by Andy Wiseman
Harry’s thoughts returned to cold harsh reality. Pulling his bathrobe tighter, he took a long, hard, swallow of his barely touched whisky. He wondered what it was his mother had been about to tell him.
He would never know.
He thought about the guilt he’d carried since her death. Guilt which had, at times, weighed so heavy it threatened to overwhelm him: guilt for not being there when she needed him.
Harry’s thoughts then turned to Patrick. Should he have done more? Could he have done more? Again, he would never really know.
He thought of Mollie. He thought about what she might be doing at that very moment. About the things she might be doing at that very moment.
He then thought about justice and injustice. About right and wrong. About righting a wrong.
He took a sip of whisky. After a moment, he reached into the pocket of his bathrobe for a disposable lighter, and with a glance at the Greek urn and a mumbled apology, followed by a promise to quit again tomorrow, he then lit the cigarette he’d been holding. He still hadn’t, to that day, finished reading Macbeth. He tried to recall the storyline. He seemed to think that betrayal was one of its themes.
A decision had been made. Time to make a phone call. A phone call that would change his life.
CHAPTER 47
With the main car park full, Izzy was forced to drive around to the overspill car park at the rear of the property, much to her annoyance, because this would mean having to walk all the way back around to the front of the building, she thought, as she parked nose-in towards the shrubbery.
Steve and Izzy were cordially greeted by the maitre d’, and a waitress with a tray of fluted glasses filled with champagne. Steve took one, knocked it back, and then took another. On seeing Izzy’s raised eyebrows and surprised look, ‘To steady the nerves,’ he said, simply. Then added, ‘It was a... long journey,’
First impressions of the club’s main reception area were of imposing architectural grandeur. The room was large, the ceiling high, with its plaster cornice and rose both deep and intricate. The few doors leading off were wide and heavy with architrave to match, the skirting boards high and solid. Dado rail divided heavily embossed wallpaper of two different yet traditional designs; the carpet was thick and luxurious and similar in style. The value of the room’s fixtures and fittings was clearly reflected in their quality.
Steve looked around the room. He noted the tall, broad shouldered men in tight fitting tuxedos, who stood impassive and expressionless before the doors that were for club members only and the wide stairway that led to the upper floors, their passive demeanour betrayed only by their shifting eyes as they monitored the non-club members: the guests of the hosting charity.
Steve and Izzy were shown through to a large function room that was filled with tables laid in preparation for the evening’s meal, and adorned with party decorations, balloons and banners; the room was a hive of activity. Waiting-on staff busily scurried amongst the smartly dressed and elegantly turned out guests, some of whom were seated at their tables, some mingling and making idle chatter prior to the commencement of the eagerly anticipated meal.
CHAPTER 48
Harry negotiated the powerful sports car through the streets of London with the skill and ability of a professional driver, using the clutch and the gears to slow and to accelerate, only occasionally using the brake. The car, which he’d borrowed, was in immaculate condition, the luxury interior pristine. This was due to infrequent use and regular valeting, which, judging by the faint aroma of cleaning fluid, had been done recently. Harry wasn’t surprised; it was typical - and he wouldn’t have expected any less. What was also typical was the choice of radio station, which sprang to life as the ignition was turned: jazz.
Harry was enjoying himself. And he had to admit, he missed having a car. He used public transport for two reasons: one was financial, allowing him to focus all his resources on the flat conversions; the other - and probably the real reason - was to distance himself from the trappings of his former life, of which, at one time, he’d had many. Maybe once the flats are finished and things have settled down, he mused, until a thought crossed his mind: Would I be able to finish the flats? With a heavy heart, he thought back to the decision he’d made and the subsequent phone calls. Have I made a pact with the devil? He tried to convince himself he’d done the right thing. The only thing.
After Harry had made his telephone call, he’d gone through to his bedroom, pressing the play button on his compact music system as he passed, to hear Radio Three playing the melodic sounds of baroque music, only to stop abruptly when he caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror fixed to the wardrobes. He stood for a moment, staring.
