by John Barlow
“Dennis Reid.”
“He’ll know the name will he?” John says, dropping his body slightly and shifting sideways until the hand falls off. “Because I don’t.”
Reid laughs, still looking out across the room. “There’s plenty you don’t know, Johnny.”
He gives John’s shoulder a squeeze, then moves away.
The noise of the crowd subsides and Lanny Bride puts an elbow on the lectern, letting his smile drain away.
“But we all know what’ll grab the headlines tomorrow, don’t we?”
Silence.
“They told me not to mention any of this. But that’s not how I do business. I like to look people in the eye and tell ’em what I think. So that’s what I’m going to do today.” Another pause, another sip of water. Then: “I’ve heard the rumours. I’ve lived with ’em for long enough. Lanny Bride is dodgy. Snide. A criminal.”
The atmosphere is suddenly electric. Most people in this room will never have met Lanny Bride before. They know him by reputation, though. He’s never in the papers, ever. But he’s a fixture in a world that they know exists, close enough to touch, but hidden from sight. Like rats in the city. Lanny Bride’s name, just as Tony Ray’s used to be, is as familiar in Leeds as the lions outside the Town Hall, as the rain on the streets. And now Lanny has got the audience wrapped around his little finger.
“So,” he says, his eyes looking straight into the middle of the crowd, his voice unwavering, “where are the charges? When was I last arrested?”
He pauses just long enough so that anyone who knows the answers to these questions has had time to remind themselves.
“Never, is the answer. Ladies and gentlemen of the press, could I repeat that for your benefit? I have never been charged with any crime. I have never even been arrested. Not once in my entire life.”
He removes his glasses.
“These, by the way, I don’t need ’em. I was told they made me look more intellectual.”
There are a few sniggers as he places the glasses carefully on the lectern in front of him where everyone can see them.
“That’s modern business. No stone left unturned, nothing left to chance. You want due diligence? Try buying Yorkwright Holdings! Our books have been gone over until the pages started to wear thin. And as for the public relations people, they’d’ve had me in elocution lessons if I’d let ’em. But that’s not me. Let me tell you who I am.”
He shifts a little, swallows. “I started in business young. The first thing I had was a car wash. I ran it, and eventually I bought it outright. It was up on Gelderd Road. If you’re too lazy to wash your own motor, you’ve probably called in there at some point.”
Laughter from the crowd.
This isn’t Lanny Bride, John tells himself as he stands at the back of the room, arms crossed, watching the show. This sounds like somebody doing an impression of Lanny after a lobotomy. Lanny-Lite. The people here today have never seen the thrill he used to get from violence, down at the showroom when he was little more than a kid, facing off to the biggest men and knowing they’d back away, his reputation already secure. Blokes who got in Lanny’s way used to ended up on crutches. He wasn’t big, but he was quick and nasty.
Nobody at the golf club today has heard of Mark Woolstencroft, who wouldn’t sell his refit workshop to Lanny when he was buying the rest of the units in an old converted factory in Cleckheaton. Woolstencroft was hung from a disused viaduct by his feet and left there all night, gagged to muffle his cries. When the police hauled him up at dawn he’d had a stroke. But he never grassed on Lanny.
“I built things up from there. Simple businesses, things a young lad could understand. Amusement arcades, sandwich shops, bars… Small-scale stuff. This was the nineties, and I got into lap-dancing clubs. I don’t deny it. I was young, and I was ambitious. And the truth about all those businesses is, you’re going to meet criminals. One way or another, if you run bars and car washes on Gelderd Road, you’re going be in contact with some dodgy folk. Guaranteed. That’s my background, and I’m not ashamed of it. The question is, am I guilty by association?”
He looks around, takes his time.
“Nice place, this. Very. I didn’t grow up in a place like this. I grew up on the eighteenth floor of a Harehills tower block. Never knew my dad. Mum had her problems. I was fostered at ten, but I kept running away. Not the best start in life. But it’s what I had. And now I’m here.”
