by John Barlow
He’s recovered his composure and is now steering a couple around the showroom while they pick at little portions of Connie’s potato omelette which they carry around with them on tiny plates. It’s more like being at a garden party than a car showroom. They’ve started with the Subaru, but Freddy’s sussed them already. They’re looking for some decent-looking wheels, smart family car, nothing too expensive to maintain. So he does what he does best, yatters on about this and that, fuel economy, insurance bands, who Leeds are playing this afternoon… anything that comes into his head, until they finally arrive at the Ford Focus which they will inevitably buy.
Freddy had been a bookie’s runner when John met him, but he was pure salesman. All he needed was a stage, and the polished concrete floor of Tony Ray’s Motors was made to measure. Although now, as he goes through the motions, there’s a slight hesitancy in his movements, and every now and then he glances over his shoulder towards the back of the showroom, where John is standing, silhouetted against the open doorway.
The forensic team has just arrived, but they already have both front seats of the Saab out. John watches them work. Waste of bloody time, he tells himself, admiring how fast and methodically they do everything, a mechanical purpose to their movements. Baron knows he didn’t kill Roberto. Apart from anything else, he’s got an alibi for the whole night.
There’s a funny thing about his alibi, though. Jeanette Cormac might have spent Thursday night in his bed, but she’s just got to be involved in all this, one way or another. And something else: Baron recognised her name. John’s pretty sure about that.
“Here,” says Connie, handing him an espresso and casting a moment’s glance at the men in overalls as they move silently around the Saab.
“The Mac?” he asks.
When the coppers arrived, Connie had slipped the silver MacBook into a filing cabinet. She’s good like that. A healthy distrust of the constabulary. It’s in the blood with her. The Garcías are as bad as the Rays. Most of ’em have never done an honest day’s work in their lives. But she’s different. She came to Leeds to oversee her inheritance, the only thing her conman father left her. And whereas John had rebuilt the showroom on a whim, she was here to make it turn a profit.
“Bastante interesante,” she says, nodding.
Pretty interesting. They sometimes switch to Spanish when they’re together. With his dad the way he is, John doesn’t have anyone else. Plus, it can be useful to have a private language.
In quick-fire Spanish she lists the things she’s found on the Mac. Information on his dad, scans of old press cuttings, downloaded articles, all taken off the internet. Tony Ray, Lanny Bride, and dozens of other names she didn’t recognise.
“Bernard Sheenan?” he asks.
She frowns.
“IRA? Irish terrorist?”
“Ah, sí, sí. Lots about him. But all background, articles, downloads. About Leeds, too. A bomb?”
“The Leeds bombing?”
“Yes. 1990, lots of stuff about that. Funny thing, though, no email.”
“She emailed me.”
“Must use webmail. Nothing on her hard disk, nothing I could find. No addresses, no messages, squit.”
“Squat.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
They look out as a fat man in a white suit leans so far into the Saab’s boot it looks like the car is about to gobble him up.
“And yachts,” she says. “She likes yachts.”
“Really? She never mentioned that. Then again, who doesn’t, eh?”
Connie rolls her big brown eyes. Every man in her family dreamed of owning a yacht. A couple of them managed it, although in one case it was for ferrying suitcases of marijuana resin across the Straights of Gibraltar from Morocco. Connie wanted nothing to do with any of that. Inheriting a business in another country had been an unexpected but glorious dream, and she isn’t about to let it turn sour, whatever John’s involved in.
“A customer,” she says.
John looks up and immediately recognises the figure coming in through the glass doors.
“I’ll take this one.”
Chapter Twenty-four
“Welcome,” John says, hand outstretched, striding towards the doors just a bit too fast.
“Hi. Graeme Thornton,” the man says. “From up at the home?”
He shakes John’s hand, already looking around the place, taking it all in.
“Yes, I remember,” says John. “Carpets.”