At first, he didn’t recognise the hollow-eyed man with the haunted look that stared back at him. The man with the beginnings of a beard, long, lank, matted hair, and pale skin with dark circles around the eyes. A man was who was wearing Harry’s bathrobe. The man then shrugged-off the bathrobe, letting it drop to the floor, allowing Harry to see the old scars, but also the new, slowly fading and beginning to heal. He saw the tired posture of a man who was exactly what he appeared to be: a man very close to the edge, a man who was a shadow of his former self and on the brink of a breakdown. Harry was disgusted with the man. Disgusted that he’d allowed himself to become weak. Harry then asked the man what’d happened to his ‘bottle’, his self respect.
Harry and the man stared each other out.
Harry won.
Harry watched the man reach into a bedside cabinet, take out some electrical hair clippers, then proceed to carefully trim off his lank and matted hair, leaving a new close-cropped hairstyle. He then went into the bathroom where he meticulously shaved off the beard, before then stepping into a scalding hot shower, to wash away the dirt, the grime, and to mercilessly scrub away the guilt and self loathing. After that, he turned the temperature down to what felt like Arctic sub-zero, bringing forth chest shuddering gasps of breath, as his heart and blood circulation were kick-started into skin tingling overdrive, to complete the cleansing process.
Harry stepped out from the shower, feeling refreshed - reborn, almost.
Returning to the bedroom, he switched off the radio’s soothing music, and put a CD on, an old favourite he hadn’t played in a long time. He selected a track, cranked up the volume, and then with a smile, pressed play. GUNS N’ ROSES, ‘Welcome to the jungle’, blasted out of the speakers.
Welcome to the jungle, we got fun ’n’ games
We got everything you want honey, we know the names
We are the people that you find, whatever you may need
If you got the money, honey we got your disease
Harry decided to forego his usual attire of jeans and tee-shirts for something more appropriate; more formal. He opened up the part of the wardrobe he hadn’t opened for a long time. The part that held his suits. His ‘work’ suits. He looked over the row of cellophane wrapped garments, and then chose a black, single-breasted, lightweight two-piece. It wasn’t really suitable for the time of year and weather, but he wanted something that didn’t restrict his movement, his reflexes and reactions. He also chose a plain white shirt and a narrow black tie. Harry liked the funereal look. He found it ironic.
He then checked himself in the mirror: clean-shaven, hair neatly cropped close to the skull, and smartly ‘suited and booted’; shoulders squared, posture straight: looking good and feeling good. He pulled on a black three-quarter length overcoat, turned the collar up against the cold, but didn’t button the front. Then, after searching through a drawer of ‘accessories’, he pulled on a thin pair of black leather kid-gloves, and after checking his appearance once more, he left the house.
The night air was cool and the sky still clear as he made the five minute walk to the Kings Arms, striding-out with a spring in his step and a smile on his face, a vague, yet familiar feeling stirring within him, a good feeling.
The creak of the un-oiled hinges on the heavy oak-type do
or noisily announced his arrival when he stepped in. As he adjusted his collar and removed his gloves, he glanced around, only to have an overpowering sense of déjà vu. Other than the middle-aged bloke playing the fruit machine in the corner, the pub was exactly as it was the last time he’d been there: Barman polishing glasses, two Underground workers at the end of the bar and an elderly couple playing dominoes. Exactly the same that is, as when he’d last entered, not when he’d left: his assailants’ on the floor, their girlfriends’ wailing hysterical.
Strolling to the bar, he saw and sensed the looks of confusion. As he passed the elderly couple, recognition crossed the old lady’s face. Smiling, she reached out and touched his arm as he passed. Harry also received and returned a nod of acknowledgement from the Underground workers.
The Barman looked up, paused, and then frowned, before recognition crossed his face, also. ‘Usual?’ he said to Harry, picking up a pint glass.
‘No. Whisky. Equal measure of water, one ice cube.’ The water was Harry’s token gesture to sobriety.