He continues to look around the room, nodding appreciatively.
“On the way, I fell in with a certain crowd. A bad crowd, I think you’d say. I was young, and I didn’t know any better. I had energy, drive, wanted to get on. But I was alone, and it doesn’t matter how clever you are, when you’re a kid you are not wise. So I made mistakes, drifted into bad company. I’m not asking for your sympathy, and I’m not going to pretend I never nicked a bag of crisps from a corner shop, because I did. Plenty…”
Some supportive laughter.
“I’m here because I left that behind, the people who’d influenced me, everything. Hard work is what got me here, that and a pretty good head for business. Last year we had a turnover in excess of fifty million pounds, and it’s growing year on year. Today is another milestone for us. Retail is where we want to be. And with Gear Depot, plus our contacts in the East, we can be the next Primark. In five years we want it to be among the best known high street brands. Good value stuff, keen pricing, make Gear Depot a place you want to go back to, again and again. That’s the vision. Look at the bloke behind me,” he says, turning to look at the massive logo. “He’s reaching for the sky. So are we. Thanks for coming.”
*
The tables at the side of the room are piled high with discarded plates. Chicken bones and wooden skewers sticky with satay sauce attest to the kind of buffet that John is rather pleased to have missed. There are still some cheese vol-au-vents lying about, and the picked-over remains of stodgy-looking sushi, but nothing is crying out eat me!
Finally he rescues a solitary piece of pork pie from the debris and grabs a glass of warm Rioja from a passing waiter. Call it a late breakfast. Lanny is still over by the makeshift stage, shaking hands and posing for shots in front of the huge Gear Depot symbol. He has a friendly word for everyone, with his newly acquired smile and a nice yellow pullover. Butter wouldn’t fucking melt.
Then John sees Jeanette. All that red hair, like Sideshow Bob on a good day, and beneath it those sharp features, a dangerous sort of beauty that’s going to stand out in any golf club on the planet. She’s pushed her way up to the front, and Lanny is listening to her, polite, attentive, pretending he’s interested, nodding. Yes, I’ll give you an interview… of course… when would be convenient?
She passes Lanny a card, scribbles something on it. Simple as that. Her confidence is remarkable. She just assumes people will want to talk to her. Politicians, terrorists, career criminals? She’s fearless. You can’t learn that kind of confidence.
Then John watches her move through the crowd towards the exit, a detached, feline poise in her movements. As she disappears through the double doors, Lanny is also watching her go, the Teflon smile now a little thin. And at the other side of the room, perfectly still, his back against the wall, is Denis Reid, taking it all in.
“Excuse me, Mr Ray?”
It’s Tina with the clipboard.
“Mr Bride would like to see you.”
“How delightful,” John says as he is led out of the reception room and down a corridor.
He’s shown into a small office and told to wait there. It smells of warm food and seems to double as a place where the staff dump their coats.
A minute later Lanny walks in, closing the door silently behind him.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” he says, his hands in his pockets to keep them still, his whole body on edge, as if twenty minutes of being Mr Nice Guy in a golf club has really taken it out of him. John sympathises.
“Nice to see you too, Lann
y. Brought a tear to my eye, your little speech did. All those baddies corrupting you in your youth, eh? Shouldn’t be allowed! Funny, it’s not quite how I remember it. But, y’know, very moving.”
“PR man wrote that shit, even the gag about the glasses. I had to learn it off by heart. There’s a lot of money at stake here.”
Lanny’s looking round, jumpy, keen to be back pressing the flesh.
“So?”
“So what?” John says.
“Why are you here?”
“I’m supposed to be finding a murderer for you, if you remember.”
“Well you’ll not find him here. And to be honest, we don’t want your face getting recognised, not today. Your family name won’t help.”
“So I gather. The Rays not welcome anymore? The ones who took you in, treated you like a son.”
“Things have moved on, John. I can’t have all that around my neck. Not now.”
