Father and Son

by John Barlow

  “On the bar?”

  “On the bar.”

  Baron takes his time.

  “Thing is,” he says at last, “how do we corroborate any of this? At the moment there’s only one person we can put at the scene of the crime, and that’s you.”

  “You got the wrong man, Inspector.”

  “Alibi for Thursday night?”

  “All night.”

  “Name?”

  “Jeanette.”

  “Full name.”

  “Cormac. Jeanette Cormac.”

  Baron’s eyes widen a little.

  “Relationship?”

  “Lady friend. You want me to give her a ring?” John says, his thumb already at work on the touch screen of his phone.

  “Give it here, you twat,” says Steele, swiping the iPhone from his hand and making a note of the name and number.

  But something tells John that the Inspector already has Jeanette’s number.

  A minute later he has his phone back, and all three of them are sitting calmly at the table. The momentum has gone from Baron. His mind seems to be elsewhere, the interview effectively over. And he’s never once mentioned Andrew Holt or the Ministry of Eternal Hope.

  John decides to leave it that way. “So?” he says.

  “So.”

  “So, can I go?”

  “You believe this!” Steele says, shaking his head.

  “Oh, you’ll let me go,” John says, addressing Steele directly for the first time. “And we know why. Because I’m more likely to find the murderer than you are. Remember last year? It was my tip-off that got you a conviction for manslaughter and brought down a counterfeiting ring. You,” he jabs a finger at Baron, and realises that it is shaking with rage, “got a commendation out of it. And you,” he doesn’t bother with the finger for Steele, “if you’d ever used that kind of lip with Roberto you’d be spark out on the floor.”

  A rosy grin on Steele’s face now. “You wanna be careful, Mr Ray. There’s still a case open on you. Sports cars? Forgotten that, ’ave you? Cos I ’aven’t.”

  Baron is rigid. It’s enough. The cheery smile drains from Steele’s face. He wasn’t supposed to say that.

  Baron gets to his feet. “Do I need a warrant to search your flat?”

  “No.”

  “OK. The Saab you were in yesterday?”

  “At the showroom.”

  “Funny thing,” Baron says, “the Park Lane isn’t Lanny Bride’s place anymore. He sold it recently, lock, stock. Guess who to?”

  “No idea.”

  “Roberto Swales. Cash sale.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  He gets back home and opens some Vega Sicilia. Seems stupid, drinking Vega in the morning. Waste of a lot of money. Then again, how much can grape juice matter, even at a hundred quid a bottle?

  For five minutes he lays on the sofa, glass in his hand, the Modern Jazz Quartet for company. If only this could last, he tells himself, wishing that he had the rest of the day to polish off the bottle, then another bottle, staring at the windows as the light of the sky fades, and with it the many and varied horrors of life.

  That’s all it is, five minutes. As he drains the last drops from the glass the intercom sounds.

  Baron and Steele take one step inside and stop. Their eyes, inevitably, are drawn to the triptych that confronts them: the three windows in the wall opposite. According to the developers, the high ceilings and immense windows had been the most attractive features of the apartments. For John it was more than that. In this very room he’d had art classes, the only subject he hadn’t really excelled at, but the summer afternoons spent gazing out of those windows, across the valley towards Farnley, had been the happiest of his life.

  And at the weekends he used to go over there to the village with his mates, mucking about on their bikes, the old church, the grounds of Farnley Hall… They’d climb trees, collect conkers in the autumn, nick apples, all the normal stuff. Only by the time he was nine or ten it wasn’t normal, not for him. Normal was rough-looking blokes turning up at home for whispered conversations with Dad, phone calls at all hours of the night, the house a clutter of counterfeit goods. Then there was his brother Joe, already a trainee thug by the time he hit his teens, him and Lanny with bumfluff on their top lips prowling the streets as if they owned them, which within a decade they would. For John, growing up in the Ray family, trying to be a normal kid had been a form of escape.

  “Cuppa?” he asks Baron, as Steele wanders off down the open-plan room without a word.

