Harry's Justice

by Andy Wiseman

  Izzy had seated herself at the other desk. After the finding the desk drawers locked, she had turned her attention to the desk top. Other than the computer, the desk top had an empty in-tray, a telephone, and a half filled cup of cold disgusting looking coffee.

  She stared at the dark screen of the computer, where she could see her outline faintly reflected. It’s bound to be password protected, she thought, it hardly seems worth the effort; until she caught sight of the small red light on the bottom corner of the monitor. The power to the monitor hadn’t been switched off. Not so green after all, hey Ivan? Then, what’s the possibility?... She reached for the mouse, and the second she touched it, the screen sprang to life. Yes!

  Her euphoria though, was short lived. On the screen was an Excel monetary spreadsheet. Izzy inwardly groaned, finances never had been her forte. She squinted at the screen, forcing herself to read the information in the hope of gleaning a clue, of finding some evidence.

  She could feel a migraine coming on.

  Steve, not seeing anything of interest or out of the ordinary on his monitor, clicked on the arrow again to reveal a third screen of images. He wondered just how many cameras they had around the property. These new images were not of the outside, nor of the ground floor, they appeared to be of the upper floors, of the corridors leading to the bedrooms and, as Steve stared hard at the screen, the bedrooms themselves!

  In at least half a dozen of the bedrooms, Steve could see that the lights were on. He could also see people having, or about have, sex, and all were beautiful young women with middle to old-aged men. Peering at an individual frame, Steve could see a man lying full-length on a bed, hands clasped behind the back his head, and completely naked. He appeared to be waiting. He also appeared to be well-endowed. Steve clicked to full-screen to get a better look. Just as he did so, the emergence of a figure to the left of the frame drew his attention. The full-screen shot showed a woman emerging from what Steve assumed was an en-suite bathroom. The woman was blonde and large breasted. She was also naked. Steve stared intently as the young woman climbed onto the bed to lie next to the man, before then taking his penis in her hand and working him up to an erection. He certainly is well-endowed, thought Steve.

  ‘Found anything?’ asked Izzy, cutting through Steve’s thoughts.

  ‘Err...’ stammered Steve, quickly clicking back to the previous screen, ‘no. Just checking the CCTV,’ he managed to say, feeling guilty and disgusted with himself. Disgusted because of his voyeurism, and guilty at his feelings of arousal. ‘How about you?’ he said, turning.

  Izzy puffed out her cheeks. ‘Not sure. I’m looking at what appears to be an Excel credit and debit spreadsheet, lots of names with corresponding payments either to or from. No indication as to the reason for those payments.’

  ‘Is there a consistency? A pattern, if you like, to the debits and credits?’ Steve asked.

  ‘The only “pattern” I can possibly see, would be the names and the amounts. There are a lot of Anglo-Saxon sounding names, paying infrequent, yet reasonably large amounts. Thousands of pounds in some cases. Then there are a few Anglo-Saxon sounding names who receive regular yet smaller amounts. And then we have a few Russian, or Eastern European sounding names, who, it would appear, receive hundreds of thousands of pounds. What for, I have no idea.’

  Steve glanced at his watch, conscious of how long they’d been there. ‘Does the file have a name at the top of the screen? It should show a filename. What’s the file called?’

  Izzy’s eyes flicked up to the top of the computer screen. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Looks like it’s in Russian,’ she replied.

  ‘What about the tabs of the individual worksheets along the bottom of the screen?’

  Izzy shook her head. ‘The same. Russian.’ At Steve’s lack of response, Izzy looked up from the screen to see him deep in thought. ‘You don’t speak Russian, then?’ she asked him.

  ‘Nyet,’ he replied after a moment, when he realised Izzy had spoken to him.

  ‘Ho, Ho, very droll,’ said Izzy, rolling her eyes. Then, ‘It could be bulk orders for goods, for all we know, anything from toilet rolls to trifles.’

  ‘Or they could be blackmail payments,’ said Steve, softly.

