Chapter Thirty-Three
Time slowed.
Harry was suddenly very, very aware of the sound of his own blood pumping through his head, his own breath, the squeak of his shoes. He had the doctor’s hand in his, and they were staring at each other, watching, waiting.
‘I’m sorry, what?’ the doctor said.
‘Your wrist,’ Harry asked. ‘Your right wrist. You said it was an old injury. How did you get it?’
‘I don’t really remember,’ the doctor said. ‘It’s a long time ago.’
‘A very long time indeed, I should say,’ Harry said, pulling the doctor a little closer, feeling the resistance there. He looked down at the doctor’s hand, sensing the strength in it, and noticed something.
‘Look, I’m busy . . .’
‘Are you naturally bald?’ Harry asked.
The doctor’s eyes grew wide. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your massive, shiny pate,’ Harry said, nodding towards the other man’s head. ‘Is it natural, or do you shave? What do you think, PCSO Metcalf?’
‘Hard to tell,’ Jim replied. ‘I’m sure there’s a test we could run.’
‘You’re being awfully personal now,’ the doctor complained, and Harry felt the man try to pull his hand back.
‘I only ask,’ Harry continued, ‘because your hands, your wrists, well, they look strangely hairless as well, wouldn’t you agree, PCSO Metcalf?’
Jim leaned in for a closer look. ‘They do that, like,’ he said. ‘Smooth, I’d say.’
‘Bet you don’t leave hairs anywhere, do you?’ Harry said. ‘Except in your own shower, obviously. But elsewhere, out and about? Probably not.’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ the doctor snapped. ‘If there’s anything further you need to discuss, then you will have to come back tomorrow.’
Harry didn’t let go of the man’s hand. ‘There’s something you need to know about me,’ he said. ‘And it’s this: I don’t take kindly to being taken for a fool.’
‘I’ll second that,’ Jim added.
‘I never said you were,’ the doctor replied.
‘No, but you implied it,’ Harry said, then he quickly reached out and snatched the little plaster from the doctor’s forehead.
‘What the hell . . .?’ the doctor yelped.
‘PCSO Metcalf,’ Harry called over his shoulder. ‘That cut on the doctor’s forehead there. That look to you like it was the result of someone twatting him with a log?’
Jim leaned in. ‘No, Boss,’ he said. ‘No, it doesn’t.’
‘No, it doesn’t, does it?’ Harry said. ‘I’d say it looks more like a cut. A knife cut perhaps, or a scalpel.’
Harry watched the doctor raise his right hand to cover the cut.
‘I have no idea what it is you’re implying, but–’
Harry had had enough, and his next words fired from his mouth with rage hot as a furnace. ‘You killed Iveson and made me your alibi,’ he said. ‘Well, it looks like that’s all just gone to shit for you, doesn’t it, Doctor? Or should I call you James?’
Without warning, the doctor yanked Harry hard across his desk, heaving the detective from off his feet, then pulling his own hand free as Harry slid across the surface and over to the other side, onto the floor.
‘Bastard!’ Harry hissed, as the floor came up to meet his head, and he only just managed to bring his arms up in time to stop his skull from slamming into it. ‘Jim! Stop him!’
Harry heard the sound of a scuffle, Jim shouting for the doctor to stop, and when he pushed himself back up to his feet, he saw why.
‘You let him down now,’ Harry said. ‘You let him down, James, and come quietly, you hear? It’s over.’
The doctor had Jim by the neck, his thick, strong arm latched under the younger man’s chin, Jim’s feet barely touching the floor. ‘It’s not over,’ he hissed. ‘Not until they’ve all paid for what they did!’
‘Oh, it’s over alright,’ Harry said. ‘And this isn’t going to change anything.’
Jim croaked out the faintest of gasps and Harry could see that his face was turning a terrible shade of purple.
‘I’ve two left,’ the doctor said. ‘That’s all. And I’ll get them. I will! But you wouldn’t understand. You can’t!’
‘Oh, I can,’ Harry said. ‘I understand very well. Because I know all about it, James. Every little bit of it.’
The doctor’s face twisted with confusion. ‘What? No, you can’t! You’re just talking to stop me taking this officer as a hostage! And I will! That’s what I’ll do.’
‘I know all about Sally,’ Harry explained. ‘I know what happened in the snow, James. And you obviously faked your suicide, I’m guessing because you wanted to just forget everything and start again, am I right? A clean slate? I mean, if you’re a completely different person, then that’s what you’ve got isn’t it? A fresh start at things?’
Another choke came from Jim and Harry knew he had to do something sharpish.
‘And you’re wondering how I know, aren’t you, James? It’s bugging you now, because no one knows, do they? And I can’t have guessed all of this, can I?’
The doctor lifted Jim from off his feet.
‘Your dad, James,’ Harry said. ‘It’s your dad who confessed! He told us everything!’
A roar burst from the doctor, a primeval sound of pain and anger and desperation, and before Harry even had a chance to respond, he swung Jim at him, then crashed out through the door to his room.
The PCSO slammed into Harry, taking them both back down onto the floor of the consultation room.
‘Got off me!’ Harry roared, but Jim was in no fit state to respond, landing unconscious on top of Harry.
‘Jim? Jim! Damn it!’
Harry checked the PCSOs vitals and found that he had a pulse and was still breathing. Relief flooded through him, but was scorched away in a flash by the rage now firing through Harry’s veins.
Harry was on his feet and he charged out through the now open door of the doctor’s consulting room and into the hallway beyond. Doors flew open along the corridor
