Right then, let’s go back upstairs.’
Sean leads me behind the bar and picks up a pint glass.
‘Angle the glass like that... it’s the same for all the hand-pulled ales, the Irish Stout and the lagers so you don’t get too much of a head, cider is fine, glass straight up for that. If you get an order that includes Irish Stout do that first, as you need to let it rest a couple of times, once again, so you don’t get a big head on it.
We have two regulars, who will probably throw you the first time you serve them. Both are old fella’s, one will ask for his drink in a dirty glass, do not serve him a drink in a dirty glass, it’s a quote he likes to use from an old Bob Hope, Bing Crosby film, the other old fella will ask for a pint of Scotch, do not do what a previous staff member did and give him a pint of whisky, Scotch used to be a brand of bitter in the 1970s. Clean glass, a pint of bitter, got it?’
’I think so – mind my own business, don’t poison people, rotate, don’t blow myself up, rotate, don’t serve people with drinks in a dirty glass and scotch is bitter not whisky?’
‘Spot on Joe, you learn fast! Now to teach you the till and you’re done.’
‘What about pay?’
‘£3.70 per hour and your tips are your own, so be nice to people! We’ll work out your lodgings later.’
Let’s stock up then we’ll get some breakfast and you can tell me how you got into this mess.’
After an hour or so, the bar has been restocked, cleaned and is now pristine.
‘Well, without a doubt that was easier with two of us doing it, you have an eye for detail Joe, I like it!’
We walk back to the bar, I sit on a tall bar stool on the customer side, Sean makes his way behind the bar.
‘So, what’s your poison?’ Sean asks.
‘I’ll have a coffee please.’
Sean reels back with a look of disgust on his face. ‘How old are you Joe?’
‘Twenty-Seven.’ I reply, although deep down, I’m sure it was a rhetorical question.
Sean starts to pull himself a pint.
‘Twenty-Seven, not Eighty-Seven... so what will it be?’
‘I’ll have a pint of lager...’
Sean puts both drinks on the bar and joins me on the customer side.
‘So come on, let’s hear it, how did a kid from here, of all places, ends up becoming a multi-millionaire in America?’
‘Only on paper and at the moment I’m as penniless as the day I was born.’
Sean continues. ‘Nobody around here can understand how nice Joseph Ryebank could have made it so big, you must be a real big badass nowadays, do I have to watch my back?’
Sean was fishing to see how much of a threat I posed, I’m about to shock him.
‘Do you know what Sean? I actually made my money through being kind.’ I pick up my pint and take a mouth full, waiting for the fallout from my last statement.
Sean takes a moment then bursts into laughter, punches my shoulder and then picks up his drink. ‘You’re a funny man Joe.’
‘Really Sean, I’m being straight up with you.’ I feel I can tell Sean everything as he doesn’t have the capacity to understand the concept of making money through cooperation rather than force.
‘Okay Mr nice guy, tell me how that is even possible.’
I take another mouth full of drink, then I start.’ So, you know how and why I ended up in the States?’
‘Yes, you met a girl who was studying over here, then you went back with her?’
‘Exactly, I ended up working for her Dad, he was a top dog in a massive construction company. Legitimately I worked my way up in the company and eventually I was put in charge of identifying regeneration projects and securing low-cost funding and grants to carry out the work.
Very quickly I caught on that regeneration was a buzz word, the public liked it, the city politicians liked it, the press liked it and most importantly money lenders liked it, banks, investors, etc.
I was amazed at how much money was given away to fund my projects, and, when we had to borrow money, how incredibly low business interest rates were. I almost had a blank cheque.
City Hall loved it, for them it was a way of showing the electorate how much they care, which got the press on their side, which in turn got the public on their side. Business money lenders were falling over themselves to be associated with City Hall and Government officials.
Yes, we are ruthless, projects run on time, on budget and to an outstanding standard but that is a good thing, right?’