  ‘Blackmail? What makes you say that?’ asked Izzy, suddenly curious.

  ‘What about other files?’ said Steve, keen to steer Izzy away from the subject rather than explain - or show - his reasoning. ‘There must be other files on there?’

  ‘Already tried, they’re password protected.’

  Steve frowned. ‘All of them?’ Izzy nodded. ‘So how did you get into that one?’

  ‘It was already open,’ she replied. ‘I guess the last user forgot to close it down.’

  ‘That seems a bit careless,’ said Steve, still frowning, his frown then deepening further as he watched Izzy take a small silver USB stick out of her purse and insert it into the computer. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I know a man who speaks Russian,’ she replied, simply.

  ‘But without a warrant, that’s illegal,’ said Steve.

  ‘So arrest me,’ she said, as she started copying the spreadsheet to the memory stick. As she moved the mouse across the desk to reposition the cursor, her hand bumped the coffee cup. She instinctively released her grip on the mouse to grasp the cup and move it to a safe distance, but as she did so, she froze, her eyes locked on to the half drunk cup of coffee. ‘Steve?’ she said, her voice wavering a little. ‘The coffee cup!’

  Steve glanced at the cup in Izzy’s hand. ‘It looks disgusting. Probably instant. I wouldn’t drink it if I were you,’ he said, with forced levity.

  ‘It’s warm,’ said Izzy, her eyes still locked on.

  ‘I still wouldn’t drink it,’ he said, again.

  ‘It’s very warm.’

  Their eyes met, both realising: maybe the last user hadn’t been so careless after all.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Izzy.

  ‘Oh, bollocks,’ said Steve.

  CHAPTER 50

  Harry was feeling good. He could feel a sense of excitement. He felt what he could only describe as ‘alive’, for the first time in years. As he turned the sports car onto the A406, he pulled the GUNS N’ ROSES CD from the inside pocket of his overcoat and slipped it into the CD player. He skipped through ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s door’ and ‘Sympathy for the Devil’, before finally selecting a track, cranking up the volume and then pressing the play button.

  He floored the accelerator, feeling the car leap forward in response to ‘Paradise City’, his smile turning into a broad grin and then into a soft laugh as he hurtled along the A406

  Take me down to the paradise city

  Where the grass is green

  And the girls are pretty

  Take me home

  (Oh, won’t you please take me home?)

  Harry pulled into the overspill car park. Seeing an available space adjacent to a Smart Car, he then reversed in - should that he need to make a quick exit. He then walked around to the front of the building, intent, on this occasion, to use the main entrance and enter the club with at least some dignity.

  In the main reception he was greeted by a buzz of excitement, closely followed by the maitre d’, and a waitress offering him a glass of champagne.

  He declined the champagne, quietly informing the maitre d’ that he wasn’t there for the party, he was there to see Victor and he was expected.

  The maitre d’ politely invited Harry to follow him, leading him away from the party and the noisy crowd. They walked along a wide hallway, thickly carpeted and ornately decorated, past a busy restaurant; then through a bar area that hummed with conversation between its affluent male patrons, and the few young and stunningly attractive hostesses who were flitting among the club members, ensuring their needs were being met.

  The maitre d’ finally brought Harry to a room that had an open fire and a variety of armchairs; a quiet and comfortable room, the silence broken only by the mur
murings of conversation. Harry looked around to see only a handful of patrons, all male, and all of an age and apparent distinction. This room was reserved for the rich and the connected: the elite.

  Harry was led across to the far corner of the room, where two large wingback chairs were separated by a low table. In one chair was Eyepatch, a cruel smirk on his face as he watched Harry approach. In the other was Victor, who was reading the Financial Times, which he lowered as they neared. Victor turned to Eyepatch and inclined his head, indicating he give up his seat to Harry. Eyepatch slowly stood to his full height, in no rush, and all the while holding Harry’s gaze with an amused look.

