by Andy Wiseman
Izzy was now carving her way through the London traffic. To where, she did not know, and frankly did not care. She was angry. ‘How... How...’ Again, she slammed the palm of her hand against the steering wheel, as she struggled to articulate her feelings. ‘I mean... dismissing me like that, after all I have done for him. The ungrateful... Aargh!’ she exclaimed, again yelling at the top of her voice, oblivious to the alarmed looks she was drawing from the motorists parked alongside her at the traffic lights.
CHAPTER 20
Snick! Snick! Snick!
The Head of Security was driving his XJS, on the way to deal with the problem of the Snitch. To enforce the Boss’s request.
Snick! Snick! Snick!
In the front passenger seat was the man with the maniacal stare. Excited. Eager. Boasting what he was going to do to the Snitch. Opening and closing his flick knife.
Snick! Snick! Snick!
The Head of Security wasn’t happy. This was the Boss’s idea of additional back-up. The man was clearly unhinged. He was probably psychotic or a heavy drug user - or both. Either way, he was a liability.
The Head of Security kept his own counsel and his eyes on the road. He could feel the gun tucked into his waistband in the small of his back. He pictured pressing it against Psycho’s temple, and pulling the trigger.
As he drove, he thought about how to deal with the Snitch, and in such a manner that he no longer posed a problem to the Boss. There appeared to be only one solution, and it was a step he’d never had to take before - so far.
The Snitch lived in a tower block on an estate in Harlesden. The Head of Security pulled into what served as a car park, negotiating broken glass, litter, haphazardly strewn industrial sized Wheelie Bins, and the only other car in the car park, which was burnt out. He was reluctant to leave his car there, but a quick getaway might be needed.
They approached a battle weary looking building. Some windows were curtained, some boarded over, and some had gaping holes, surviving shards of glass desperately clinging to the edges. Getting through the heavy, black painted steel outer door, without trying to use the broken intercom didn’t prove to be an issue. The door lock was missing.
The lobby contained a bank of wall fixed post boxes for the tenants’ mail - every single door bent, twisted or ripped off; empty beer cans; more litter and broken glass; and the overpowering smell of urine.
The lift door was open, ceiling light flickering, dangling control panel held in place only by its electrical wiring. On the walls, spray-can graffiti depicted crude images of male genitalia, football teams, and a lack of grammatical education.
They took the stairs.
The Enforcer paused outside the door of the Snitch’s flat, still uncertain, until Psycho pushed past to repeatedly slam the palm of his hand against the door.
Decision taken.
Seconds later, the door was opened by a young male: bare chested, wearing sweat pants only, and looking less than focused.
Not the snitch.
Without invitation or consultation, Psycho launched himself forward, pushing the young male backwards and into the first room off the dingy corridor.
The Enforcer strode down the hallway, throwing doors open, to reveal empty rooms, leaving a reverberating boom and the agonised cries of pain and punishment in his wake. He smelled the sweet and distinctive smell of cannabis.
Last door, ahead.
Adrenaline building, blood pumping, muscles taut. Tense, anticipating, conflict expected. Pace quickening, heart pounding, fists clenched. Pain to be expected, pain to be inflicted.
Last door, partly ajar.
The Enforcer threw it open, only for it to spring back at lightning speed, violently cannoning into his chest then forehead, before his skull was whiplashed backwards, the crown of his head crashing into the door casing, legs buckling, body sagging, hitting the floor.
Dazed and directionless, the Enforcer felt the onset of blackness, of floating, weightless. A feeling of comfort, of welcome sanctuary. A feeling of bliss.
But it was only to be momentary, prior to crashing into an unforgiving brick plastered wall, and harsh reality.
Strong hands roughly grabbed the Enforcer’s jacket, before he was airborne once again, clearing a sofa and crashing into a huge widescreen TV, knocking it off its stand.
Eyes blurred with tears of pain, he shook his head to clear his vision, knowing he had only seconds before the next attack.
A shape loomed up before him. Tall, grotesquely muscular, and semi naked.