‘You look... different,’ the Barman said, as he changed the glass and poured Harry’s drink. Harry simply nodded his thanks and paid for his drink, before then asking the Barman to order him a mini-cab, as he placed the change into the charity box that was fixed to the end of the bar.
While waiting for his cab to arrive, he stood at the bar, one foot on the brass foot rail, one hand resting on the bar, the other cupping his drink, lost in thought. There had been no mention of what had happened the last time he’d been there.
When the creak of the door interrupted Harry’s thoughts, he - as did the other patrons - turned to look. A wall of sound preceded the group of five young people who entered: three guys, a blonde and a brunette. They were halfway to the bar when the short guy leading the group came to an abrupt halt, causing his friends to bump into the back of him, complaining loudly as they did so. Shorty stared intently at the man standing at the bar, a confused look upon his face. Harry, whose glass had been halfway to his mouth when they’d entered, held Shorty’s gaze for a moment, before then winking an eye at him and knocking back the last of his drink. He then gently placed the empty glass onto the bar top, before slowly turning to face the group, all of whom were now focused on the tall, well-dressed stranger who was slowly and carefully pulling on a pair of black leather gloves. Shorty’s eyes flew wide, as his confusion disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
As recognition and comprehension became apparent, they quietly and slowly backed-up towards the door, quickening their pace as they neared, jostling in the open doorway to be the first out.
An audible sigh of relief was to be heard, followed shortly after by the toot of mini-cab horn.
The mini-cab driver recognised both Harry and his destination address. Some years before it would seem - on Mr Solomon’s instruction - Harry had intervened on behalf of the driver’s employer, who was being heavily leaned-on to pay protection money to a West London gang who was trying to increase the size of its manor by encroaching on Mr Solomon’s. Harry had shown them the error of their ways and the employer had been eternally grateful; he still had to pay the protection money, but to Mr Solomon, and at a more reasonable rate.
The cabbie - like most cabbies the world over - was not short of an opinion, and talked through the entire journey. Harry just gazed out of the window, lost in thought, occasionally grunting an answer in response to a question. The cabbie, having heard that Harry no longer worked for Mr Solomon, innocently asked if they were still close. Harry again merely grunted, noncommittal.
As they pulled up outside the old man’s home, the cabbie commented that Mr Solomon had been a fool to let Harry go from his employ, and an even bigger fool to replace Harry with that psycho, Cutter, before then asking Harry to pass on his regards to Mr Solomon. There was a time Harry would not have tolerated such disrespect of his now former employer, but the man’s words had left him with a sense of unease - as did the word ‘former’.
Harry instructed the cabbie to wait for him, before then walking up the familiar path to the old man’s house, a path he’d walked up only a week previously, yet it seemed like a lifetime ago.
The front door, as usual, wasn’t locked, and the hallway was dark, lit only by the overspill of light from the open study door at the far end. As he approached the light, he was met midway by a large dark shape that moved with purpose, stealth, and a snuffling wet nose.
The old man was sitting at his desk, a ledger opened, but talking on the telephone. Harry only overheard part of the conversation ‘...he’s an asset, and an investment...’ before the old man caught sight of him, ending the call, to then come from behind his desk and greet him warmly. He commented that Harry looked well, but he also looked... different. The old man paused, as if remembering, before then telling Harry he looked like his old self.
The old man looked different too: he looked happy. And well he might, thought Harry; he’s got what he wanted. He’s got me back in his employ.
After offering Harry a whisky - which he declined - the old man invited him to sit by the fire and to talk. Harry politely declined that too, saying he had business to take care of; maybe later. The old man acknowledged the polite prompt by opening his safe, removing a bulky leather document case, then re-locking the safe, before handing the case to Harry, who opened it up to inspect its contents: one hundred thousand pounds in bundles of fifty pound notes. That was the price for Mollie’s freedom. The irony was not lost on Harry that it was also the cost of his; the old man having agreed to lend Harry the money - at a very generous interest free rate of credit - providing Harry returned to his employ.
Leaving the old man’s house with the means to Mollie’s freedom, Harry then instructed the cabbie to his next destination: to pick up a car.