Thornton’s mousy hair is thinning, and his skin is pale and worn. But his grip is good and strong, and he’s got the bearing of a man who knows his own strength. Something tells John that Graeme Thornton hasn’t been a dry cleaner all his life.
“Some place you’ve got here!” he says, turning his head to take in the long curved glass frontage, then looking up into the steel-framed roof. “Been open long?”
“Couple of years. Had the building specially designed. Used to be Dad’s.”
“Really?”
“Previous building.”
“He sold cars as well, did he?”
“Yeah. More or less.”
“I did wonder, y’know, what with him being such a gent.”
“That’s Dad, all right. Let me show you around.”
They wander across the sales floor, giving Freddy a wide berth as he leans on the Ford, talking about where he’s going for his holidays this year.
“And this,” John says, making sure the door leading out to the lot at the back is closed, “is where we make the coffee. You want some?”
Thornton shakes his head.
“It’s not a car you’ve come about, is it?”
Thornton laughs. “No. But that Porsche out on the forecourt? I’d take that off your hands!”
“I can get you a price if you’re interested. Three gallons to the mile, it does.”
“I can dream. I was in the market for a van about a month ago. Just set up my business. Don’t run to sports cars just yet.”
“You don’t like Spanish omelette by any chance, do you?” John says, grabbing himself a plate. “No? Come on, let’s talk out the front.”
“I’ll deliver shirts once a week, seven at a time, all washed and ironed. And I’ll press a suit every week, or a jacket and trousers. Dry clean ’em, keep ’em tidy, y’know. I’ll do you a good price. Thirty quid a month.”
“Sounds more than reasonable,” says John, then shovels another forkful of potato omelette into his mouth.
“I think there’s a gap in the market,” Thornton adds. “The kind of people in Oaklands, they’re used to being well dressed. All their lives in a shirt and tie, nice people. Suddenly they’re in pink jogging suits and vests. All they want’s a bit of dignity.”
John nods. “You’re right. I don’t know why the home doesn’t do it.”
“It’s the fuss. Getting ’em into real clothes takes time. They’re always short-staffed.”
“And who’s gonna dress my dad in his freshly pressed shirts?”
“There’s a carer. He says he’ll do it. And I’ll help out, when I’m there. But I reckon once the home sees that it’s a good service, and it means people look and feel better, they’ll think about giving me a contract. If the old folk are happier, it’s gotta be good for business.”
“This carer,” he says, waving the fork in the air, “not Andrew Holt by any chance?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“And was it Holt that put in a good word for you up at the home in the first place?”
“It was, actually. Do you know him?”
“Oh yes. He helps people all the time, Andrew does. His dad before him, too. Real caring types. He’s got a place just out of town, sort of a church.” He wipes his mouth with his handkerchief and puts the fork down on the empty plate. “But you already know that, don’t you?”
That’s it. There’s only so much nice-time with John Ray. Sooner or later he gets tired of charming you to death.
Thornton’s
expression, at first blank, turns by degrees to wry amusement. He unbuttons the cuff of his shirt and rolls up the sleeve. His arm is solid with muscle, and covered in faded tattoos.
“Good grief,” John says. “You have body art. That explains everything.”
“Artillery,” Thornton says, pointing out a battalion’s coat of arms on his bicep, and a flag on his forearm. “Prince of Wales Regiment. Sergeant. Three tours of Belfast, Kosovo twice, Queen and country.”
“And how is this relevant to the state of my dad’s wardrobe?”
“Twenty-two years, I did. Getting shot at, shooting back, training recruits, travelling like a bastard, never in a place long enough to settle down. Then they make you redundant, and you’ve got nothing. Just you and the dole.”
“Army cutbacks?”
“I was in at twenty. Got out, couldn’t take it. Drinking too much, getting into fights, couldn’t sort myself out. One night I went to Andrew’s place. Just stumbled in there, pissed.” He rolls his sleeve down, takes his time buttoning the cuff. “I’m not a religious man. But walking in there changed my life. Andrew helped me. He’s a good bloke. I mean it. He’s one of the good ones.”
