by Andy Wiseman
‘‘Mitigating circumstances’,’ replied Harry.
‘Such as?’ said Phillip Harker.
‘‘Assault on a police officer in the execution of his duty’.’
‘I suppose you were innocent of that, too?’ said Barbara-Anne.
‘No, I was guilty of that. Two police officers were sent to arrest me. I head-butted one, breaking his nose, the other, I hit with a left hook, breaking his jaw,’ replied Harry, amusement in his eyes.
No one spoke. Everyone stared at Harry - even Stanley, who had paused in the act of refilling Barbara-Anne’s glass. ‘But that was then, this is now. I’m a reformed character. And I’d like to say how much I’ve enjoyed having Sunday lunch with you,’ continued Harry, smiling broadly at each in turn. He then turned to Stanley, ‘Any chance of something a little stronger, Stan? A whisky with a little ice, maybe?’
As Stanley left the room, Phillip turned to his daughter, and in hushed tones, made idle chit-chat about the Gazette. Harry looked across to Barbara-Anne, to find her staring at him intently.
‘Where do you hail from, Mrs Harker?’ he asked.
‘Kensington. Why?’
‘Hmm,’ said Harry, frowning deeply, ‘it’s just that I could swear there was the slightest trace of an East End accent in your voice,’ he said, smiling. ‘Are you an East End girl?’
‘Good grief, certainly not!’ responded Barbara-Anne.
‘Are you sure? Accents fascinate me. I can usually place an accent within a few miles of its origin, and I would’ve said you were from the Stepney area. But that can’t be right. You’re too refined to have come from an area like Stepney. I must’ve got it wrong.’
‘I sometimes do charitable work on behalf of the W.I., in parts of the East End, maybe that’s it,’ she replied, taking a large gulp of wine and forcing herself to return Harry’s steady gaze. Harry gave her a wink, then muttered an ‘excuse me’, and went in search of a bathroom.
CHAPTER 18
The journey back into London was a subdued one. Izzy, who was driving, was thinking about her Father’s comment about Harry being a “rough diamond”, yet an “interesting man”. She’d hoped to shock her parents, by turning up with Harry rather than Jonathan, but, she realised, the more she saw of Harry Windsor, the less she seemed to know about him: he was an enigma.
‘You ok?’ asked Harry, breaking into her thoughts. When she nodded in reply, he said, with a smile, ‘Did you invite me to your father’s house for the shock value?’
She glanced at him sharply. Christ, don’t tell me he’s a bloody mind reader as well! ‘My mother seems to like you,’ she said, in reply.
‘Stepmother,’ he corrected.
‘Whatever,’ she replied.
‘You don’t get on with her, do you?’
‘She’s a money grabbing bitch, who only wants my father for what he’s worth, rather than who he is.’
‘Where did your father meet her?’
Izzy frowned. ‘You know, I’m not sure. It may have been at his club, Hadleigh House in Richmond. Why?’
‘Just wondered.’
‘Do you know something I don’t?’ she asked him.
‘I know that no amount of pronouncing your ‘aitches’, can hide an upbringing,’ he replied. ‘What happened to your birth mother?’
‘She died of cancer when I was young.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said, meaning it.
Izzy shrugged. ‘I don’t really remember much about her. All I’ve got left are photographs.’
‘It’s something, I suppose.’
They drove-on in silence for the next few miles, before Izzy asked Harry what he knew about Mollie’s father, Patrick. In answer, Harry took Patrick’s business card from his pocket, and said, ‘No more than what’s printed on this card.’ He then told her he’d telephoned Patrick Dolan a number of times and left messages, but had no response. ‘Something doesn’t feel right about this... this whole thing,’ he said, shaking his head.
Izzy glanced at the card that Harry was holding. ‘“Dolan Developments”. That name sounds familiar. I’m sure the Gazette has covered a story on them. I think - and I could be wrong - they’re on the verge of bankruptcy.’
Harry just shook his head. Somehow he wasn’t surprised. Izzy then suggested they call in at the offices of Dolan Developments while on the way back to Crouch End, until Harry pointed out it was a Sunday, and the chances of someone being there would be slim - even more so if they were going bankrupt. Not one to be deterred, Izzy’s next suggestion was that they go to Patrick’s house.
‘We don’t know where he lives,’ said Harry.