“Fair enough. I’ll leave through the side entrance. Happy?”
“And what’s with the journalist? I thought I told you…”
“I had no idea she was coming. She must’ve read about it in the paper.”
“She wasn’t on the list. I dunno how she got in.”
John smiles, wonders if Lanny really can be so naive. “She’s a bloody journalist. They can get in anywhere they want. It’s a special skill. Plus,” and he looks around for an ashtray, “I think you’ve got bigger worries at the moment. I’ve been down Millgarth all morning in an interview room with Steve Baron. They found the…”
“I know.” Lanny shakes his head in frustration. “I couldn’t get anybody, y’know, short notice. They screwed it up.”
John puts a cigarette between his lips.
“There’s no line back to you, though, is there? It’s not as if you own the Park Lane or anything, right?”
“Baron told you that, did he?”
“A-hu. And he’s got your name up in lights, believe me. I reckon he hates you more than he used to hate my dad. And that’s saying something.”
“Yeah,” Lanny says, as if Baron’s more of a minor nuisance than a threat. “But it’s you he hates the most. And we all know why, don’t we? By the way, you can’t smoke in here.”
“Who made you the school prefect?”
He leans behind and opens a window, then lights up.
“Why did you sell the bar to Roberto?”
“I wanted rid. I gave him the cash and he bought the place off me. Simple as.”
“Very decent of you. Not exactly tax efficient, though, is it?”
“I’ve got bigger things to worry about that a few grand on a bar. And the sale had to be solid. Never let ’em get you on tax. Your dad taught me it.”
“And now you’re disowning him in public.”
“I’m doing what I have to. Times have changed. You’ve made the showroom legit. I’m doing the same. Look, I haven’t got long. You found anything out?”
John thinks about what Den had said when they went to see his dad. That he’d been expecting the news, already fearing the worst.
“Not yet. Baron’s got Roberto’s keys. They’ll be all over his flat by now. What the hell was he up to?”
Lanny shakes his head. “Nothing, as far as I know. All we need here is something quick. A name, an address. Anything. Just get it before the coppers do.”
His hand is already on the door handle.
“Last thing,” John says to Lanny’s back. “The big Scottish guy prowling about out there. Dennis Reid. Looks pretty handy. You want to tell me who he is?”
“He’s Irish. Bit of an insurance policy,” says Lanny without turning around.
“Insurance or protection? You next in line, are you?”
“We’re all after the same thing here, John.”
“And what’s that?”
Lanny stops, still facing the door.
“Just keep the fucking coppers out of it. Believe me, John, that’s gonna be best for everybody. You included.”
With that he’s gone. Back to his new friends, who would soil their tartan trousers in unison if they really knew the man they’d invited into their golf club.
Chapter Twenty-six
John storms out through the front doors. Sod Gear Depot. He feels like marching back in and shouting out his name. Funny, he’s never been proud of his family, but he’s not ashamed either. Dad arrived in England in the 60s, no trade, no contacts. He did what he had to. How can you blame a man for that?
The plainclothes are still there, parked up near the exit, looking bored in their standard issue Vauxhaul-something-or-other. Should he stop and pose? Perhaps not. He was never one for bating the police. If things had turned out differently when he was young, he might well have signed up to be a copper. That’d been his plan, to make the transition complete, from criminal family to law enforcer. But a gloriously blonde girl from the Antipodes had got in the way of that.
Down the steps. What was it Lanny said? Keep the coppers out of it. Best for everybody. You included. Say what you like about Lanny, he’s never been one for overstatement. But what did he mean?
Halfway down the car park something catches his eye. A glint of light, off to his right. He stops. There it is again. He scans the rows of motors. Then he sees her in that nippy black Toyota MR2 of hers, sitting there, doing nothing. Waiting for him?
He smiles, getting out his phone and fast-dialling her. She’s four rows back, and he can just make out the ring tone. She picks up pretty fast, doesn’t say anything.
“So you finally got to meet the great Lanny Bride?” he says.
