by Andy Wiseman
The PC, while struggling to suppress a smile, kept a diplomatic silence.
‘Are you trying to tell me that you’re in a relationship with Mollie Dolan?’ said Carson to Harry.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Harry replied.
‘What would an attractive young woman like Mollie Dolan see in a washed-up ex-con like you, Windsor?’
‘Do you know her, Sir?’ asked a surprised Steve, trying to recall if there was a photograph in her case file.
‘No,’ said Carson, quickly.
Too quickly.
‘Let me see if I’ve got this right,’ continued Carson, ‘you know Mollie Dolan, you’ve driven her car, and you’re picked up for drunk and disorderly less than a mile away from where her car is parked - in the boot of which is the body of her father. So what are you trying to tell me? It’s a coincidence?’
‘Depends whether or not you believe in coincidences, Carson,’ replied Harry. ‘I get the impression you were expecting to find me at the scene of the crime?’
Carson didn’t reply.
‘How did you know there was a body in the boot of that particular car?’ asked Harry.
‘A conscientious member of the public thought something was amiss, and phoned it in,’ replied Carson.
‘A tip-off, you mean?’ When Carson didn’t respond, Harry continued. ‘Now, you see, that’s what I call a coincidence. That you were hoping to nick me for the second time, based on a tip-off - and which, no doubt, was ‘coincidentally’ anonymous?’
All eyes turned to Detective Inspector Carson, who appeared to have lost some of his swagger. ‘What exactly is that supposed to mean?’
Steve turned to Harry and said, ‘Can you prove you know Mollie Dolan?’
Harry shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve spent time in her flat... I’ve met her mother - I don’t think she was too keen on me.’ Harry gave another shrug.
‘You’re a lying piece of shit, Harry Windsor. I don’t believe a fucking word of it,’ said Carson.
‘Sir?’ said Steve. ‘Maybe she’s the girlfriend who’s on her way here to pick him up?’
This drew a curious frown from Harry, and a strong rebuke from D.I. Carson.
‘Don’t be fuckin’ stupid!’
‘But why not, Sir?’ asked Steve. ‘We know she’s gone missing. But, by her mother’s own admission, she’s gone missing before.’
‘I’m telling you, Mollie Dolan is not on her way here,’ Carson replied.
‘But why not, Sir? What evidence do we have to say otherwise?’ persisted Steve.
‘Because... just... because -’
There was a knock at the door of the interview room, seconds before it opened, the Desk Sergeant - one hand resting on the door handle, the other gripping the door casing - leaning in. Finding Carson, he said, ‘Girlfriend’s turned up, Sir,’ nodding towards Harry. ‘And she’s a bit bloody posh. Right, hoity-toity! She’s kicking off about illegal detention, human rights, and all that crap. And, she claims she’s a rep -’
The Desk Sergeant didn’t get to finish his sentence, as the door flew open, causing him to stumble forward into the room, a very determined Isobelle Harker, hot on his heels.
‘Hey, hey!’ said a very flustered Desk Sergeant. ‘You can’t come in here. This is out of bounds to the general public.’ he made a move towards Izzy.
‘Lay a finger on me, Sergeant, and you’ll be reading about police brutality on the front page of the North London Gazette - and, answering to the IPCC!’
The Desk Sergeant stopped in his tracks, unsure.
Izzy quickly scanned the room. Both Steve and the PC had jumped to their feet at Izzy’s sudden intrusion. Her eyes paused at the PC before moving on to Steve, where they widened in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked him.
‘I work here,’ replied Steve, equally surprised.
‘Oh... Yes... Of course you do. How silly of me,’ she said, making a goofy face.
Izzy then saw Harry. She instinctively took a step forward. ‘Harry, how are...’ she abruptly halted in both movement and speech, as she took in Harry’s state. Her jaw dropped in shock, her hands flew up to her face. ‘Christ, Harry. You look awful. You look worse than the last time I saw you. You look shittier than... shit.’
