Once a Crooked Man (18 page)

And she was gone.

Harry walked into the bathroom, closed the toilet seat and sat down. A frothy residue adhered to the sides and bottom of the tub. Discarded towels lay in a heap, one smeared with mauve lipstick. The indent of Lizzie's small wet footprint was still visible on the thick bath mat.

Slipping off the robe, he rinsed off the tub, sat down in it and tried to take a shower. The hand spray was a pathetic substitute for the real thing. Harry could never understand why the British preferred baths to showers. What was the attraction of lying in a tub of dirty water?

British daytime television soon wore thin. He read
The Telegraph
from cover to cover and then tried his hand at the crossword on the back page but was only able to fill in one of the answers, the word “scent” missing from a Shakespearean quotation. Harry had played
Hamlet
's ghost in high school and could still remember his overly dramatic reading of, “But soft! methinks I scent the morning air!” All the other clues seemed to be the product of a deranged mind. Tossing the paper aside he lay for a time on his back watching a horse spider symbolically weave a web in the corner of the ceiling.

The phone woke him just before three. It was Ivan and he was calling to tell Harry to go to the center of town and meet Detective Sergeant Carswell in a pub.

Harry hung up. So far he'd been shot at, driven in a high-speed car chase, and had more money than he'd ever seen thrust into his hands with the inexplicable words “It's all yours now.” He'd almost died from a bullet to the head, been rescued, put in handcuffs and then released. As if this weren't enough, an English policewoman had just ravished him and he was about to join her for a pint.

When he arrived at the pub he spotted Lizzie drinking an enormous glass of Guinness at the saloon bar. The conversation level was deafening. No British reserve here. As Harry came up behind her she saw him in the mirror and asked loudly, “What'll you have, Harry? It's on me.”

“Thanks. I'll have a Guinness.”

“Right. Let's have a couple of Ploughman's. I'm feeling peckish.”

Minutes later, glasses and plates held high, the two squeezed through the crowd and looked for somewhere to sit down. Lizzie nodded towards the rear and shouted, “Let's see if there's someplace to park ourselves out back.”

An elderly gentleman in tweeds and his white-haired lady were about to leave a table by the low garden wall. As Harry and Lizzie approached, they insisted on wiping the table clean before they left. Lizzie sat across from Harry and they both turned to look at the river flowing lazily past. Lizzie took out her cigarette pack and Harry watched in fascination as she combined eating, drinking, smoking and talking.

“I was right about Colonel Villiers being pissed off,” she said knowingly. “I could tell last night that underneath all the bluster he was real angry. Very upset that someone took a potshot at him. I recognized the type. He'll do anything to get even. He has also filed away in that nasty little brain of his that whoever tried to knock him off in the Mews is going to want to finish the job. Especially when he finds out what they did to Eddie in the hospital. I told him we knew about him calling the States and it wouldn't be long before we got the number from the phone records. I told him it would be better for him if he saved us the trouble and gave it to us now. I also reminded him he faces an indeterminate number of years in a prison that smells of piss and cheap disinfectant. I suggested we make a trade.”

“What was his reaction to that?”

“I didn't wait for an answer. Left him to think about it for a few hours.”

“Have you figured out what you want me to do?”

“Yes. I would like you to help us. I don't actually know how yet. But I will.”

“Where's the money now?” he asked.

“Across the road in the boot of your car. Unless someone's nicked it in the last ten minutes.” She pulled his car keys from a pocket and dropped them on the table.

“Have you marked the notes yet?” Harry asked.

She gave him a look of mock innocence and both of them ate for a while in silence.

“So what's my first move in this little game of yours?”

Lizzie wiped her fingers on a napkin this time and leaned over the table. “If you agree, drive me to the station. Train leaves in fifty-five minutes. Then go back to the hotel.” She reached into another pocket and, producing a small sheet of paper and a stubby pencil, swiftly scribbled out two addresses.