“Yes.” Her voice is flat and weak.
He turns away, looks at the sky, waving a hand in the air as if in animated conversation with someone miles away.
“You know there’s an unmarked police car up by the entrance?” he says. “If I’ve seen you, they definitely have… Hello? Are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Jeanette? Are you OK?”
“I’ve got some information,” she says. “And you need to know.”
“What about our friends with the camera over there? Do they need to know too?”
“Not from me. I have to get away. What if that old, misfiring Saab of yours were to block them in as I leave, eh?”
She’s pleading, but trying to making it playful.
“I’m in a Porsche as it happens. But, y’know, they misfire sometimes.”
He’s already moving, car keys in hand.
By the time he’s driving slowly up the lane where the police are parked, Jeanette’s low-slung Toyota is whining up the next lane in second, going way too fast. The Vauxhall roars into action, horn blasting at John as he slows. It’s only a moment, but it’s enough. They can’t pull out. Meanwhile, she guns the Toyota so hard she almost loses the back end as the car flies through the exit gates, tyres singing on the tarmac.
And she’s gone, so fast they probably didn’t even get the registration.
John pulls forward, looking into his mirror, all confusion and helplessness. He sees one of the coppers slap the dashboard, shouting in frustration. Meanwhile, the scream of the Toyota’s engine recedes as it pulls onto the main road and vanishes.
He takes it steady, drives out of the golf club, phoning her as he goes.
Number unavailable.
Bitch!
It doesn’t matter. He saw her turn right onto the Harrogate road. And he’s in a rather spectacular car.
He turns in the same direction and floors it.
Chapter Twenty-seven
His foot stays pressed all the way down until he hits seventh, clicking through the gears with the paddle shift behind the steering wheel. A deafening cry of raucous, dirty pleasure comes from the engine.
On either side of the road the hedges stream past like solid strips of green, and if there are any bumps on the road, the suspension is choosing to ignore them. His hands are clasped tight around the wheel, and his eyes are wide open and alert, his w
hole body tingling as the exhilaration of pure speed casts everything else from his mind.
It doesn’t last long. It never does on this road. He’s spinning down the gears, sixth, fifth, fourth, third, as a bus up ahead slows. Half a dozen cars behind the bus are all edging out, eager to get past, but not quite daring to. And there she is, first in the queue, her cute little Toyota stuck behind the number seventy-two! The MR2 was never going to be much of a challenge for the 911, and now he’s got her.
Shit.
He watches as she darts out from behind the bus and is gone, clear road ahead of her. If he loses her now he might never find her again. He looks in his mirror and goes for it. The Porsche jerks forward as he pulls into the middle of the opposite lane, a canary yellow lorry coming straight at him in the distance as he burns past the waiting traffic. His foot is so hard on the accelerator his thigh lifts off the seat, as if through the sheer urgency of his driving he can coax extra speed from the motor.
The lorry sounds its horn, one continuous blast. But there’s no need. The Porsche tucks itself back into its own lane in front of the bus with a good twenty yards to spare. By now he can see her up ahead, just about visible as she approaches the next village. He’s got her in his sights, and he knows the road. She can’t escape.
Then she stops, or she seems to. She’s braking hard, slowing right down, indicating.
“What the f…”
He’s going as fast as he can, one eye on an approaching zebra crossing, the other on the black MR2, which is now turning into the grounds of Harewood House.
There’s not much point in speeding as he makes his way along the drive that winds through the rolling grounds of the stately home. Up ahead is Harewood House itself, a grand neoclassical residence, elegant in its way, but after two hundred years it’s still trying slightly too hard to be a full-blown palace.
By the time he pulls into the visitor car park, she’s leaning against the MR2, rummaging in her bag. Close by there’s a tractor done out in the estate’s dark green livery. One side of its engine cover is open, and two men in overalls peer inside, talking in low voices and shaking their heads, as if the tractor is a badly behaved child that they simply don’t know what to do with.