Izzy pulled over and parked. She then took out her iPhone and started to tap on the screen. ‘Register of Electors!’ she announced. ‘I’ll search the Electoral Role, through the internet, for a Patrick Dolan.’
‘Don’t you need to plug that into in a phone socket or something?’ asked Harry.
Izzy gave him a withering look. ‘Remind me Harry, what century were you born in?’
Harry merely grunted, and continued to watch her tap the screen. Then, ‘What if there’s more than one Patrick Dolan?’ he said. ‘Or is that a daft question too?’
‘No, that’s a good question. In fact, I would be very surprised if there was not more than one Patrick Dolan. There are probably hundreds.’
Harry looked at her, waiting. ‘Okay genius, enlighten me.’
‘His business address is in Kilburn, right?’ Harry nodded. ‘So, chances are his home address is not far away.’ When Harry didn’t look convinced, Izzy ploughed on. ‘Patrick is Irish, yes?’ Again, Harry nodded. ‘Kilburn and neighbouring Willesden both have strong Irish communities so, logically, he may want to stay near his own kind - so to speak.’ Izzy could see Harry was getting bored. ‘Plus, plus...’ she said, waving her iPhone at him to emphasise her point, ‘...Mollie goes to Camden Art College which is only a stone’s throw away...’ Harry rolled his eyes. ‘...and, listen. As a property developer, he’s bound to have a big house, reflecting his vocation and love of property. So chances are, he lives on the borders of Willesden, Kilburn and Hampstead, which should narrow things down a bit,’ she said, jabbing Harry with the phone to drive home her point.
‘Bit tenuous,’ muttered Harry.
‘Aagh!’ said Izzy, in frustration. ‘This is the internet, Harry, not a bloody crystal ball!’
She returned to tapping on the screen, hunched over in concentration. Harry watched her. Her blonde hair kept falling down over her face. When it did, she would tuck it back behind her ear.
Noticing something, Harry leaned in a little closer, to peer at her. Izzy, sensing she was under scrutiny, froze, her eyes flicking up to catch Harry staring intently at her.
‘Did you know,’ he said, ‘you stick your tongue out when you concentrate?’
The tongue shot back in, the eyes dropped, and Izzy went back to tapping. Harry sat back, smiling.
‘GOT IT!’ said Izzy, loudly enough to make Harry jump, and his smile slip. ‘Patrick Sean Dolan, lives in Hampstead,’ she told him, beaming.
‘Okay, Lois Lane, I’m impressed.’
‘Who?’
Harry groaned.
‘Just kidding. Of course I know who Lois Lane is,’ she said, grinning, as she started the car and pulled away.
Izzy parked across the road. She and Harry both stared out at the large modern detached house. There were no vehicles parked on the drive, and the blinds were closed. It looked deserted. ‘Drive around the block,’ said Harry. Izzy looked at him questioningly. ‘Please,’ he added.
Ten minutes later, after circling the block twice, and then dropping Harry off at the end of a lane - and with no instruction other than to go and knock on the front door - Izzy approached Patrick Dolan’s house, lifted the heavy brass door knocker, and knocked loudly. Receiving no answer, she tried again. After what seemed an age, and still no sign of Harry, she wondered what to do next. Should she drive around to where she�
�d dropped Harry off, to see if she could find him? She decided to knock once more - if for no other reason than because she couldn’t make a decision.
She was reaching for the door knocker when the door suddenly opened, making her jump back. There stood Harry. He indicated with a nod of his head for her to enter. As she followed him through to the rear of the house, he explained how he’d caught Patrick trying ‘to-do-a-runner’, out through the back gate that led onto a lane.
Izzy walked into what she thought must be the biggest kitchen diner in the world: moulded pine doors, marble style Formica worktops, red quarry tile flooring, and flower patterned curtains. Very homey. Shame it was a pigsty. Dirty pots and pans littered the worktops, and the sink was also full to the brim.
In the middle of it all, sitting at a large kitchen table - also strewn with dirty pots and remnants of food - was a man that Izzy took to be Patrick Dolan. Patrick was slumped forward, his large forearms resting on the edge the table, chin resting on his chest, clearly worse for wear. He was dishevelled; his eyes bloodshot; his face florid; the smell of stale alcohol strong. An almost-empty bottle of Irish whiskey was on the table in front of him.