  “Not offering us the wine, then?” says Baron, seeing the opened bottle on the kitchen island, and behind it the trappings of a culinary life he can’t even imagine, fancy bottles of oil, half a dozen vinegars, stainless steel utensils he hardly recognises. “Too good for the likes of us, is it?”

  “It’s one of the best wines in the world. Be my guest,” says John with a shrug.

  “Tea’ll be fine,” Baron tells him, standing between the door and the kitchen area, hands in pockets.

  Up on the wall he can see the dark wood boards filled with gold lettering, the roll calls salvaged from the old school when it was converted. He tries not to look at them, but it’s impossible not to search for the name and year: John Ray, 1984–5.

  “Funny,” the Inspector says, “I haven’t seen you since that business last year. You been keeping your nose clean, Mr Ray?”

  “My nose is always clean, Inspector,” John says, knowing exactly how the conversation is going to run.

  “Apart from last year.”

  John spoons some Earl Grey into a clear glass tea pot.

  “Last year,” he says, turning to face Baron, “someone got put away for manslaughter. And if it hadn’t been for me, it might well have been the wrong man.”

  “We should’ve had you back then, John. But you switched the evidence before we got to it. You set us up.”

  “You got a commendation, if I remember right.”

  “And Freddy went down for the fakes. While you walked away unblemished.”

  “Freddy was involved, behind my back. He did four months. It didn’t hurt him. And as far as I’m concerned I paid a far higher price than a few months in a cell.”

  Baron laughs to himself, casts a glance around the walls of the flat. There are several framed paintings of motor yachts, and almost everywhere you look are glossy yachting magazines. It wouldn’t surprise him if Ray had a boat of his own. Whatever he was really up to with those sports cars last year must have made him some money. But they’ve had financial surveillance on him ever since, and nothing’s shown up.

  He tries not to, but his eyes flick upwards again: HEAD BOY, in gilt lettering. That’s the thing about John Ray, he’s the golden boy, and he knows it. The paint’s looking a bit tarnished now, though.

  Steele walks back down the room, his boots loud on the polished floorboards.

  “Are you cohabiting at the present time, Mr Ray?” he says, standing halfway across the room, a white bra hanging from his index finger.

  “No, officer,” John says, lighting a cigarette, “just a lot of casual sex.”

  “Has Jeanette Cormac been staying here?” Baron says.

  “Yes, a few nights last week. Including Thursday night, like I said.”

  Baron nods. He’s been trying to contact Cormac, but she doesn’t seem to want to talk to the Inspector.

  “And last night?”

  “Home alone.”

  “But you had dinner at the Caribbean Kitchen. With Miss Cormac?”

  “No.”

  “Another casual partner,” says Steele, letting the bra dance a little on his finger. “Bum-titty-bum-titty…”

  “I had dinner with Detective Sergeant Denise Danson of the Greater Manchester CID.”

  Baron holds John’s stare. Doesn’t blink. John reciprocates. And there they stand, two intelligent men dead-eyeing each other like schoolboys. If one of them were to step forward now, they’d be at it, toe to toe, two kids in
the playground fighting over a girl. And the funny thing, John tells himself as he feels the little rush of adrenalin come and go, is that Den ditched them both, one then the other. He wonders whether Baron’s thinking the same thing.

  Over in the middle of the room Steele doesn’t know what the hell is going on. He lets the bra drop onto the coffee table.

  The intercom sounds.

  “It’ll be for us,” says Baron, almost jumping across to the door and buzzing the callers in. “We’re gonna be a couple of hours here,” he says, suddenly all formality and purpose. “And I’ll need your car keys.”

  “The Saab’s down at the showroom. I got a taxi home last night,” he lies.

  “And how is the beautiful Miss García?” Steele asks, trying to sound blasé but overdoing it just a touch.

  “As beautiful as ever,” says John, handing Baron the keys to the flat. “The Saab’s keys are down at the showroom.”

  Baron nods.

  Four uniforms appear in the doorway, which nobody had thought to close.

  “I’m OK to leave, then?” says John.

  “You’re not staying?”

  “Rather not.”