‘Excuse me, Ma’am,’ said Carson, through gritted teeth, his anger held in check only by his uncertainty about with whom he was dealing. ‘As the Sergeant just made perfectly clear, this area is out of bounds to the general public - no matter who they are. This man,’ he said, indicating Harry, ‘is being interviewed in relation to a suspected murder, and right now you’re interfering with a police investigation.’
If Izzy was shocked to hear Harry was a murder suspect, she didn’t let it show. She took a step towards Carson, placed her hands on her hips and squared her shoulders, to then study Carson’s face intently, pursing her lips as she did so. ‘I’m guessing you are Detective Inspector Carson.’
Carson was taken aback. ‘Have we met?’ he asked, before he could stop himself.
‘Possibly... maybe... I’m thinking London Zoo,’ replied Izzy, at which Carson frowned. ‘The Reptile House,’ she then added, as if suddenly remembering.
For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Nobody moved, nobody spoke. It was a tableau in which the silence seemed to stretch for an eternity - until it was shattered by a derisive snort coming from adjacent to the door, where the PC, both hands clamped over her mouth, attempted to quell the laughter that wracked her body.
Steve had visibly paled in anticipation of Carson’s reaction.
Carson, torn between how to deal with Izzy and wanting to discipline the PC, angrily pushed stray hair back from his puce coloured face while struggling to find the correct and proper response that wouldn’t get him up on a charge of assault.
The Desk Sergeant looked from one person to another, unsure as to what to do.
Harry was still sitting at the table, watching the scene unfold before him. He felt he was at his own private vaudeville show - and there was no disputing who the star act was. Harry allowed himself a small smile: the cavalry had arrived.
‘Who are you?’ Carson demanded to know, dispensing with formal politeness.
‘Isobelle Harker, North London Gazette.’ Then, ‘Senior Crime Reporter,’ she added.
Carson’s face twitched. He hated reporters even more than he did villains. At least villains’ had a code of honour - however skewed it might be. ‘And why, exactly, are you here?’ he asked her.
‘This man,’ she said, indicating Harry, ‘is helping me with an article I’m writing on London gang crime. How it impacts on society, and how the justice system deals with it.’
Carson, frankly, didn’t give a flying fuck what she was writing about or who was helping her, and opened his mouth to tell her so.
‘And,’ continued Izzy, ‘I’m particularly interested in miscarriages of justice.’
Carson closed his mouth.
‘You said Harry Windsor was a murder suspect. What evidence do you have to prove that?’
‘Yesterday a man was violently murdered, and the suspect was picked up -’
‘In that case, he can’t have done it.’ Izzy told him.
‘What!’ said Carson. ‘Why not?’
‘Because he was with me... all day... helping me with the article.’
Carson narrowed his eyes at Izzy. ‘All night, as well?’
As Izzy hesitated, a smile started to spread across Carson’s face.
‘No. Not all night.’
The smile turned into a cruel smirk.
‘I dropped him off in Kilburn, just after midnight,’ she said, finally.
She saw the look on Carson’s face freeze. She shot a quick glance over at Steve, who was staring back at her, frowning; they both knew she’d still been at his flat at that time. She looked back at Carson, whose smile was rapidly disappearing as he recalled that Harry Windsor had been picked up by a passing patrol car just after midnight. Izzy also
knew this, but only because she’d managed to elicit the information from the Desk Sergeant, moments ago. The Desk Sergeant, realising he may have provided an alibi to a murder suspect - however unlikely - mumbled his apologies to hastily return to his unmanned desk.
Steve turned to a seething Carson. ‘Harry was picked up just after midnight, Sir, so he can’t have been responsible,’ he said, driving the point home.
Carson threw an angry look at Harry, who merely winked an eye, back at him.
‘I swear to God, I’ll get you, Windsor. I’ll nick you, and bang you up.’
‘Why don’t you crawl back under your rock, Carson,’ replied Harry.
‘Get him out of here!’ ordered Carson, as he stormed from the room.
On Carson’s exit, Izzy turned to Harry, and then Steve. ‘Who’s died? Who’s been murdered?’
Steve glanced across at Harry, and then back to Izzy. ‘Patrick Dolan,’ he said, simply.
