Harry's Justice

by Andy Wiseman

  Izzy wasn’t sure whether she should be angry with Harry, or worried about him. She hadn’t seen or spoken to him for two days, and the more time that had passed, the more concerned she’d become. But, it would seem, he’d been out getting drunk! Harry was starting to make Jonathan look like a saint.

  As she drove, she found herself craving a cigarette. She tutted aloud. She decided Harry’s bad-boy-attitude was rubbing off, slowly eroding her clean living lifestyle, and, at this rate, she would end up in rehab.

  CHAPTER 42

  Steve was still slumped across his desk, patiently waiting for the antacid tablet and painkillers to kick-in, when the office door was thrown open, quickly followed by D.I. Carson bellowing across the room, startling Steve.

  ‘Marshall! Were you sleeping your desk?’ said Carson, framed in the doorway.

  ‘No, sir!’ Steve replied, jumping up and then wishing he hadn’t, as the room started to spin.

  Carson frowned, his eyes narrowing as he fixed his gaze on Steve. ‘Come with me. We’ve got a suspect to interview,’ he said, before turning and striding off, leaving the door open, and doorway empty.

  Steve checked his wristwatch. Interview? Who does he want to interview at this time of the morning, he wondered. In fact, what was D.I. Carson even doing in at this time of the morning? He never started early. Steve grabbed his bottled water and set off after his D.I., catching up with him just as he entered the custody suite and was approaching the Desk Sergeant.

  ‘Sergeant,’ said Carson.

  ‘Morning, Sir,’ said the young Sergeant, looking up from his computer terminal.

  ‘You’re holding a murder suspect that we need to interview, Sergeant,’ said Carson. The Sergeant frowned, and then checked his computer screen. ‘The suspect’s name is Harry Windsor,’ said Carson, casting a sidelong glance in Steve’s direction, and then grinning cruelly at the look of shock on Steve’s face.

  The Sergeant gave a slight shake of his head. ‘No,’ he said, simply.

  Carson’s cruel grin, instantly disappeared as he turned on the Desk Sergeant. ‘What do you mean, no?’

  The Sergeant gave a slight shrug, as his eyes skimmed across the computer screen. ‘Got no one called Harry Windsor, Sir,’ he said, nervously. The Desk Sergeant was young, self-assured, and recently promoted but, aware of Carson’s reputation, was feeling less ‘self-assured’ by the minute.

  ‘Harry Windsor was picked up in the early hours of this morning, in possession of a stolen car that had a dead body in the boot. Now, stop fucking me about, and check again,’ said Carson, stabbing his finger towards the computer console.

  The young Sergeant was becoming flustered under Carson’s scrutiny, and feeling all the more foolish for it. ‘I’m sorry, Sir, there’s nothing on here to indicate we are holding a murder suspect.’

  ‘Well, just who the fuck have you got banged-up back there?’ said Carson, indicating the locked door that led through to the cells.

  ‘Looks like it was quiet night, Sir. Only two occupied. One is Black Alice, a local ‘tom’ who tried to stab her punter with a stiletto shoe because he refused to pay, the other is a vagrant brought in for ‘drunk and disorderly’. According to this, nightshift contacted the Duty Doctor because the vagrant didn’t look too good. Looked like he might have been in a fight, or mugged.’ From the in-tray on his desk, the Sergeant found the Duty Doctor’s written report, and then read out loud, ‘Cuts and bruises, recently stitched flesh wound, professionally done but with domestic sewing thread...’ The young Sergeant frowned at that, before carrying on, ‘Blistering from what appear to be contact burns, disorientation, possibly concussion. Dehydration and traces of alcohol. The Doc dressed the burns, then gave him a tetanus and some anti-inflammatory painkillers. Doc said he’d be okay after some rest. Jesus, he sounds in a bad way. Guess he wasn’t drunk after all.’

  ‘What about his possessions?’ asked Carson. ‘What about ID? Was he carrying any identification?’

  The Sergeant turned back to his computer. ‘House keys, Nokia 6021 - God, that’s old. This guy’s certainly no techno-geek,’ he said, grinning, as he looked up at the two detectives, before quickly returning his attention to the screen and away from Carson’s withering gaze. ‘No ID,’ confirmed the Sergeant. ‘Night shift went through his phone, and then contacted someone to come and pick him up. Says girlfriend, here. Do vagrants have girlfriends?’ he asked.