“Drive up to town tomorrow and drop the car off here,” she said, pointing at the first. “Tell them Lizzie sent you. Then take a taxi to that address.” She pointed to the second. “It's a café just off Piccadilly. I'll be there sipping a cappuccino at eleven thirty. I'll have talked with my superiors by then.”

Harry slowly drank the last of his Guinness.

“Why are you trusting me with the money?” he said. “Isn't that a bit of a risk?”

“No, Harry. You're the honest type. Everyone else out there knows you took it. It stands to reason you've still got it. So that's the way it has to be.”

She picked up the car keys and dangled them in the air.

“What do you say?”

Life is made up of choices, some easier than others. In spite of a chilly breeze, around them the men were in shirtsleeves and the girls in light dresses. Bare brown arms and red legs. The work of the day was done and it was time for pleasure, time to take advantage of a beautiful evening, time to walk along the towpath or lie entwined on the grass. Out on the river, boats cruised gently by with their occupants languishing in the sterns. A couple at a table close by laughed happily together.

Harry couldn't help make the comparison between this air of unconcerned enjoyment and the complications that could come into his life if he accepted those keys and did what this unpredictable woman was asking.

“Are you sure you wouldn't like to come up for a nightcap?” he asked lamely.

She jiggled the keys. “And miss my train?”

“You could drive up with me in the morning.”

“Nice try, Harry. But I got to go to work.” She threw the keys high in the air.

Harry reached out and caught them. Instinct over reason.

Walking back to the car he felt great. There was no going back now. This extraordinary creature had come crashing into his life. He was hooked and he knew it.

The journey to Taunton Station took only a few minutes. As they pulled up at the entrance Lizzie leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“Thanks for dinner,” he said.

She smiled. “One of these days I'll cook you one of my specials.”

“I like your specials,” said Harry.

Lizzie laughed. “You haven't tasted nothing yet.”

He watched her jog up the ramp to the platform. At the top, she turned and gave him a wave.

Back at the hotel and safely out of sight of prying eyes, Harry opened up the trunk. The tools and bags had been removed. The old leather suitcase lay right where he'd left it.

 

32

Lizzie Carswell lived her early life on a narrow street between the South Bermondsey railway station and the South Eastern Gas Works. Although never actually an orphan, she might as well have been one. How to survive was her first lesson. As a toddler she began by teaching herself how to slide backwards down the stairs. To reach door handles she dragged around a small wooden box to stand on. From early on she had a special place where she stashed food to eat when her mother forgot to feed her. To take refuge from constantly threatening situations, the young girl retired to a bizarre world created by a vivid imagination. Left to her own devices, Lizzie replaced reality with fantasy.

Every day her dad came home smelling of sweat, beer and an assortment of foul chemicals. It was only later she learned these were used in the manufacture of leather. Her mum spent most hours watching television. Neither parent made any effort to stimulate Lizzie's mind, nor did they encourage her to play or even go for a walk. Both of them took out their frustrations by yelling at her. Like a boxer, little Lizzie learned how to duck and weave.

The first day of school came as a revelation. Wearing a uniform and conforming to rules gave her a new sense of order and freedom and she began to relate to others and make friends. Learning came easily and as a result she enjoyed her classes.

Miss Aitken was her first teacher. This kind and dedicated woman took great pride in the appearance and performance of her students. But she soon realized that in Lizzie's case there would be little or no parent-teacher communication. So Miss Aitken took it upon herself to encourage Lizzie's strengths. Over the years they developed a close working relationship.

Lizzie had no time for the facts and dates of History. Geography appealed to her when she was coloring maps and creating imaginary islands. Mathematics fascinated her. The power of numbers intrigued her. Miss Aitken and the headmistress felt strongly that in spite of current educational trends, domestic classes were still important. Lizzie was eternally grateful to them as these came in useful in her later life. They not only allowed her to move swiftly through several dull office management courses at the Police Academy but also provided her with the means to seduce several young men after dinner on the kitchen floor.