  “Remember, this is a murder investigation. Withhold any evidence from us now, it’s a crime. And you’ll not get away with it this time. I can promise you that.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind.”

  Down in the car park he makes sure there’s no unmarked cars with officers sitting in the front, watching. Then he slips quietly into the Porsche, checks that the Mac is still there, hidden under the passenger seat, and pulls away as discreetly as an engine like that will allow.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The glass frontage of Tony Ray’s Motors catches the light as he turns down Hope Road. Over two hundred grand’s worth of stupidity on a grotty backstreet. That’s what happens when you see your only brother gunned down in front of you. You do stupid things. You take all the money he left and you rebuild the family business.

  Tony Ray’s place going legit! It had been a story in itself. The old showroom had never been much more than a base for his dad’s activities, a hangout for the city’s wide boys and scumbags, all keen to pick up a bit of work from Mr Ray. After Joe was killed, John turned it into a proper business. It worked, too. He and Freddy had made a go of it. Quality used cars. Then Connie showed up, with a little surprise for him.

  He sees her now, coming out to meet him as he pulls up and gets out.

  “We put your Saab round the back,” she says. “Are you keeping that, then?” she says, nodding towards the Porsche.

  “Is there a problem?”

  He detects a touch of scorn in her demeanour.

  “Nice car to have out front, especially on a weekend.”

  “Fair enough,” he says, tossing her the keys. “I’ll take something else.”

  “Why not your Saab?”

  “The police are going to need it. Freddy?”

  “Out the back,” she says, pointedly ignoring his reference to the police.

  He watches as she climbs into the Porsche and reverses it up onto the forecourt in short little bursts, not quite coming to terms with the car’s accelerator.

  The new showroom had been open less than a year when Connie turned up. Concepción García, a skinny-with-curves twenty-four-year-old with a mass of backcombed black hair and ripped jeans. She’d settled in straight away, working as a receptionist and bookkeeper. Her business degree wasn’t the only surprise she’d sprung on him. Back in ’63, when his dad had arrived in England and bought the premises on Hope Road, the money he used was from the García family, who had owned a fifty percent stake in the business ever since.

  “Could you do us a favour?” he asks her as she gets out of the car. She no longer has the back-combed hair. It’s long and falls down her back in thick waves. And the ripped denim has become a crimson trouser suit. He sometimes wonders how many of their male customers come to the showroom to look at the motors.

  “Try me.”

  “There’s a laptop under the passenger seat. Could you use your IT genius, have a look at what’s on it.”

  “What am I trying to find?”

  “I dunno. What it’s been used for, any unusual information.”

  “Nothing like being specific!” She dips back inside the car. “OK, I’ll have a goose.”

  “Gander,” he says, walking into the showroom, the double glass doors gliding silently open.

  “Whatever. By the way,” she calls after him, “I just made tortilla. You want some?”

  Connie’s cooking is another reason why customers hang around the showroom. Spend five minutes at Tony Ray’s Motors these days and you’ll be plied with a slice of hot potato omelette, or croissants if it’s early. At the very least, she’ll force a tiny cup of strong milky coffee on you.

  “I’ll grab some later,” he says. “I’ve got a gorilla in a suit to talk to first.”

  Freddy’s in his shirt sleeves, out behind the showroom, waxing an old Corolla that might fetch eight hundred if they’re lucky. He’s rubbing hard and fast, as if he won’t be satisfied until he’s got down to the bare metal. A line of sweat runs down the back of his shirt, from collar to belt.

  He looks up, breathing a little heavily.

  “You missed a bit,” John says, lighting a cigarette and leaning on an old mustard yellow Scimitar that they took in part-ex and don’t know what the hell to do with.

  “Give us one of those,” Freddy says, grabbing the packet.

  “Good time at the theatre last night?”

  Freddy lights up, ignores him.

  “Marriage of Figaro was it? That’s on this season, isn’t it? Or Carmen, was it? That’s always on. Yes, I see you more of a Bizet man. More passion…”

  Freddy stretches his arms, lifting them right above his head until his chest nearly pops out of his shirt. The sweat stains under his arms are as big as dinner plates.