The Enforcer lashed out, before he was again thrown about the room. He bounced and crashed off walls and items of furniture, like a ricocheting squash ball. He couldn’t believe the Snitch’s strength, punches and kicks seeming to have no effect - probably high on Steroids and Speed, a deadly combination making an adrenalin pumped battering ram. He realised, painfully, that he’d got at least a couple of broken ribs. The gun - which he hadn’t intended to use - had been lost amongst the wreckage.
The Enforcer landed on a glass topped dining table which shattered and collapsed under his weight. He lay amongst the debris of mangled chrome table legs, and thousands of tiny diamond-like glistening pieces of shattered safety glass. He spat blood.
So much for back-up.
Muted shouting and banging on the party-wall from the neighbouring tenants could be heard, prior to their music being turned up in an attempt to drown out the noise.
Screaming obscenities, the Snitch picked up a heavy chrome table leg and raised it above his head, preparing to bring it down with maximum force on the head of his prostrate victim.
With lightening speed and force, the Enforcer kicked out both his legs, his heels connecting with his attacker’s kneecaps. He felt and heard the crunch of cartilage.
The Snitch howled with pain, before falling to his knees, only to again cry out on impact.
The Enforcer pushed himself backwards, extracting himself from broken furniture, feeling the tiny shards of glass embed themselves in the palms of his hands as he propelled himself across the floor and back towards the wall, speeding up when his attacker started to drag himself across the floor towards him, oblivious of pain and broken glass, bellowing like a wounded bull, anger and hatred etched across his face, intent on revenge and retribution.
As the Enforcer’s back hit the wall, he wondered if this is how it would end - the nature of his passing. Never before had he felt so tired and defeated. Being beaten to death by a semi naked bodybuilder could be considered vaguely funny if it wasn’t so final.
That was when he felt the shape of hard metal beneath him. The shape of hardened, pressed steel.
The nature of his passing? Maybe, but not today.
He raised the gun.
Hesitated.
Ear splitting, gun blast. Echoing, then fading.
The acrid smell of gunpowder.
The neighbour’s music abruptly stopping.
Only the Enforcer’s laboured breathing could be heard, no other noise came from within the flat.
The Enforcer entered the kitchen, battered, bruised and bleeding, gun hanging loosely in hand.
The young male was on the floor, sweat pants around his knees, not moving. Blood everywhere.
One less witness.
Psycho stood, knife in hand, adjusting his clothing. He grinned, his teeth stained by blood. But not of his own.
He winked at the Enforcer, declared he’d taught the ‘fag’, a lesson.
The Enforcer looked at him, despising him, before backhanding him and catching him by surprise just above and below his right eye, the hardened steel splitting the skin...
CHAPTER 21
The evening was drawing in. The leaden grey sky that had periodically released November rain showers throughout the day was now turning to a light- polluted hue of dark orange.
In the gloom of a black taxi cab sat Harry, alone with his thoughts. The partition between the driver and the rear of the cab was firmly closed. The cabbie did
n’t offer conversation, and Harry didn’t invite any.
Harry was on his way to Golders Green, to meet his past; it could be said to confront it, and, if so, a confrontation it certainly would be. Harry was an angry man. He could feel the rage building within him. A rage possibly strong enough to kill.
He gazed out through the cab windows at London city life: the hustle and bustle. Even on a Sunday evening it was busy: clubbers, theatregoers, tourists.
CHAPTER 22
Izzy was parked on a quiet suburban street. For two reasons: one, she was lost - not that she was concerned, she could just turn on her Sat Nav; two: she needed to think. Her forefinger beat a rhythmic tattoo on the steering wheel, indicating she had calmed down to a point of being only slightly annoyed. He is so wrong, she thought. He’s going about it all wrong. Mollie will get hurt - he will probably get hurt! She sighed heavily. ‘He’s a pig-headed fool,’ she said, aloud to herself. ‘The police are the only people who can sort this out.’
She made a decision. On the local police force, there was a Detective Constable who, through the Gazette, she’d had dealings with before, and who, she suspected, had a crush on her. She would give him a ring. ‘I’ll show you, Harry Windsor,’ she said, as she dialled her mobile.