When Lizzie was twelve, after a lively discussion with Miss Aitken on Nixon's ignominious and tragic resignation in the United States, she came home to find her mother seated at the kitchen table sipping tea. Her elbows rested on a table amidst jam jars, empty milk bottles and piles of dirty dishes.

“Your dad's gone,” she announced flatly.

“Gone?” said Lizzie. She took off her coat and draped it over her arm.

“Yeah. Last Friday. He went out for a packet of cigarettes…”

“What are you talking about?”

“You may not have noticed, but he's not been home for over a week.”

This was not particularly unusual. “Where'd he go this time?”

“I dunno.”

Maybe they'd had another big fight. “Why'd he go?”

“I dunno that either. But knowing him, he's probably gone off on a pub crawl of Europe.”

“When's he coming back?”

Her mother never answered the question but shrugged her shoulders and gave a defeated smile. Lizzie could never think of her mum after that without seeing that stupid smile.

Each year on March 5, Lizzie celebrated her birthday with classmates, cake and candles. When she was old enough to drive a car she applied for a temporary license. The local office informed her there was no record of her being born on that day. After an extensive search she found that she had been born on October 5 of the previous year. Her parents had lied to her about the date of her birth.

This odd discovery prompted a little detective work. Their marriage certificate gave her the answer. Little Lizzie had been born only four months after Sydney and Sylvia Carswell were legally wedded. This explained the endless petty bickering. Lizzie's parents were never meant for each other. They had married because of a careless copulation.

Her father's absconding was a blessing in disguise. Sylvia was forced to take a job in a plumbing supply store and brought home a regular paycheck for the first time in her life. Along with government handouts, mother and daughter now had enough money for cigarettes, rent, food and clothing. As both spent little time at home, their paths rarely crossed.

At the age of fourteen, Lizzie discovered she was an athlete. Although of average height she had the perfect build for a long-distance runner. Light, trim and very fast, she began to run cross-country at school. At first she had no idea how to pace herself or breathe properly and often ended up back in the pack. As her technique improved and her muscles developed, she moved steadily closer to the front. Matches were arranged with other schools. Lizzie began to run against unfamiliar faces.

Her first victory came in the last race of the summer term. As she crossed the finish line she felt a euphoric surge of self-satisfaction. She realized in that instant that winning was everything. Winning not only as an athlete but also in every other facet of her life. From that moment on, losing was never an option for Lizzie Carswell.

Throughout the fall and winter she covered long distances through the streets and over the parks. The fitter she became the more keenly her mind functioned. Lizzie joined the local harriers who met every other weekend. Her third race was against a team of cadets from the Hendon Police Academy and she beat out a tall lad from Lancashire by a few feet. The boy was furious at losing to a female and was determined to find out the name of the fucking bitch who had bested him. Their relationship lasted a week. Both lost their virginity and Lizzie chose a career.

Her father would have been disgusted at his daughter's choice. Sydney Carswell had a lifelong contempt for the police. As soon as he was old enough to lift a glass he had a running battle with the law and was constantly hauled in for disturbing the peace. Sydney called the drunk tank his “home from home.”

Lizzie applied to the Police Academy and the day she was accepted she announced to her mother that she was moving out.

“No you're bloody well not” came the reply.

“Yes I bloody well am!” Lizzie was ready for a fight.

“Shut the fuck up!” said her mother. “You're not leaving; I am.”

“What?”

“You can have the house.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette and flexed her neck and shoulders. “It's what you've always wanted! I'm off tomorrow to live with my sister. I wasn't going until the end of the month, but as I'm clearly not wanted here, I think I'll go tonight.” Exhaling noisily, she stood up and went into the bedroom to pack.

Lizzie was astonished. Not that her mother was leaving but that she had an aunt. No one had ever mentioned her. As soon as the front door slammed shut, Lizzie rolled up her sleeves and scrubbed the house from basement to attic.