I can see Sean’s eyes glazing over, he is getting bored already, he is waiting for the part where I shoot someone in the back of the head, put the dead body in a tarpaulin weighed down with bricks and dump them in the river.
I decide that I’m wasting my breath, but, in the immortal words of the Mastermind presenter; I’ve started so I’ll finish.
I carry on...
‘When I worked for the larger organisation, I bought up property in the poorer neighbourhoods, neighbourhoods that no one else wanted to touch.
It was my job to get fully funded grants to regenerate the housing; off the back of the grants we would carry out the works and then sell on the finished properties. On completion of the project we would actively seek out bohemian types, you know arty folk, who would open studios and trendy cafes. We would do them a deal on a few select properties, and then... boom! The area is trendy, demand grows, and we can charge a premium. Profit margins were sky-high, after all, buying low and selling high is a winning formula, but buy low-sell high and the work is paid for by someone else is a dream come true!
No one seemed to mind. Through clever marketing we fooled the press and the public that we had turned the area around.
However, that never really sat well with me, you know, with me being Mr nice guy and all that, so I had to find a way of offsetting tough business decisions against my moral standing.
Then one day I met a lad called Jamal in the neighbourhood; he is a genius, I help him secure a job in the financial district, he excels exactly as I thought he would. Then it came to me, what if I could regenerate and generate opportunities in these neighbourhoods, whilst still making money? For months I worked on the figures with Jamal, then we cracked it.
I convinced my company to set up several subsidiaries, so we could lessen our tax liabilities. I was put in charge of them, the only stipulation was that I maintained a consistent yield of seven percent for the parent company, that was nearly double the market values for the area, but I like a challenge!’
Sean is now yawning. ‘Please tell me you’re nearly done; I’m losing the will to live.’
‘Very nearly done. Think, if I can do it in New York, one of the toughest property markets in the world, I could do it here. I could make you a lot of money Sean, legitimately, as a reward for helping me out in my time of need. Just hear me out.’
Sean heard I could make you a lot of money and suddenly, he seems a lot more engaged.
‘You have my attention, how do we do it?’
‘Same business model, Sean. We get into the communities that need some support, we set up a Community Council, with their own housing projects, employment clubs, micro-business start-ups, social clubs for the retired, etc. Then comes the fun bit. We earn a yield of twelve percent in the UK property market. Remember what I said, buy low sell high, but we sell to the community, so we buy low-sell low. The money is made through the markets. We can get a yield of twelve percent, which equates to; seven percent to the investors, four percent to the Community Council and one percent to ourselves. We tell them that is what they have earned, but we take the full twelve and we invest it – believe me the rewards are massive, I have a way that will guarantee the original twelve percent will be safe and then triple it with the Stock Market investments. The pay down on the investments is 60/40 in our favour.
The Community Council make more, the investors make more. You and I make more money in a year than most make in a lifetime. Do you nee
d proof? Forty-five million dollars in just six years is my track record!’
‘Legitimately you say’ Sean is no longer yawning!
‘Legitimately, so no more cracking heads or breaking legs. From now on everything you do will be done out of kindness.’
‘I’m not sure Joe, I don’t want people to think I’ve gone soft.’
‘Just keep quiet, people will think you are making money in the old-fashioned way your old associates won’t touch you because they’ll think you’re tougher than ever, and the law can’t touch you because everything you do is legal. In the Community you’ll be treated like a God, ex-gangster helping people in the community, the press will love you, politicians will love you and hey, you might get an MBE or OBE off the Queen!’
‘When do we start?’
‘It needs some prep work, leave it with me.’
There’s a knock on the door and a face appears at the window.
‘That’ll be the chef,’ Sean gets up to open the door, he lets the chef in and introduces us to each other. Sean turns to me, ‘go and unpack, make yourself at home, we open shortly and I’ll need you down here to learn the ropes.’
Chapter 31
It is Sunday night, early doors at the pub.