Izzy could also clearly see a livid red mark on Patrick’s cheek. She looked questioningly at Harry, who merely shrugged and said, ‘I had to give him a-bit-of-a-slap.’ Izzy noted that Patrick was a big man, as big, as if not bigger than, Harry.
She pulled up a chair to sit next to Patrick. Harry stood with arms folded, leaning back against the worktop, watching. ‘Hello, Mr Dolan. My name is Isobelle Harker.’ Patrick Dolan did not respond. ‘I work for the North London Gazette.’ Still no response. ‘I wrote the piece on Harry.’ Izzy saw Patrick’s eyes briefly flicker in recognition. He lifted his head agonisingly slowly, and then turned his tired and worn face to look at Izzy, who smiled back reassuringly, before then gently asking Patrick what was going on. Slowly but surely, between incoherent rambling, Patrick told them about how his business was going into liquidation, how his leased car had been taken back, and how he’d re-mortgaged the house without telling his wife, and because he was behind with the payments, the bank was going to repossess their home. Through tears, he told them that when his wife had found out about the repossession, she’d walked out on him.
‘That seems a little harsh,’ said Izzy to Patrick, trying ease his unhappiness.
Harry looked on intently, and with mixed feelings. The annoyance he’d originally felt for the Irishman was slowly turning into anger, and yet he was fascinated by the amount of tenderness being shown to the man by Izzy, the spoilt-little-rich-girl.
‘I took a risk... I gambled...’ sobbed Patrick, ‘with everything... all of it... everyone...’
‘Dolan!’ said Harry, taking a step forward, no longer able to contain himself, ‘What about my money, the five grand you owe me? How exactly are you planning on paying me?’
Patrick slowly shook his head in bewilderment, his palms upwards, before they dropped back into his lap in resignation. ‘Gone. It’s all gone,’ he mumbled. ‘There’s nothing left... no one left...’
Izzy glared at Harry. ‘I thought you’d agreed to be paid on results only,’ she pointed out to Harry. ‘And at this moment in time, you haven’t exactly achieved much, have you Harry?’
Harry turned away in anger. He went back to leaning against the worktop.
Izzy continued to glare at Harry for his lack of tact. ‘Patrick,’ she said, turning back, ‘tell us about Mollie. Tell us what’s happened to your daughter, Mollie.’ Patrick lifted his head. He stared blankly into Izzy’s face. Izzy saw his eyes once again start to well up with tears, as his thought process struggled with the alcohol that was numbing his brain, to remember his daughter. His eyes took on a faraway look, before his face then slowly crumpled, appearing to collapse inwards. Huge sobs of grief erupted from him, wracking his body, his broad shoulders shaking with the effort. He tried to speak, but was unable. Izzy placed a hand on his forearm, gently stroking it to reassure him, before then asking, ‘Why did you go to Harry, for help?’ Between sobs and gasps for breath, Patrick managed to tell them he’d borrowed money to pay off some of his debts. Izzy frowned, ‘But what does that have to do with Harry?’ she asked. Patrick then told her how he’d read about Harry in the newspaper. He tried to explain - none too clearly - how the interest on the money he’d borrowed kept going up and up, and that he didn’t have it, wasn’t able to pay it back. They said that if he didn’t pay up, they would take everything that belonged to him. Everything that was dear to him. ‘Patrick,’ said Izzy, gripping his arm, ‘who’s “they”, Patrick?’
Patrick inclined his head in Harry’s direction, and then said, ‘His kind.’
Izzy shook her head, not understanding what Patrick meant. ‘“His kind”?’ she repeated.
Patrick nodded. ‘His friends.’
Izzy shot a look at Harry, who shook his head, equally mystified.
‘The Jew,’ added Patrick.
All of a sudden, it seemed as though time was standing still for Harry. Nobody moved. Not a sound was made. Harry’s past came rushing back at express speed.
Izzy looked back at Harry, who appeared frozen to the spot, his body all tensed up, as he stared fixedly at the back of Patrick’s head, all trace of anger now gone. If a pin was dropped, it would sound like a bomb going off. She blinked hard, but the tableau remained. She quickly thought back to what had just been said. “The Jew”, Patrick had said. Why did that sound familiar? That was when she remembered the conversation she and Harry had had in the pub a few days ago. Wasn’t Harry’s ex-employer also known by that name? Could it be the same man?