CHAPTER 23
The steady tick of a grandfather clock, the hiss and crackle of an open fire, and the faint scratch of fountain pen on paper, were the only sounds that could be heard in the large, yet dimly lit room. Had the room been fully lit, it would have revealed rare and valuable antiques, original works of art, hundreds of books, hand woven tapestries and rugs. Along with the beauty and textures of the room’s contents, was the wonderful smell of beeswax, adding a sense of history. Other than the glow from the fire, the only light was an anglepoise desk lamp that sat upon an elegantly preserved Louis XIV writing desk, and which shone down upon the ledgers that the hunched figure of Henry Solomon was diligently and patiently filling in. A china cup, filled with Earl Grey tea - brought to him by his elderly housekeeper before she’d gone home - was close to hand, but now cold and long forgotten in his rapt attention to the ledgers.
Henry Solomon was a man of advancing years. No one really knew how old he was, many would guesstimate early seventies. They would be wrong. He was elegantly dressed in a tailored three piece suit with a shirt and cravat. His divested jacket was on a coat hanger on a nearby coat stand. What little hair he had left was greying and carefully swept back, and with his goatee beard and the gold wire rimmed glasses perched on the end of his long nose, people thought he looked like everyone’s favourite kindly uncle. They would be wrong on that count, too.
As he worked his way down the columns of figures, his lips moved silently as he calculated the amount, the interest, and the due total. As a young man, he had trained as an accountant. He loved figures; numbers. He loved money. And there lay the problem. As an accountant, he felt he wasn’t being paid enough; paid his worth. So he put his training to better use. To a more profitable use.
His advancing years were reflected in his outlook on life. He rejected outright the possibility of using a computer to record his business dealings. The traditional method of pen and paper was more than adequate. The touch and the smell of the paper, and the beauty of the italicised word written in ink, were something special, real, tangible, a link to a past being preferred to the present or the future.
As he reached the bottom of the page, he tallied up the overall total, his head nodding in satisfaction. This done, he gently blew upon the page to speed the drying of wet ink, feeling the lightest caress of air against his hand as he did so. Though strangely, he thought, there was a chill to it, making him pause in reflection for a moment, before reaching for the cup of Earl Grey, only to realise it had gone cold.
He glanced up, over the top of his glasses, to peer at the grandfather clock. ‘My, my,’ he said, softly, ‘time does fly.’ Then, in a stronger voice, ‘Do you not agree, Henry, my dear boy?’
Harry stepped out from of the darkened doorway, and into the light. ‘Hello, Mr Solomon, sir,’ said Harry, in the same respectful manner he’d always shown to a man he’d known all his adult life. ‘You really should keep your front door locked at this time of night. There are some untrustworthy people about. Even in a respectable neighbourhood as this,’ he added.
‘People around here know me. Know who I am. So I don’t think that is likely to happen. Do you, Henry?’
‘I guess not,’ replied Harry.
‘Besides,’ said Solomon, leaning back in his chair, ‘I have Samson there to protect me,’ indicating the large, shaggy, German Shepherd dog that now sat obediently at Harry’s feet, ears pricked and gaze steady upon Harry.
‘That is how I knew it was you, Henry. There are very few people he trusts enough to allow into this house.’
‘You’ve still got him, then,’ said Harry, reaching down to affectionately stroke the dog’s head.
Henry Solomon’s craggy face softened, as he watched Harry greet the dog like an old friend, before the dog padded back to his spot in front of the fire.
‘Yes. Though, like me, he’s getting old. Not so agile as he used to be,’ he said, easing his skinny frame from his chair to place the ledgers he’d been working on into a large metal safe that stood against a wall, its door open, key in the lock. Once locked away, he then poured two glasses of Scotch whisky, a single cube of ice in each.
‘It’s been a while, Henry. Lillian’s... your mother’s funeral,’ said Solomon, as he handed Harry his drink and indicated a chair close to the fire.
Harry hesitated before sitting, filled with conflicting emotions, conscious of showing respect to the old man, and the need to conclude his business, to get it over and done with.