Izzy’s eyes widened in horror. She turned to Harry, disbelief and suspicion clouding her face, suspicion gaining ground. Harry met her look, saw the tears beginning to form, to then give a small shake of his head, removing any trace of doubt.
Conscious that Izzy might be curious about the nature and details of Patrick’s death, and not wanting to relive it, he decided it was time to leave. He placed the palms of both hands onto the table top, before wearily pushing himself upright to a standing position, wincing as he did so. He shuffled over to stand before them, holding out his manacled hands.
‘You okay?’ asked Steve, with concern, as he took a key from his pocket to remove the handcuffs.
‘Getting old,’ replied Harry, rubbing his wrists. He then studied both Izzy and Steve. ‘I appreciate what you both did just then. Especially you, Stephen - considering the weight of circumstantial evidence.’
Steve thrust both hands into his trouser pockets, and then looked down at his shoes, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘Sometimes you have to do what you believe is the right thing, and not necessarily what you are led to believe is the right thing.’ He then looked back up at Harry. ‘I believe that can apply not only to one’s work life, but also social life... and family.’
Harry’s gaze - which had followed Steve’s, down to the floor - suddenly flicked back up to Steve’s face. He studied the younger man’s anxious look. Harry’s head bobbed slightly in agreement, before saying, ‘Hindsight... if only.’ Then, with a sad smile and a hint of regret in his eyes, Harry held his hand out to Steve. ‘It may be too late for some, but not for others.’
With a smile of relief and an expression that was close to tears, Steve grabbed Harry’s hand and shook it vigorously. This brought a grin to Harry’s face, and to Izzy’s - who never liked to be left out of the loop - a look of confusion.
‘Am I missing something here?’ she asked.
Both Harry and Steve, looked to each other and then realised.
‘You don’t know, do you?’ said Steve.
‘Know what?’ replied Izzy, feeling she was the butt of the joke.
‘Stephen’s my brother,’ answered Harry.
Izzy did her goldfish impression, before finally saying in a high-pitched squeak, ‘What!... Who?... You two? ’
Harry and Steve stared back at her.
Izzy’s mouth was moving, but no words were coming out, until, ‘Foster brother,’ she finally said, correcting him.
Harry paused briefly, a faraway look in his eye, before saying, ‘We’re family.’ Izzy and Steve both looked at him quizzically. Then, before Izzy had chance to question him further, ‘Officer?’ said Harry, calling over to the PC. ‘Would you mind showing me the way out?’
‘Wait!’ said Izzy, placing her hand against his chest. ‘What about Mollie?’
Harry looked deeply troubled as he mulled the question over. Then, finally, ‘This is a police matter now.’ He looked to Steve, who nodded, then back to Izzy. ‘You remember the gentlemen’s club your father used to use? Near Richmond? She’s there, working as a “hostess” - legitimately, I’m told.’ He then turned back to Steve. ‘The Russian Mob’s involved. You might want to put a watch on Mollie’s mother... Patrick’s wife,’ he then added, suddenly looking drained. ‘I’m tired. I’m going home. Ring me and let me know what happens.’ When Izzy reminded him he never answers his phone, he assured her he would. Then, after a nod to the PC, he followed her out through the door, leaving Izzy and Steve staring after him. They watched the door gently close with a soft click.
After a long drawn out moment, Steve turned to Izzy and said, ‘Coffee?’
‘Cop-shop coffee?’ asked Izzy, pulling a face.
‘God, no! Deli, a few doors up.’
‘Okay,’ replied Izzy, relieved.
CHAPTER 43
In the take-away delicatessen, there were three small tables and chairs for those customers wanting to eat-in - only one of which was occupied - along with a narrow wall-fixed countertop that ran partway across a plastered wall, and then across the plate-glass frontage of the shop. This was serviced with high perching stools where Izzy and Steve had opted to sit, both having subconsciously gravitated towards the window seating, feeling more comfortable to be sitting side-by-side, looking out at London life and lost in their own thoughts, rather than sitting opposite and feeling the obligation to make conversation.