CHAPTER 49
After what seemed to be an inordinately long period of fixed smiles, handshakes and mundane conversation, Izzy decided enough was enough, and turned on her heels to head back towards the main reception.
‘Isobelle?’ called Steve. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, when he finally caught up with her back in the main reception area.
‘Well,’ she replied, ‘I was going to go upstairs, where the ‘business’ is ‘conducted’, and do what any good reporter would do - and what comes naturally to most women - which is to snoop!’ Seeing a look of scepticism cross Steve’s face, she then added, ‘And, we might see Mollie. Maybe we can talk her into leaving with us.’
‘Depends how much fear she’s living under. How scared she is,’ said Steve.
‘Do you think she knows about her father?’ asked Izzy.
‘Hard to say. If they have told her, and that her mother might be next, it could make their hold over her stronger. Then again, the shock could send her over the edge.’ Steve looked around the reception area, taking-in the muscled tuxedos. He shook his head. ‘If this club is being used as a ‘front’ for organised crime, then the real evidence, the solid evidence, will be away from the general public. It will be figuratively speaking - and possibly even literally - at the back.’
Izzy frowned.
Steve inclined his head, indicating for Izzy to follow.
Hooking her arm through his, they then exited the main entrance, and casually made their way around the side of the building and back towards where they were parked: at the service entrance.
Izzy and Steve entered through the service door, pausing warily as the overhead lighting flickered into life. ‘Motion sensor lighting,’ said Steve. ‘Very clever. Very economic.’
‘As in energy saving, you mean?’ whispered Izzy. When Steve simply nodded, she continued, ‘Are you trying to tell me we are dealing with... green gangsters? Fuck-a-duck! What is the world coming to,’ she said, loudly.
The sudden crash and bang of metal upon metal made them both jump, until they realised it was the sound of the kitchen in full flow, no doubt preparing and cooking the food for the charity event.
Gripping S
teve’s elbow, Izzy said, ‘I’m not sure about this, now.’
Steve turned, and seeing doubt in her eyes, said, ‘It’ll be fine. We just need to look like we belong. That we’re meant to be here.’ He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Maybe, if I drape a tea towel over my arm, I can pretend to be a waiter.’
At that, the kitchen door flew back, crashing against the wall, and a large shiny wheeled box came hurtling towards them, closely followed by a heavily perspiring kitchen porter, both of which passed Steve and Izzy at speed and without the merest glance or interest, intent on delivering the hot food up to the function room.
Izzy and Steve watched him go, and then breathed a sigh of relief.
Cautiously, they made their way along the corridor, opening doors and looking into rooms where possible. At a door marked ‘Private’, Steve listened closely, before gently turning the handle and pushing the door open. A light flickered on to reveal a medium sized, window-less room: an office. They quickly entered, closing the door behind them.
The room contained two desks with chairs and desktop computers, filing cabinets, shelving with various types of boxed files, and a couple of worn armchairs.
Seeing that the desk along the back wall had a computer with a large plasma screen, and that it was switched on, Steve pulled up a chair and sat down. The screen was split into individual squares - smaller frames - all showing a different image and all numbered. ‘CCTV,’ he said, over his shoulder, to Izzy. As he peered closer, he saw a number of images: the grounds of the club, the main entrance, the front car park, and also the overspill car park at the rear - also the service entrance, he realised, saying a silent prayer that nobody had been monitoring the computer to witness their arrival. At the bottom of the screen were two arrows, left and right, and a row of icons. Reaching for the computer’s mouse, he then clicked onto the right hand arrow, which took him to a second screen of multiple images. These were of the interior ground floor, covering the club members’ restaurant, the three bars, the function room where the charity event was being held, the main reception area where guests were still being greeted, and a variety of other elegant rooms. Steve moved the cursor to the image showing the main reception area, then double-clicked, enlarging the small image to full-screen. Moving the cursor down to the row of icons - one of which appeared to be for sound, another for record capability - he double clicked on the sound icon, conversation between the guests and the staff that were greeting them clearly audible.