  Harry figured the man standing at arm’s length before him had probably got three inches in height and twenty pounds in weight over him. He returned the big man’s stare, coolly, calmly, and unwavering. For a brief moment, Harry thought he saw uncertainty and doubt, until the sound of Victor’s voice, issuing an order to the maitre d’, broke the spell. As Eyepatch moved a discreet distance to another chair, his gaze still fixed on Harry, Harry gave him a wink of the eye, just to wind him up.

  Victor invited Harry to sit.

  Placing the leather case on the floor next to the vacant chair, Harry removed his gloves and coat, to then sit, just as the maitre d’ returned bearing a tray. He placed a tall glass of clear liquid and ice on the table close to Victor - Harry assumed it was vodka, with Victor being Russian - followed by a shorter glass containing what looked to be whisky with a single ice cube. Harry wondered if it was a coincidence or a lucky guess. The maitre d’ then handed both Victor and Harry a slim metal tube, each containing a good quality cigar.

  Harry watched as Victor removed his cigar from its casing, briefly examined it to appreciate its quality, before then lighting it and puffing it into life.

  ‘You look different,’ said Victor, finally.

  Harry merely shrugged, saying nothing.

  Victor took another draw on his cigar, blowing smoke towards the ceiling.

  Harry idly wondered whether the smoking ban included private clubs.

  ‘These are good cigars, you should try one,’ said Victor, indicating the metal tube still held within Harry’s hand.

  ‘I’m trying to cut down. I’ll save it for a special occasion,’ he replied, slipping it into his jacket pocket.

  ‘Health is important,’ said Victor, nodding. ‘I smoke too much, I know that. It’ll probably be the death of me -’

  ‘Victor,’ said Harry, quietly interrupting, ‘I didn’t come here for sociable conversation, and I really don’t give a flying-fuck about your health, either. Where’s the girl?’

  Victor levelled his gaze at Harry, searched his expression, and saw only resolve. He gave a slight nod of the head in acceptance, before looking across to Eyepatch.

  Harry watched the big Russian leave the room.

  Victor took a sip of his drink, then replaced it on the table. After a moment he said, ‘What happened the other day, in our leisure facilities, was purely business. A necessity. I’m sure a man like you can understand that?’

  Harry studied the man sitting across from him. If he was remorseful, he didn’t look or sound it. ‘How’s the refurbishment coming along?’ he asked, drily.

  ‘Slightly behind schedule. We had to get a specialised cleaning company in,’ he admitted.

  They sat for a moment. Not speaking. Waiting.

  ‘What will you do with the girl?’ asked Victor, conversationally.

  ‘I think that’s my business, and doesn’t really concern you anymore.’

  Victor smiled as he said, ‘I’ll be sorry to see her go. She was one of my favourites. She was... inventive. As well as being a valuable asset and investment, she -’ Victor’s smile slipped, to then be replaced with a frown, as he reached into his pocket to pull out a softly vibrating mobile phone. His frown deepened as he glanced at the caller ID, before placing the phone to his ear and listening intently, responding quietly, yet urgently, in Russian. While Victor took the call, Harry found his memory strings being tugged, but couldn’t work out why.

  When Victor ended the call and turned back, Harry could see the smile was a little too forced. The phone call had not been good news. ‘Problem?’ asked Harry. Whatever Victor’s response was going to be, Harry didn’t get to hear it, because at that moment, Mollie walked in, leaving Eyepatch waiting near the door.

  All heads turned to watch the beautiful, dark haired young woman make her way across the room. Victor stood as she approached; Harry reached down for the leather case and then did likewise. As she neared, Harry could see that the photograph Patrick had given to him did not do her justice. Her hair was long, luxurious, and jet black, the colour of her eyes only a shade lighter. In the photograph, she hadn’t been wearing makeup; tonight, she was. When she reached Victor, she courteously greeted him with an extended hand and a smile. Harry, studying her closely, noticed the warmth of her smile did not stretch as far as her tired eyes, nor did the heavily applied makeup completely cover the dark circles beneath.