“Not praying, dry cleaning. Sounds like a poem.”
Thornton chooses to ignore John’s sarcasm.
“He helped me turn things around. And when I started the business, he put in a good word for me up at the home. He’s a stand-up bloke.”
John gets his cigarettes out. He offers one to Thornton, who shakes his head.
“Ex-squaddie that doesn’t smoke?”
“Gave up.”
“Well done,” says John, slipping the packet back into his pocket. “Foul habit.”
The sound of traffic from over on Regent Street is muffled and low-pitched. And on Hope Road nothing moves at all.
Perhaps I’m wrong about Holt.
John lets the moment run its course. Thornton is patient, calm, no rush to be off.
“I’ll tell you what,” John says, “why don’t you do one of his suits, some shirts, and see how he likes it? Can’t do any harm to try. Here,” he says, handing Thornton three tens from his wallet. “Cash OK?”
“That’s fine. I’ll be in touch,” he says, taking one last look at the showroom as he pockets the money and turns towards his van.
“S-Y-L,” John says to himself, reading the van’s registration as it pulls away. “See you later.”
Chapter Twenty-five
He takes the Porsche again. Connie isn’t pleased, but the Saab is now in a hundred pieces.
As he heads north out of Leeds, the houses get bigger and bigger as the city turns by degrees into a verdant pastiche of rural life. Ten minutes and anyone could be mistaken for thinking they were in the countryside. But this is pure suburb, the Chingford of Yorkshire. The neat lines of semis might have become barn conversions and real stone newbuilds, each one set in a couple of lush, unused acres, but give your neighbour a Holstein-Friesian up here and he won’t know which end the milk comes out.
The car park at Stamforth Golf Club is full, and every vehicle could take pride of place on John and Connie’s sales floor. He crawls up and down the rows trying to find a space. He should have built the showroom out of town, he tells himself, here among the beemers and the mercs.
Finally he edges in between a tree and a Jag at the bottom of the car park. The driver’s door opens just enough to allow him to slither out. Off to his right there’s a match just finishing, four grown men in chequered trousers and jumpers so garish it looks like a troupe of circus clowns are out for a stroll. And since when did middle-aged men need multi-coloured caps? With bobbles?
Something’s wrong. He looks down, realises that his stomach is stuck. He has to suck his mid-section in hard to get clear of the door. Perhaps he should start golf? A three-hour walk every week might do him good. But then there’d be the conversation in the bar afterwards. Plus the hats.
Having slithered free he takes a look at himself. Loose black suit, Doc Marten shoes, white shirt. He’s dressed like a bouncer. Or someone who doesn’t give a shit. Which is closer to the mark.
He makes his way up through the car park to the clubhouse, which seems to have been designed to reflect its members’ taste in clothing. If stone cladding had been available in Gingham, they’d have used it for Stamforth Golf Club. He glances up at the roof, half expecting it to be modelled on a tam o’ shanter. Pity, he thinks, I could half fancy a stroll around here of a Sunday morning, humping a bag of clubs down the fairways… I wonder if they let you play on your own?
As he gets to the clubhouse steps he spots them: sitting in an anonymous-looking vehicle are two young men, one with a camera. Baron’s men. He considers giving them the finger. They’ll have shots of everyone coming in and out today. And Lanny’ll be taken in for questioning later on. But Baron’s smart, he’s not gonna ruin Lanny’s big day. Not Baron’s style.
Remember, Baron’s not your enemy here, John.
He puts the police out of his mind, taking the steps to the clubhouse three at a time, his jacket blowing open in the wind.
“John Ray,” he says, striding up to the young woman hovering just inside the door, giving her the full-on Ray smile.
She’s in a dark blue jacket and trousers and looks like exactly the kind of girl you’d want around if you’re trying to give a good impression. Tina Fallen, Bride Holdings it says on her lapel badge.