Solomon watched the young man opposite him as he, in turn, watched the dog settle itself before the fire. It was clear to the old man that this was a different Henry Windsor to the one he had known. The boy had always had a bit of a temper when pushed, but this was different. There was anger. Raw anger.
‘I’m guessing this isn’t a social call,’ said Solomon, carefully.
Harry took a sip of his drink, before turning his gaze from the dog to the old man. ‘Patrick Dolan,’ he said, simply. Solomon inclined his head slightly, waiting. ‘You lent him money.’
Solomon shrugged his shoulders, indifferently. ‘I lend a lot of people money, Henry. As you well know.’
‘You lent him eighty thousand pounds which he has been unable to pay back. You then instructed Cutter to collect the debt,’ said Harry, watching the old man carefully. Solomon stared impassively back at Harry, who’d not failed to notice the amicable smile which had slipped a fraction, or the coldness that had crept into the old man’s eyes.
Solomon reached for a small silver box on his desk. He opened it, revealing cigarettes, which he then offered to Harry, who shook his head, raising a quizzical eyebrow from the old man. Harry had not forgotten his former employer was a heavy smoker, the tips of his long bony fingers nicotine stained in evidence. He watched as the old man took his time lighting a cigarette.
Exhaling long and hard, he said, ‘Tell me something, Henry. What is your interest in this?’
Harry paused for what seemed a very long time, before answering. He took a sip of his drink. He wasn’t really sure what his interest was. What had started out as a simple task, for which he was getting paid, was no longer simple - and nor was he likely to be getting paid. Harry wasn’t even sure why he was still involved. ‘I have... an obligation,’ he finally said.
The old man nodded thoughtfully, as if this explained everything. He reached down to stroke the sleeping dog’s head, before turning his attention to the dying embers of the fire, and say, ‘You of all people, Henry, know how these things work. I instructed Cutter to collect the debt. How he goes about that, I really don’t care, as long as I get my investment back.’
‘Dolan’s teenage daughter has disappeared. And with all due respect, Mr Solomon, sir, that f
uckin’ lunatic you employ, has probably got something to do with it,’ said Harry, leaning forward, body tense, voice tight. ‘You know I never approved of you using Cutter. He’s a liability. A liability that one day could lead back to you. He’s one of the reasons I no longer work for you, Mr Solomon,’ said Harry, finally sitting back.
The German Shepherd raised its head, sensing a charged atmosphere. The old man noticed this. He looked back at Harry, and again pondered the young man’s anger. ‘Cutter has his ways. His methods. We both know they are not... subtle. But that’s why I use him, Henry. To do the jobs other people cannot do... or no longer want to do...’
Harry nodded. The old man’s last few words were not lost on him. He knew what he was implying. ‘Where can I find him?’
‘That, I do not know,’ replied Solomon. Then, seeing Harry’s expression was one of doubt, ‘I took your advice. When I want Cutter’s services, I employ him through a third party, so there is no direct link back to me.’
‘Who’s the third party?’
‘I’m sorry Henry, you know I cannot tell you that. Discretion is vital for my business, ‘Honour amongst thieves’, as they say.’ Harry studied the old man’s face as he stubbed out his cigarette, and immediately lit another. ‘Needs must, my boy. Needs must.’ Then, after sitting back and taking a sip of whisky, ‘Times have changed. The world has changed. It’s a far different place from when I was young - and for you too. With that change, crime has changed. Technology is one example. With the advancement of technology, comes the opportunity to abuse it. To profit from it. London is a multi-cultural city, as you well know, and since the government changed the immigration laws, even more so. And with that multi-cultural diversity, came a multi-cultural crime wave. Yardies, Triads, Eastern Europeans - the Russians in particular are a ruthless lot. There are far less pickings for old fashioned villains like us, Henry.’ The old man paused in his musings, gazing thoughtfully into the fire, while the grandfather clock continued to tick reassuringly in the background. ‘We have to move with the times. We have to adapt. If we don’t, we become extinct.’