  Victor gallantly kissed the back of the young woman’s hand, before introducing her to Harry. Harry extended his hand: her grip was firm but cool to the touch, her fingers delicate. Keeping his voice low, Victor explained to Mollie that Harry was her new ‘benefactor’, that he now held her contract of employment, that she was now his responsibility.

  As Harry listened to Victor’s ‘spin’, on Mollie’s situation, he watched her face. He saw her smile falter. He saw doubt and confusion as she tried to translate Victor’s words into reality. He saw Mollie look from him to Victor, then back again.

  Still holding the girl’s hand, Harry searched for the right words. ‘I’m here on behalf of your father, Patrick,’ he said, finally. At the mention of her father’s name, he felt her grip tighten. He also saw her eyes widen in surprise at what he was certain was hope. Finally, uttering the words he’d silently promised to Patrick, Harry said, ‘It’s time to go home, Mollie.’ Mollie opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyelids fluttered, fighting emotion, failing. Harry watched a single tear track down her face.

  Still smiling like the genial host, Victor turned to Harry. ‘You have something for me?’

  Harry handed him the leather case, which Victor tucked under his arm.

  ‘Aren’t you going to count it?’ asked Harry.

  Victor shook his head. ‘No need.’

  ‘Why? Because I have an honest face?’ replied Harry.

  Victor simply smiled. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, I have other business to take care of. I’m sure you can find your own way out.’ With that, he walked away, Eyepatch close behind.

  Harry watched Victor and his henchman leave, with a sense of suspicion, anger, and unfinished business. Turning his attention to Mollie, he found her staring up at him, her face betraying a mixture of emotions.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, in a soft wavering voice that revealed a faint trace of Irish lilt. ‘I can go home? I mean, how? How did my father get the money? They told me he didn’t have it. That I had to pay off his debt. They told me they would hurt my parents if I didn’t,’ she said to Harry, her big beautiful eyes filling with tears, her face creasing with anguish, her hands fluttering like small birds as she looked around, her panic building. ‘Please tell me they’re okay?’ she asked Harry. ‘My father?’ Gently taking Mollie by the shoulders, Harry opened his mouth to speak. ‘My mother?’ she then said. Harry looked away, unable to meet her eyes, unable to find the words. ‘It’s my mother, isn’t it? They’ve hurt my mother!’ she said, interpreting Harry’s hesitation as such. ‘Please tell me they haven’t hurt her?’ she implored, as grief overcame her and her knees buckled.

  Tightening his grip to prevent her from collapsing, Harry said, ‘Your mother is safe and well. You’ll see her soon. It’s time to go home, Mollie.’ With that, Harry scooped up his coat, and with a supportive arm around Mollie’s waist, ushered her from the room, giving
her no time to think or to ask questions. Now was not the time for her to hear the truth about her father.

  Instead of leaving by the main entrance, and walking around to the overspill car park at the rear, Harry opted for a shortcut. Following his instinct, they made their way along carpeted hallways towards the rear of the building and the kitchen, the steady flow of waiters and kitchen porters indicating they were heading in the right direction.

  They eventually came to the long corridor with the red quarry tiled floor and the white painted walls which led to the kitchen and the service entrance that Harry had entered by on his first visit. As they started along the corridor, he noticed a sign on the wall, indicating the direction to the gymnasium and the swimming pool. He struggled to suppress the memories and the anger that flared within him.

  They passed a number of closed doors: the catering manager’s office, the door marked ‘Private’, the cleaner’s cupboard, the dry stores cupboard and on towards the sounds of a busy kitchen, and the exit. Harry was keen to leave the building as quickly as possible. Not just for Mollie’s sake, but for the memories it held - and the fact that he didn’t trust Victor.

  They reached the service door. Harry pushed hard, throwing the door wide open, onto the darkened car park and the sense of imminent release, of freedom. He stepped to the side, allowing the cool evening air in, and for Mollie to exit. He started to follow, but then instinctively stopped. He hesitated for the briefest moment, before turning to look back. What he saw was what he’d seen on his first visit: a long corridor; a long, empty corridor, with an unreadable sign at the far end.