She consults a clipboard.
“I’m sorry, Mr Ray, I don’t seem to have you name here. Please, I’ll just double check…”
A large hand appears on her shoulder from behind, the fingernails short and yellow. John hardly needs to look. And when he does, he sees exactly what he had expected: a big bloke in his Sunday best, nice tie, clean shirt, but still looking just a little bit like a piece of shit. Lanny’s men are going to stick out like sore thumbs in a place like this, however much they’ve spent at Burtons.
The man bends down and whispers something into Tina’s ear.
“I’m all right, then, am I?” John asks, amused that his dad’s name still carries enough weight to impress the kind of muscle that Lanny employs these days.
“You’ve missed the buffet,” the man says, rolling his tongue around in his mouth to get some food out from behind his teeth. He’s in his fifties, and he’s not wearing a name badge. Not local either. Scottish? John can’t quite tell. He thanks him and makes his way across to the reception room.
The sound of applause greets him as he enters, although it’s not for him. Inside the room are perhaps two hundred people, smart casual, a few suits. They’re standing in groups, all with their backs to him, looking towards the far wall, where there’s a small plinth with a lectern on it. Behind the lectern is a massive hoarding for ‘Gear Depot’, bright red and blue, right up to the ceiling.
And there’s Lanny Bride, leaning into the microphone, both hands on the lectern, looking out at the crowd. You could be forgiven for thinking that he’s just another golf club member, a neat, powder-yellow pullover, fawn chinos, and a nervous smile.
“Hello,” he says, and immediately lowers his head a touch, as if the sound of his own voice, so heavily amplified, takes him by surprise.
The room has fallen silent. Lanny puts on a pair of steel-framed glasses. Now he looks more like the club’s accountant on a dress-down day.
“We had a great tournament this morning,” he says. “Thanks to all those who took part. And let me assure you that Gear Depot’s sponsorship of this event is guaranteed for the next five years.”
A smattering of applause follows, allowing Lanny time to take a sip of water from a glass on the lectern.
“That’s why we’re here today, celebrating our commitment to the future. On Thursday we bought Yorkwright Holdings, after many months of negotiations. It’s a massive step for us. This,” and he gestures behind him, to the wall-high logo of the Gear Depot chain, “gets us into a fiercely competitive but expanding market.”
&
nbsp; The logo features a fifteen-foot man scaling an invisible mountainside, an arm stretching upwards, something Stalinesque in the squared-off definition of his body. He could be playing basketball, slam-dunking the winning basket, or leaping in victory. Or swatting a piñata, John thinks, chuckling at the sight of little old Lanny Bride up there, an average-sized guy in average clothes, looking reticent and slightly unsure of himself, the Gear Depot man about to flatten his head.
“Speeches are not my thing,” Lanny continues, his tone getting steadier as he relaxes. “But I’m pretty good at doing business. Over the last few years we’ve focussed on imports and wholesale. Retail is the natural next step, and with Gear Depot we’ve got an absolute gem.”
There are murmurs of agreement around the room, and from somewhere at the back people start clapping. It triggers more applause, then some whooping. He lets it go on, nodding a little, the beginnings of a smile breaking out on his face.
“Good at this, isn’t he?” someone whispers.
John turns his head. It’s the big man from the entrance, now right behind him, scanning the room slowly, as if he’s trying to keep an eye on everyone in the crowd. Or perhaps he’s looking for someone in particular, someone who likes flattening skulls? Roberto’s dead. Perhaps Lanny reckons he might be next.
“Aye, he’s a reformed character,” says John, as Lanny milks the applause, nodding graciously. “Work for him, do you?”
“On and off. Mainly off.”
“But now on.”
“Something like that.” He raises an arm, lets his hand fall gently on John’s shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Mr Ray. Regards to daddy.”
“Sure thing,” says John, trying to ignore the hand, which remains on his shoulder. “Who shall I say?”