‘Patrick,’ said Izzy, shaking his arm to get his full attention, ‘tell me about the Jew.’
Patrick explained how he’d been put in touch with a man named Solomon - also known as the Jew - who’d agreed to loan him eighty thousand pounds while he completed a deal on one of his properties. Unfortunately, the housing market had worsened further, so Patrick was unable to sell. The interest on the loan was crippling, and Solomon wanted his money, so he’d sent a man to collect it. The man had told Patrick he would take everything he valued... everything he held dear.
‘“Everything I hold dear”,’ repeated Izzy. ‘He wasn’t just talking about monetary value, was he Patrick?’ Patrick shook his head. ‘Mollie?’ When Patrick didn’t respond, Izzy asked again, ‘Have they got Mollie, Patrick?’ The big Irishman just shrugged his shoulders. ‘Were you hoping Harry might know something about Mollie? Or would know where to look?’ Patrick nodded.
Harry interjected, asking Patrick to tell him what the money collector looked like. Patrick’s description, through his grief, was garbled and vague. ‘Was he carrying a knife?’ asked Harry. The look of fear on Patrick’s face told Harry all he needed to know. ‘Cutter!... Fuck!’ said Harry, specks of spittle flying from his mouth.
At this point, Patrick broke down completely, saying over and over again how sorry he was, and how he’d been a lousy father and husband, his body shaking with convulsing sobs of grief and sorrow, mucus trickling from his nose.
Izzy’s heart broke, as she looked on helplessly. When she glanced at Harry, she saw only disgust and contempt before he turned and walked away. In her pocket she found a clean paper tissue which she gave to Patrick, before then standing to get him a glass of water, though not before moving the whiskey bottle from within arm’s reach.
Harry was staring out through the patio doors at the wide open space of garden when Izzy came up behind him. ‘Do you know this man, Cutter?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I know him,’ replied Harry, angrily.
‘Is he a friend of yours?’
‘If that dumb Irish fucker,’ said Harry, jabbing a finger towards Patrick, ‘had told me about Solomon and Cutter sooner, it might not have got to this stage.’
Izzy looked up at Harry, unsure what to say. Harry was seething; his eyes blazed with anger, his fists clenching and unclenching. This was a side of him
she’d never seen; hadn’t expected.
Then she realised. Was Harry afraid? If so, of what?
Harry took a deep breath. Tried to calm himself. ‘Cutter’s a fuckin’ lunatic,’ he said. ‘A drug-taking-psycho. His name’s Wayne Salter, not a name he likes or uses. He prefers to be called Cutter, because of his love of knives. As a young boy, he used to cut the limbs off stray cats’. He killed his first man at the age of twelve. He was part of a street gang who attempted to rob an Asian newsagent. It went wrong. The newsagent raised the alarm, so Cutter stabbed him through the heart. When the Old Bill finally turned up, all the gang had fled except Cutter, who was still stabbing the dead body of the newsagent. The police pathologist was unable to determine the number of stab wounds due the body being so badly damaged. Cutter was diagnosed psychotic, and detained ‘at Her Majesty’s pleasure’, in a secure institution, from where he was released a few years later, after evaluation, good behaviour, and continuous medication. The latter he stopped taking the moment he was free.’ Harry paused, before returning his gaze to the garden. ‘Mr Solomon used to occasionally use him for the more... ‘difficult’ types of jobs.’
‘How do you mean, “difficult”?’ asked Izzy.
Harry turned back to Izzy, to look into her questioning eyes. ‘Messy, would be a better word...’ Izzy could clearly see the conflict within Harry. ‘The jobs that I refused to do,’ he said, finally.
CHAPTER 19
‘PIG!’ yelled Izzy, at the top of her voice. ‘Bloody arrogant pig!’ she added, as she slammed the palm of her hand against the steering wheel of her car, sounding the horn to vent her anger rather than to alert or berate fellow motorists.
Both Izzy and Harry had driven away from Patrick’s house sullen and angry; but for different reasons. When Izzy had expressed to Harry her concern for Patrick in his present state, Harry had dismissed it in a less than complimentary manner, making the journey back to Harry’s flat far from harmonious. On arrival Harry had told Izzy, in no uncertain terms, that was she to get any further involved, and that she was to forget about Patrick and Mollie completely; he would deal with it.