  Steve was totally stunned. Had he heard correctly? Had he just heard D.I. Carson say Harry Windsor was a murder suspect? Steve looked at the Desk Sergeant, but his attention was totally focused on the sanctuary of the computerised data, rather than make eye contact with Carson. Steve switched his attention to his superior officer. He could see D.I. Carson was extremely angry. He could see his jaw muscles clenching, his nostrils were flared, and the penetrating stare that was attempting to drill a hole into the top of the Desk Sergeant’s head.

  Carson, sensing he was being watched, switched his penetrating gaze onto Steve. Normally, Steve would have wilted under such an intense stare and immediately looked away. On this occasion though, he just stared right back. Not from bravado, more from dumb-animal confusion. Carson held Steve’s gaze for a moment, before turning back to the Desk Sergeant.

  ‘Sergeant!’ said Carson. ‘Let’s have a look. Let’s see who we’ve got.’

  The Sergeant picked up a bunch of keys, and then led the way through to the cells, Carson, then Steve, following. He stopped at a cell door, opened the viewing panel and glanced in, before then stepping back. Carson, hands in pockets, strolled up and peered through. A solitary male figure was sleeping on the bunk, facing the door, bootlaces and belt were missing, a jacket was covering his upper torso in the absence of a blanket, and his lank hair had fallen across his face. Carson narrowed his eyes in concentration as he studied the prone figure, before then tilting his head in an attempt to get a clearer view. He grunted to himself. Then, ‘looks like him,’ he said. ‘Hair’s longer. Looks a mess.’ Carson sniffed the air. ‘Fuckin’ stinks, too.’ He turned towards Steve. ‘Take a look, Constable. Tell me if that’s Harry Windsor. If anyone should know, you should,’ he added, with a smirk.

  ‘I haven’t seen Harry Windsor, since his trial, Sir,’ responded Steve, but Carson’s glare told him it wasn’t open to debate. With his heart in his mouth, Steve tentatively approached the cell door and peered through. The man in the cell was almost unrecognisable. He was a mess, a wreck, a shadow of the man he once was - physical strength, presence, aura, all gone. Steve felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. With a lump in his throat, he turned to the Sergeant. ‘Is he okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, yeah. He’s fine.’

  ‘How do you know?’ said Steve, realising he was holding his breath as he waited for the Sergeant’s answer.

  ‘When I first came on shift, I checked on our ‘residents’, as I usually do. Black Alice was snoring her head off, he was awake. I asked him if he wanted a cup of tea. He told me, in no uncertain terms,’ here the Sergeant paused for dramatic effect, ‘to “fuck off!’’’

  Steve nodded, and then returned his attention to Harry Windsor. He was wondering who the girlfriend was, when Carson’s voice cut across his thoughts.

  ‘Get him out, Sergeant, and put him in interview room number three,’ said Carson.

  The Sergeant unlocked and then pulled open the door, forcing Steve to take a step backwards. Entering the cell, he nudged Harry awake, gripped his upper arm, and then guided him off the bunk and towards the cell door.

  ‘Sergeant! Aren’t you going to cuff this man?’ asked Carson, from the doorway.

  ‘Err, I wasn’t going to, Sir,’ replied the Sergeant.

  ‘This man’s a dangerous and violent criminal. He’s a villain!’ said Carson, involuntary taking a step backwards, his voice starting to rise in pitch.

  The Sergeant glanced at the shambling figure in his custody, who looked anything but dangerous or violent. ‘I left my handcuffs back on the des
k, Sir,’ said the Sergeant, turning back to Carson.

  ‘Jesus Christ! Get him into room three,’ said Carson, turning on his heel and striding off. ‘And get me a PC, to sit-in!’ he called over his shoulder, as he left.

  The Sergeant mouthed the word ‘wanker’ to Carson’s retreating back, before guiding a bleary eyed Harry Windsor out of the cell and to interview room number three.

  Steve followed some distance behind.

  Interview room number three was plain yet functional, a small windowless room that contained a table and four chairs, a wall fixed recording machine, and an additional chair close to the door.

  Harry was sitting at the table, handcuffed, and hunched over a vending machine cup of tea, given to him by the sympathetic Desk Sergeant, while Steve leant against the wall at the rear of the room, staring at Harry Windsor’s back and feeling very uncomfortable; a female PC sat patiently near the door.

