‘May I ask which one?’ Phillip Harker enquired.

  With a big lazy grin, Harry then said, ‘Pentonville.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve heard of a university called Pentonville before. Where is it?’

  ‘Caledonian Road, North London,’ replied Harry.

  ‘Caledonian Road... I don’t think...’ Phillip Harker struggled to place a university on the Caledonian Road.

  Izzy looked across at Harry, concern and excitement flicking back and forth across her face.

  ‘The only institution I can recall on the Caledonian Road, is H.M.P. Pentonville...’ Phillip Harker finally said, as he looked up at Harry.

  Harry smiled back, benignly.

  Phillip Harker visibly paled, as realisation dawned.

  Izzy’s hands flew to her face - though more to hide the grin, than from shock.

  Barbara-Anne choked on her wine. ‘You’re a convict?’ she said, in a strangled voice.

  ‘Was,’ replied Harry.

  ‘What was your crime?’ asked Phillip Harker, sounding a little worried. ‘And how long were you jailed for?’ he added, as an afterthought.

  ‘Possession of Class B drugs. Cannabis. I was given three years - but I was innocent.’

  A snort of derision came from Barbara-Anne. ‘Yeah, right,’ she said, dabbing at some spilt wine on her dress, ‘all the cons say that.’

  Izzy leaned forward; while curious at Barbara-Anne’s turn of phrase, she also wanted to hear the details that Harry had been reluctant to reveal in their previous meetings. ‘Three years seems quite a long time for possession of Cannabis,’ said Izzy.