  “Fuck. Off.”

  “Charming. Come on, why’d you lie to me? You, going to the theatre?”

  Freddy drops the arms, puts his hands on his hips, the fag in his mouth. He’s not a regular smoker and he looks ridiculous, eyes half-closed as the smoke rises into them.

  “’Cos I didn’t know what else to tell you.”

  “The truth would have been fine, Freddy. What’s this? You don’t trust me all of a…”

  “Last night I was in town, just wandering about after work. I had a few drinks, then I went to the City Varieties. There was this comedian on, from the telly. I paid and went in. Sat there like a lemon, everyone else pissing themselves laughing. I couldn’t stand it. Came out, walked about a bit, down past The Grand. That’s when I saw the coppers there, outside the Park Lane.”

  “And did they see you?”

  “Nah. I turned round, went back towards town. That’s when I gave you a bell.”

  John looks around the lot, as if one of the forty-odd motors they’ve got back here might be able to explain what’s going on. Freddy’s more like family than an employee, but this isn’t right, there’s something’s going on in the lad’s head. He’s holding back on something.

  “And Thursday night? What really happened when you went to see Rob? Come on, what’s all this about, big fella?”

  “Like I told you, I went in there a bit after eight, early doors. Only me and him there. He was at the bar drinking Scotch, neat. One of the expensive ones. We were there about an hour, got through half a bottle between us.”

  He stops, stares at the burning tip of his cigarette. There are tears in his eyes. There have probably been a lot more, John thinks, noticing a tremble in Freddy’s hands. Most of the cigarette has gone by the time Freddy speaks again.

  “He was in a bad way. Something had happened to him. He looked like he’d seen a fucking ghost. Told me he’d been thinking about his life, all the things he’d done. Get a good woman, he kept saying. Have kids, be a dad, when you’re old nothing else’ll matter…”

 
“He loved kids,” John said.

  “Yeah, I know. And he kept saying he’d brought nothing into the world. Over and over. Brought nothing in, but that he’d taken something out.”

  “He killed someone?”

  “That’s what it sounded like, but he didn’t want to talk about it. He just kept saying don’t end up like me. I told him I didn’t think he was such a bad bloke, y’know, trying to humour him. He shook his head, told me he was worse than Brasi.”

  “Who?”

  “That’s what I said. He told me he felt like Luca Brasi, only worse.”

  Freddy drops the cigarette, watches it smoulder on the floor between his feet.

  “Then he turned on me.”

  “Physical? Rob?”

  “Not at first. Just told me to get out, not to come back.”

  “Get out of what?”

  Freddy avoids John’s eyes. “Out of all this. Away from you.”

  “Me? He said that?”

  “Stay away from the Rays,” he said. “From the Park Lane, Lanny, the lot of ’em. I tried to make a joke of it, tell him that you’re kosher, that you’re not like Lanny… That’s when he caught me, clean in the temple. Once, and I was on the floor.”

  “I bet.”

  “When I opened my eyes he’d got his knee to my throat and he was holding his fist over my face. He was shouting, walk away, if I see you in here again I’ll fucking kill you…”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this yesterday?”

  “What was I supposed to say? Rob gave me a slapping ’cos I work for you? It didn’t make sense. I got up and left. Tried saying something else, but he wanted me gone.”

  “Just fatherly advice, you think?”

  “Stay out of trouble, don’t end up like me. Something like that.”

  “You went straight home?”

  Freddy nods.

  “And you Googled that name, right?”

  Freddy suddenly looks ill. By the time he opens his mouth, all the colour has drained from his cheeks.

  “Luca Brasi. He killed a fucking baby.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Ten minutes later and Freddy’s back on the sales floor. In theory, all three of them sell cars. But the sales floor is Freddy’s domain, and he makes over half the trades in an average month. He also decides which motors get pride of place here and on the forecourt. It’s not all high-end stuff either. There’s something for everyone. If you walk out of here without buying a new set of wheels, it’s because you were never going to buy one when you walked in.