  It was deathly quiet.

  Moments later, the door opened and Carson swaggered into the room, a look of smug satisfaction crossing his face when he saw Harry; this quickly disappeared when he saw the female PC. Stepping back into the corridor he shouted, ‘Sergeant? I asked you for a PC! A man, not a woman!’ Getting no reply, he stepped back into the room, glaring at a very embarrassed PC, before then warily eyeing up Harry, who was still staring into his cup of tea.

  Carson approached the table and eased himself into a chair opposite Harry. He looked over towards Steve, giving him an impatient twitch of the head, indicating he should join him at the table. Steve reluctantly pushed himself off the wall, to take the chair next to Carson.

  For a moment there was nothing but silence. Carson was staring at Harry; Steve was fidgeting, looking anywhere but at Harry; the PC was looking bored; Harry was still staring down at his cup.

  ‘Well, well. Harry Windsor. In my nick - again!’ beamed Carson. ‘How the mighty have fallen, aye, Harry? Have you taken a look at yourself lately, Harry? Because you look - and smell - like a bag of shit!’ Smiling broadly, Carson leaned back in his chair, slipped his hands into his pockets, while stretching out his legs, crossing them at the ankle.

  Then, as if suddenly remembering, he said, ‘Forgive me Harry, where are my manners. I haven’t introduced everyone. I’m Detective Inspector Carson. We met a few years ago when you were the Jew’s enforcer. I was a Detective Sergeant back then. I nicked you for dealing and possession of drugs. You might remember it?’ asked Carson, ruefully, as he rubbed his jaw.

  No reaction from Harry.

  ‘The PC next to the door,’ said Carson, indicating the PC without turning around, ‘I’ve got no idea who she is, Harry, and frankly I don’t care.’

  Still no reaction from Harry.

  ‘Now, you must recognise this particular officer,’ said Carson, who was thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘Detective Constable Marshall.’ When Harry still didn’t react, Carson continued. ‘Detective... Constable... Stephen... Marshall...’

  Carson fixed his lizard-like eyes onto Harry’s face. Waiting.

  Steve stopped fidgeting. He too, stared intently at Harry, and held his breath.

  A small frown began to crease Harry’s forehead; his eyes blinked. His frown deepened as he stared at the now cold cup of tea, as if seeing it for the first time, before his eyes slowly lifted to meet Carson’s gaze. Carson gave Harry the hard stare he was famed for. The stare most men could not hold.

  Harry stared back, his eyes empty, no indication of recognition, no indication of emotion, his face blank and expressionless; after a beat, his gaze then slowly moved across to settle on Steve. As much as Steve wanted to look away, to look anywhere but into the eyes of Harry Windsor, he couldn’t; he was unable. As Carson watched and waited, eagerly anticipating Harry’s reaction, Steve also watched and waited; fearful of Harry’s reaction.

  As Steve looked into the vacant eyes of the man across the table, wondering what had happened in the intervening years, he thought, for the briefest moment, he saw a tiny light of recognition; the merest flicker. Then it was gone. Had Harry recognised him? Or had he imagined it?

  Carson, disgruntled by the lack of confrontation, started his questioning. ‘Where were you last night, Harry? What where you up to?’ he wanted to know. ‘Rumour has it, you retired. I personally find that hard to believe. Hard-core gangland villains like you, Harry, don’t retire.’ Carson paused, waiting for a response. He didn’t get one. Harry continued to blank him.

  Carson pressed on. ‘Patrol picked you up just after midnight in the Kilburn area. What were you doing there, Harry? Bit of business? Bit of debt collecting?’

  Still Harry said nothing.

  ‘Last night - less than a mile away from where you were picked up - a body was found in the boot of a car. The deceased was a local businessman, by the name of Patrick Dolan. His body had been ripped to shreds, his throat torn out. He looked like a fuckin’ carcass from a fuckin’ abattoir! Word on the street, Harry, is he was in-hock to your employer, Solomon... Oh, sorry, I beg your pardon. Your ex-employer,’ he then added, pulling his hands from his pockets and holding them up in mock surrender.

  Still nothing from Harry.

  ‘Do you want to know what I think?’ said Carson, leaning forward and jabbing a finger in Harry’s direction, clearly irritated by Harry’s lack of response. ‘I think you went to collect Solomon’s money, and to ‘sort out’ the big Irishman. To make an example of him.’