A group of regulars is sat at their table by the window that looks out onto the steps that lead up to the front door. They are there for a reason and it’s not because it’s just somewhere to sit, it’s because there is only one way in to the pub and one way out. They are the lookouts and they are about to prove their worth.
I’m in the middle of serving a young couple when the group sat by the window briefly burst into the last chorus of the song Watching The Detectives by Elvis Costello. A silence descended on the bar area. Sure enough, two men walk through the front door and head towards me.
I glance up, out of the two men stood there, I instantly recognise, one of them, it’s DCI Myddlewood. He concentrates his attention on me, whilst his colleague surveys the room.
‘I see you’re keeping good company, Joe,’ he says, with just a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
He continues. ‘You see when an innocent man is asked to assist in a police enquiry, he’ll normally jump at the chance to help; what I have to ask myself now, is, why is that innocent man not jumping at that chance?’
I take a moment before replying as I remember what my Uncle and Aunt have said about DCI Myddlewood, then in an assertive tone I address him. ‘There may be a few trust issues between us, I think you should concentrate on the evidence you’ve already got.’
DCI Myddlewood stands up straight from leaning on the bar and as he does, he looks beyond me to Sean the landlord who has appeared at the door at the back of the bar. ‘Talk about trust issues, you’d better watch your back Joe, I don’t think you know who or what you’ve got yourself involved with.’
Sean walks to my side and interjects. ‘I take it you are on duty DCI Myddlewood... do you believe an offence under the Licencing Act has been, is being, or is about to be committed?’
DCI Myddlewood is now fully engaged with Sean the landlord. ‘Well, well, well Sean, that is a matter of opinion isn’t it?’ DCI Myddlewood turns around, looks around the room and then turns back to Sean. ‘I could probably find about a dozen reasons to be here on official business, but we’ll overlook it this time.’
Sean isn’t going to back down. ‘Do what you’ve got to do or leave my pub,’ his tone of voice is aggressive now.
DCI Myddlewood has a smirk on his face, ‘does Joe know about your past Sean... no? I didn’t think so. You of all people should know not to upset me it would be a shame if certain information were to slip out now, wouldn’t it?’
DCI Myddlewood turns around and taps his colleague on the arm, ‘come on, let’s go,’ then over his shoulder he looks to me, ‘I’ll be seeing you around Joe, be careful who you trust and steer clear of the woods near Wildgoose Heys.’
As they both leave the pub DCI Myddlewood is singing selected lines from the nursery rhyme The Teddy Bears Picnic.
Sean heads to the door and watches them drive off, then makes his way back to the bar.
‘Take the rest of the night off Joe,’ he says in a disgruntled voice.’
I just stand and stare, I’m trying to process what has just happened.
Sean is now glaring at me, ‘I said take the night off, go, get out, have a night on the town.’
I make my way upstairs, grab my wallet and phone and leave the pub. I’m not sure what to do next so I start walking. Within a couple of minutes, I’m outside my old local. I decide to go in for a drink.
As I approach the bar, I notice Lisa is in her favourite spot on a barstool in front of the cider tap.
She notices me immediately. ‘Well you’ve got a bloody nerve coming in here!’
Almost at the same time I feel someone grab me from behind, they spin me round to face them. ‘Do one Joe, no one in here trusts you. Why are you even here, looking for a new victim to kill or just here to break up another marriage?’
I can feel people staring from all around the pub, Lisa takes a sharp intake of breath, ‘harsh... but true,’ she says.
I make my way back to the front door. I wouldn’t have lasted two minutes if I’d have stayed and, if I needed confirmation, I hear the whoosh as an empty pint pot skims past my head before smashing on the wall, showering me with shards of glass.
I push the door open and step down on to the street, I turn right and walk until I reach Jill’s old pub. I cross the car park at the side, climb over the fence into the old orchard and make my way under the bridge on to the disused railway line. Half a mile later I reach Didsbury Village. I climb up the embankment and head over to the shops and pubs on the main road.