Izzy was, at that particular moment, content. She was in one of her favourite places, doing one of her favourite things: in a cafe, in a busy part of London, people watching. And she was sitting in her favourite position: elbows resting on the countertop with a large chocolate sprinkled cappuccino cupped in her hands. As she blew gently onto its surface, her eyes flicked from one point of interest to another.
Steve had an equally large cup of cappuccino, but sprinkled with cinnamon. His gaze too, flicked between watching the hubbub of London daily life, and the act of methodically stirring - counter clockwise - the cinnamon and frothy milk with the wooden stirring stick provided.
Izzy, noticing this, smiled to herself.
‘Penny for them?’ said Steve.
Izzy looked blank.
‘Your thoughts.’
‘Oh,’ she said, realising. ‘I was just thinking about a cappuccino faux pas I once had. I was in a cafe just like this, sitting just like this, and drinking a cappuccino. I was blowing upon it to cool it down, and I guess I must have sighed heavily at the same time, because I blew a dollop of frothy milk clean off the top and onto the window immediately in front of me.’ Izzy smiled at the memory. ‘I couldn’t stop laughing. I laughed so hard I cried.’
‘Did you clean it off the glass?’ asked Steve.
‘No,’ said Izzy, still smiling.
Steve frowned.
Izzy returned her gaze to the human traffic outside.
After a moment, ‘Carson’s a piece-of-work, isn’t he?’ she said.
Steve nodded.
‘Tell me about you and Harry.’
Steve turned back to his untouched coffee and resumed his methodical stirring. ‘We’re both orphans. Both brought up in Children’s Homes and short-term fostering. I was probably more fortunate than Harry. I was only moved a few times before being placed with the woman who was to then raise me as her own - as she did Harry. Lillian was an exceptional woman. She never married and never had - or couldn’t have - children of her own. Whether one was because of the other, I don’t know. I never asked. I was placed with Lillian first, Harry came a few months later. I think I was unaccepting of Harry at first, in that Lillian’s love and attention was now divided between the two of us.’ Steve momentarily paused, before then carrying on. ‘But you can’t help but like Harry. He’s a lovable rogue. Having said that, there’s a darker side to him. He used to - and still does, as far as I know - become moody and sullen, withdrawing into himself. The local authority moved him many times from Care Home, to foster placement, back to Care Home, unable to find somewhere suitable. I think sometimes he had it pretty rough. In fact, I know
he did. I overheard his social worker giving some background on Harry, to Lillian. It was pretty horrific.’
‘The scars on his back?’ asked Izzy.
‘You’ve seen those?’ replied Steve. When he saw Izzy nod, he carried on. ‘It used to be that families were paid to foster children. I’ve no idea if that’s still the case, but with an ever increasing number of children without a permanent home, I think the authorities were sometimes not quite so thorough in their selection process of people applying to foster. Anyway, Harry was placed with a family where the husband was a violent alcoholic. Obviously this was not known at first. As punishment, the husband used to thrash Harry with a length of bamboo stick, and then lock him in a small dark cupboard under the stairs. That’s the reason he’s claustrophobic.’
‘He’s claustrophobic?’ responded Izzy, surprised.
‘Very.’
Izzy found herself thinking back to an earlier conversation she’d had with Harry. She’d asked him what it had been like being in prison. He had replied, “Cramped.”
‘With the start in life that he had, I guess it’s hardly a surprise he took the path that he did.’
‘Yet, your start in life wasn’t much different,’ said Izzy. ‘In fact, strikingly similar. But you took the opposite path. You took the path of good. The right path. You’re a policeman, a Detective Constable, a pillar of the community. You couldn’t possibly get any more opposite than that. Than an illiterate villain who does his talking with his fists.’
‘True,’ conceded Steve. ‘But Harry and I are two very different people. Though having said that, there are a few similarities... But I guess that’s probably down to nurture,’ he added, with a shrug of indifference. ‘There’s no denying Harry can look after himself. He’s very capable. He protected me from school bullies on more than one occasion. And I’ll always be eternally grateful for that. And while he might not have had an expansive education, he’s certainly not illiterate. In fact, if you knew his IQ level, you would be surprised.’
‘How high?’ asked Izzy.
