His house stands on a corner, big for the area, expansive and welcoming, with a large garden that bends round the side. I can see through to the back where I used to love playing as a kid. There’d be impromptu football games with some of the young coppers who often came round for a drink and a barbie. At times, Gerry joined in the kickabouts and took them very seriously, shouting the odds and tackling hard, even the women. His parties were a Met tradition – one every couple of months till my father left the force – and then somehow the fun went out of them. I miss those Sunday afternoons still. The garden now is drawing-paper white and I can see prints from their dog, which must have been out earlier, black dashes and dots zigzagging over the snow.
Someone knows what I’m doing, someone phoned giving my name. This scares me. I need someone I remember and trust, and who better than Gerry Gardner? But I don’t get out immediately. Instead I sit in the pool car, wondering why I feel spooked again.
Am I being watched even now? I look up and down the street. Everyone is inside for Sunday lunch. Most of the cars still have their cap of snow on them so haven’t been used since last night.
Suddenly I know why I’ve been delaying. There’s no sinister reason: I’m nervous about seeing Isobel after we talked on the phone last night, wondering whether I said something I shouldn’t have.
I gather my strength, say out loud, ‘Sod this for a game of soldiers,’ and put my hand on the door handle. But then, at precisely the same moment, Gerry’s front door opens and he bundles out in a hurry, dives into his V50, reverses into the street and accelerates away, wheels sliding on the packed snow. I start the Honda and follow.
If he’s off to buy last-minute lunch supplies, there are three supermarkets and two off-licences nearby on the main road. In truth, it might be easier to corner him in one of the aisles than at home with his daughters around. I like Emma and Gayle, they’re lively and bright, but I’m not up to facing yet more people who know things about me I can’t remember.
The Volvo swerves onto the main road and instantly slows. I do the same. The traffic into town is crawling, stop-start. I can see Gerry three cars ahead and can imagine him angrily smoking his Lambert and Butler as he alternately speeds up and brakes.
I wait for him to pull into a shop forecourt, but he passes all of them and suddenly swerves out on a bend and overtakes three cars at once.
I’m stuck and have to wait till I round the corner in my turn, angry at myself for not reacting faster. Finally there’s a straight stretch. I dodge past two cars and search for the Volvo ahead.
After passing four side roads and peering anxiously down them to see if Gerry’s turned off, I spot him in the distance, heading onto a dual carriageway. He ducks in and out of the lanes sending up clouds of slush and spray, and I do my best to duck in and out behind, trying not to let him see me. My heartbeat rises with the excitement of the chase. The excitement – and the pride of doing it well.
Then without warning, Gerry speeds off a roundabout into the car park of a Harvester pub. I go round the roundabout twice to avoid driving straight in on his toes. As I circle a third time I see Gerry lock the Volvo and walk smoothly across to the pub entrance.
I park at the other end and weigh up the risks. Gerry hasn’t come all this way for a lunchtime beer. But if I stay outside, I have no chance of finding out what’s going on.
While I ponder this another car enters and slides to a stop. I recognise it instantly.
A green Renault Megane with rust on the back bumper and a broken rear wiper. I last saw it in the middle of the night, parked under the yellow lights outside a snow-laden affordable home.
31
Paul gets out of the Megane, locks it and tugs at the door handle twice to check. It’s an automatic habit he’s always had. He doesn’t look around but pulls his stomach in and marches straight into the pub.
Her name was Michelle. I remember that. She’d come down from Glasgow to escape old personal shit and immediately dived into new personal shit. Paul quietly sorted some of it for her, spoke nicely to a few people, leant on a few others.
Michelle was grateful. She was grateful financially on a regular basis, two to three times a month. Some prostitutes are turned on by the power and the uniform. They’ll offer favours for free on the flash of a warrant card. Others will pay for help: to keep the pimps away or give them warnings of raids. Paul said there were worse sins in hell. He’d been a good copper, that was the kick.
By this time, I was already a detective constable in Regional Crime Squad. Worse, I was about to apply to take my sergeant’s exam. And the irony was that everyone thought Paul got me all my promotions by pulling the right strings. Once in a canteen queue I heard someone mutter, ‘Nothing like a bit of a hand-up,’ just loud enough for me to hear. And the joke is: Paul never pulled anything for me… For sure.
One night Michelle’s luck ran out and she got picked up dealing drugs. But for once Paul had taken himself off on holiday – which he hardly ever did after my mother died; three holidays in fifteen years – and was drinking with mates in Lanzarote when Michelle needed him to protect her. So she negotiated and Paul’s name was the only collateral she had. She made a statement that Detective Chief Inspector Paul Blackleigh had slapped her around, forced her to pay for protection, threatened her with arrest. It was probably half true; he could be charming, but he could also be a thug. But the worst was that a month before, he’d phoned an escort agency in Chalk Farm to warn them about a raid and Michelle knew about it.
DCI Paul Blackleigh was suspended and threatened with proceedings – but before they could sack him, he bashed in his papers and left. He blamed himself for forgetting what kind of people those tarts were, that they were all owned by the drugs in the end. As Paul had resigned, DPS quietly dropped the case and told Michelle that she could go free as long as she didn’t tell anyone else. There’d been a string of bad stories about the Met recently and they didn’t need another.
There were things said and jokes made, and I wanted to punch every smug face of them. None of them were as good a cop as my father and none of them as clean as they liked to think they were either.
I open the driver’s window and breathe deeply. The air smells like iron. I look across at Gerry’s car, the latest, most expensive model, and wonder how he can afford it on a DCI salary, with two girls in school and a wife who doesn’t work.
Here in the car it’s getting colder, and I feel like a beggar outside a wedding. But still I have my anger to keep me warm. Suddenly in the silence my mobile rings loud – it’s Paul.
‘What the fuck are you doing, Ross?’
‘Doing what?’ I say slowly.
He laughs, a low mirthless laugh. ‘What are you doing freezing your balls off sitting out there when you could be here in the fucking warm with us?’
For a moment I can’t see anything after the brightness outside and then I spot my father and my boss in a dark corner. The decor is trying to be welcoming and safely old-fashioned: polished oak tables and designer worm-eaten beams. There are a few families scattered around having late lunches.
‘I’m buying,’ Gerry says. ‘What do you want? Drink? Eat? You must need it.’
Indeed the smell of Sunday roast is seductive, but I say, ‘Black coffee is what I need.’
As he goes to the bar, Paul gazes at me, stomach wedged in behind the table, one hand in his trouser pocket absent-mindedly jiggling coins. His face is grey and his eyes dull. Gerry comes back with the coffee and some kind of cold pasta salad from the buffet bar. The coffee is strong, which is good, especially after the weed. I take a forkful of pasta.
Gerry says carefully, ‘What are you tailing us for?’
I feel like a teenager about to get a bollocking again. ‘What are you two meeting secretly for?’
Paul gives a fat smile. ‘For the record, Ross, why didn’t you tell Gerry you can’t remember fuck?’
‘So you told him? Thank you. Where does this come in the book of po
lice codes? SOMS – Screw Over My Son?’
‘For your own good.’
Gerry glances at me sideways, with that careful thin-faced look I’ve seen too many times. He appears relaxed, but I know better. He’s never liked seeing his friends fight. Friendship is important to him. It’s almost tribal to Gerry, a raw unthinking emotion. He tells us both to calm it.
‘If I’d told you I’d had amnesia,’ I say, ‘you know what you’d have done.’
‘Too right. Paul’s told me about you getting phoned by Matthews last night. He said you were trying to save the two nurses.’
‘And Crystal is still in danger. Just now someone pretending to be me phoned the armed policeman guarding our only witness and told him to stand down.’
‘We’ve got to call in DPS.’
‘No, if they interview me and it gets out about my memory, I’m fucked. I’ll be dead in a week.’
‘Don’t get neurotic. We’ll protect you.’
I lean towards him. ‘You know the truth. If there’s a bent cop out there, he’ll find me and you can’t stop it. We need to flush him out. Me, not Winstanley. I need a press conference to appeal for information about Javtokas.’
Gerry sighs. ‘Winstanley’s been asking questions about you. She’s after your balls, Ross.’
‘I don’t trust her to understand what’s going on.’
Paul smiles again – again the greasy smile. ‘I don’t blame you there.’ He drums his stout fingers on his glass. ‘I remember her from when I was in Traffic and she was a DC. She doesn’t give in easy. She’s all media and politics. But you don’t have a choice.’ He takes a thick breath.
‘Fuck you,’ I say. ‘Are you going to grass me up to her too?’ I feel Gerry tensing. Before he can interrupt and try to make the peace, I go on. ‘I’m getting somewhere. I know I was attacked by Darjus Javtokas. He’s gone missing. He’s also related to the Kleiza twins, who we arrested two weeks ago. I’m doing my job. That phone call to the armed guard – we’re forcing our man out of hiding. We’ve got him worried. A press appeal will push him further–’
‘You’re flailing, Ross. What you have to do is go to hospital.’ Gerry raises a soft hand to stop me. ‘It’s not your case now.’
‘Gerry–’
‘Ross, I can’t cover for you anymore. You lied to me. You’ve lost your memory, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Don’t do this to me.’
‘Listen, Ross, I love the way you fight your corner. Sometimes it scares the shit out of me and that means it scares the villains even more, but there’s a time to stop. You need a rest and you need treatment. What I don’t need is another of your tantrums. Sometimes you’re not as tough as you think you are, and you can’t beat this one. Sorry, mate.’
He drains his whisky, followed by his lager chaser, holds up the empty glasses and looks at Paul. Paul shakes his head and Gerry says, ‘Well, I’m driving.’
‘We’re getting old,’ Paul says. ‘That never used to stop us.’ He wobbles with enormous amusement at the thought of him and Gerry ageing.
Gerry looks relieved. At least we haven’t strangled each other.
Elsewhere in the pub I can hear other families laughing and clapping. Some families seem to manage.
I lean forward again. ‘Winstanley’s a cop who likes simple answers. She likes them to be staring her in the face. This is not the right case for her.’
‘The answer usually is staring you in the face, mate,’ Gerry says. ‘And when she finds out you lost your memory and didn’t tell her, she’ll love you.’
‘Yes, Gerry, and there’s someone rotten right in the middle of this.’
‘You’re getting paranoid, Ross.’
And I make a big mistake: I say, ‘It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.’
Gerry doesn’t laugh, he simply purses his lips. Now I know he’s going to fuck everything up. He stands and zips up his designer fleece.
Paul says, ‘Be sensible, Ross. Don’t screw yourself over more than you have to.’
I stay sitting. ‘That’s good coming from you.’
He wheezes himself to his feet. He’s still bigger than Gerry, but it’s fat now, not muscle, and Gerry, slim and sly, is the one with the power.
All the way out to the car park I ask myself why they were meeting out here, in secret. Do I believe it was only about me? What’s really going on? Gerry stops by his Volvo, takes out his key fob and tosses it in his hand.
‘You’re driving yourself to hospital or I’m taking you.’
‘I’m not a child.’
‘You’re as fucking pig-headed as a child,’ Paul says. ‘Always were, and obstinate, and a worse policeman as a result.’
Gerry says, ‘Calm it.’
And I say, ‘No, let’s hear what he thinks.’
‘As if.’ Paul shrugs. ‘I’m not going to let you fuck up your career.’
‘Like you fucked up yours.’
He glares at me with his little bloodshot eyes. I stand there trying to stay cool. I’m really doing my best to remain calm and reasonable, but they are screwing up this whole case.
Gerry says, ‘Get in your sodding car.’
Paul says, ‘You’re still called Blackleigh. You’ve still got my name.’
‘That’s what it’s really about, isn’t it? The Blackleigh name. Look, I’m not a kid anymore, being beaten by you for not being good enough.’ I push him on the chest. It’s a soft push, but he steps back against the car and stiffens.
‘Get out of here,’ Gerry says to me. He’s as red-faced and angry as I’ve ever seen him.
I face Paul. ‘I’m not as easy to hit as I used to be.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he says.
‘You know, I’ve tried to forgive you in the past, but you’re not worth it.’
‘Where did this all fucking come from?’
‘I’m sick of your snide remarks and I’m sick of turning the other fucking cheek.’
I push him again, and he takes a swing and I step back, slipping slightly on the ice, but I stay on my feet. Gerry tries to grab the two of us, but he’s not a physical person. He’s too thin and doesn’t have the muscle to handle us both. I’ve taken all I’m going to take from Paul. I’ve tried the Christian turning the cheek and it didn’t work. Worse, when I look at the fat man in front of me, furious and violent, I see a man who’s never changed: the same judgements, the same certainties, the same stiff-necked moralities. I’d rather kill myself than be like him.
Two couples come out of the pub together, giggling, glance in our direction and then hurry off to their cars.
‘Go on,’ I say, ‘hit me like you used to – well and heavy. Hit me so I can hit you back.’
Gerry says, ‘This is not helping you, Ross.’
‘He doesn’t want to be helped.’
‘We’re doing this for your own good, Ross.’
‘You know what?’ I say warmly. ‘I don’t need people doing things for my own good. People are very good at stabbing me in the back for my own good.’
‘I don’t know what the crap you’re talking about,’ Gerry says.
‘Leave him. Let him stew in his own self-righteousness.’
I don’t know what Paul means. There’s a silence in the car park, just the hiss of the cars passing on the main road, my breathing and Paul’s. Gerry is a horrible colour and he punches one hand into the other and looks at me with an expression I’ve never seen before.
And he says in a terrifying quiet voice, ‘You’re off the case. And you’re off my team for good.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Gerry. How long have you known me?’
I don’t believe he’s doing this, but he goes on, ‘You can forget about any commendation or reference for that new job. The Yard can go whistle and you can get out of my sight before I welly you myself. Sod off. I’m going to put this down to the bump on your head, and to whatever pills you’re on for it, but I don’t want to see you again in my CID office. You’re on
sick leave and then you’ll apply to be transferred. I don’t care who in HR I have to sleep with to get it done. You’re gone.’
‘Screw your CID office,’ I say.
I get into the Honda, slamming the door, which I admit is puerile, but it makes me feel better, and drive off out of the pub car park while they watch. I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. A Jaguar stops for me and the driver gives a friendly wave to let me out of the exit and onto the roundabout. I don’t wave back. I really wish Paul had tried to land a punch, because I’d have loved to have landed one in return.
The blood is pumping and I’ve half a mind to turn back round the roundabout to go and finish the job, put them down on the ground, my own father – the half of my genes – and the other man, the father I always wished I’d had, the alpha and omega, the men who made me what I am.
But I don’t.
32
How much can I remember about my father? I ask myself this even as I listen to my own testimony, standing here in the witness box, almost detached from the experience. It’s like there’s a filing clerk in my head, a keeper of records and secrets that decides what files are to be read and what to be left untouched, which are to be brought out of the archive and which will be left on a dusty shelf, what emotions are to be felt and what’s not to be felt.
What do I want to remember? The moments of pride: seeing Paul in uniform, the pictures of him getting promoted, collecting awards. The times when he complimented me on my marks at school.
How much don’t I want to remember? Watching him grow more and more distant towards my mother in hospital, month after month. Lying awake in bed at nights deciding Paul was not my real father. Wishing Gerry was.
It was raining when my mother died, but only fitfully – a cold day with thin uncertain drizzle. She’d been in hospital for a year after the doctor came in the snow, and had been back six weeks. The story was that she didn’t need any more treatment, only painkillers and bed rest.
Room 15: a gripping psychological mystery thriller Page 17