There is music coming from the first floor of a large Victorian era pub on the far corner of the crossroads so I make my way over; at least I could be anonymous in a crowd of people.
I order a pint of lager and a whiskey chaser, it goes down well, maybe a little too well. I re-order and drink several more before heading upstairs to the function room where the band is playing.
I stand at the bar at the back of the room. After a couple more pints of lager I turn from the bar to watch the band and almost immediately I notice a woman sat by the window on the far side of the room who appears to be looking over at me. I smile at her as she seems to be on her own too. Apparently, that smile acted as an invitation, she makes her way over and we try and introduce ourselves to each other but the music is too loud, I indicate that I’ll buy her a drink, which she accepts. We try in vain to strike up a conversation but to no avail. After ten minutes she takes me by the hand and leads me out of the function room, as the doors close behind us, she is looking around for somewhere to go. There is an unlit staircase just to the left of us so we make our way halfway up it and sit down side by side. Finally, we can speak. She is funny, articulate, smart, very friendly and, the sister of the lead singer in the band. We spend quite some time engaged in small talk, then she slips Jesus into the conversation. Now I’m not averse to Christianity, after all, back in the neighbourhoods of New York I had spent a considerable amount of time around people of the Christian faith, it was just I didn’t need to hear it now, not here not at this time.
My mind wanders, I don’t know what I was expecting when she led me by the hand out of the function room to this unlit staircase, well okay, I do know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t to be and part of me is glad. I need to be reminded how weak I’d become because If the circumstances were different, I’d have gone along with whatever happened. I am becoming reckless, no longer in control. It wasn’t that long ago I was a strong confident man, if I wanted things to happen I would make them happen; I live by the motto of “Aut inveniam viam aut faciam” – “I’ll either find a way or make one”, likewise I always had the strength and self-confidence to put the brakes on a situation. Now, I’m like a ball on a spinning roulette wheel, I am bouncing around, jumping uncontrollably from one
situation to another, unable to settle.
I zone back into her conversation, she hasn’t stopped to draw breath yet, so I interrupt her and suggest we go down to the main pub, she agrees and after ordering another couple of drinks at the bar we find ourselves a quiet corner in an alcove near the front door. I sit there in silence as she relentlessly talks at me, then a song comes on the jukebox that sends me over the edge, Baker Street by Gerry Rafferty. I remember it from my childhood, my mother would sing the lyrics so passionately, I would only have been about four when it was released, but even back then it was like a vision of the future as if one day twenty-three years later it would make me realise that something had to change in my life.
As the song ends, I stand up almost in a trance-like state, ‘I’m just going...’ I didn’t finish my sentence; I swear she was still talking at me as I walked away. I head towards the Gents toilets at the back of the pub.
On the return walk back to the alcove where we are sat, an overwhelming urge to leave washes over me and as the front door was on the route back it seemed like a good time to use it, so I did.
I leave the pub and make my way along the main road, along the shopfronts, passing the pubs, restaurants and fast food takeaways, until I get to the far end and the open gates to the park. I am tired and drunk and there is a bench just in front of me with my name on it, time for a sit down. I sit there and stare into the darkness, it is so quiet and a world away from the busy street I have just left, there is nobody about, or at least I hope there is nobody about.
I get to thinking about DCI Myddlewood’s visit to the pub and his comments about the woods, I wonder if it is coincidence or whether he knows what really happened to Mick; surely as a cop he wouldn’t let a murder go unsolved and for Mick’s body to lie dead and undiscovered for all these years? But then, Sean the landlord was part of the old gang, was he one of the men that came round to my house on that night; one of the men that brutally murdered Mick on the car park of his pub seconds after saying goodnight to his nine-year-old daughter; one of the men that carried Mick’s body down to the woods. Is that what DCI Myddlewood is alluding to?
The Truth We Chase Page 21