  Steve was both shocked and stunned. He was shocked at the coincidence: was this the same Patrick Dolan who was the father to Mollie Dolan, the missing student? Was this the father and daughter he’d been discussing with the reporter, Isobelle Harker, only hours earlier? And to hear Harry Windsor was a suspect left him stunned beyond belief. ‘Who does the car belong to?’ asked Steve, interrupting Carson’s ranting at Harry.

  ‘What?’ replied Carson.

  ‘The car, Sir,’ said Steve. ‘The car in which the body was found. Who does it belong to?’

  ‘His daughter, why?’

  ‘Did the vehicle-check, the DVLA, confirm that, Sir?’

  ‘Are you questioning me, Constable?’ asked Carson.

  Steve hesitated before answering, ‘No, Sir. Of course not,’ he replied, avoiding Carson’s gaze by returning his attention to his fidgeting hands. He thought hard, trying to recall the details of Mollie Dolan’s case file. He was almost certain the car Mollie Dolan drove was, in fact, not owned by her; it was a leased car and the lease was in the name of her father, Patrick Dolan.

  While Steve was struggling to comprehend what was going on, the enormity and gravity of the situation did not escape him. As his conscious mind struggled with the facts at hand, his subconscious mind was aware of Carson’s continuing diatribe against Harry.

  ‘Sir?’ said Steve, to Carson. ‘Excuse me, Sir?’

  ‘Now what?’ said Carson, rounding on Steve.

  ‘I don’t think it’s appropriate my being here, Sir... being present at this particular interview, I mean,’ said Steve, pushing back his chair and beginning to stand.

  ‘Sit down, Constable!’ ordered Carson. ‘It’s not as though you’re blood related for Fuck sake. You don’t get to choose which villains you can and can’t interview. Not in my nick - only I get to do that.’

  ‘Carson!’ came an authoritative voice, cutting across Carson’s vitriolic flow.

  Both Steve and Carson turned towards it.

  What Steve had seen in Harry’s eyes earlier as the merest flicker of light, was now a raging inferno of anger and hate.

  ‘Anyone ever tell you you’re a wanker, Carson?’ said Harry. Then, holding his hands up in mock surrender, ‘Hang on a minute, I believe I did, the last time we met. When you nicked me and I broke your jaw.’

  Harry leaned in towards Carson. Carson leaned back.

  ‘If you’re going to charge me, then get on with it and stop fuckin’ me about.’

  Carson narrowed his eyes at Harry. ‘It maybe we can’t place you at the sce
ne of the crime when the body was discovered, but I know your being in the area was no coincidence. The forensics guys are going over that car with a fine-tooth comb. I know your prints and DNA are all over that car. It’s only a matter of time before we tie you to the crime and the death of Patrick Dolan -’

  ‘Do you know the aforementioned owner of the vehicle we’re talking about?’ asked Steve directly to Harry, cutting across his superior officer and bringing a scowl to his face. Carson decided to let it go, more interested in Harry’s answer.

  Harry was studying Steve, curiously.

  ‘Do you know Patrick Dolan’s daughter?’ continued Steve, who had a hunch there was a connection here somewhere. Sensing he already knew what it was, he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

  ‘Yeah, you could say that,’ replied Harry.

  ‘Do you know her well?’ asked Steve.

  Harry paused, and then - thinking of her diary - said, ‘I know her intimately.’

  ‘Is there a point to this, Constable?’ Carson wanted to know.

  ‘Have you ever driven her car?’ Steve continued, ignoring his D.I.

  A small smile appeared on Harry’s face as he realised. ‘Yeah, I drove her car.’

  A moment later, so did Carson. ‘Fuck!’ he said, slamming his open palm down onto the table as he jumped to his feet, sending his chair crashing backwards.

  Carson whirled around to face Harry, who had a smile a mile wide across his tired and weary face. Carson’s hands where balled into fists, his pockmarked face had turned a deep crimson, his eyeballs bulged in their sockets, and his lips were pulled back, exposing his teeth in a snarl of frustrated rage.

  ‘Easy, Carson,’ said Harry, thoroughly enjoying the man’s discomfort, ‘you might have a coronary - and I’m fucked if I’m going to be the one to give you the kiss of life,’ he added. Then, ‘How about you, officer?’ Harry called across to the PC. ‘Would you be prepared to give the kiss of life to Detective Inspector Carson, here?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows.