by John Barlow
Baron’s got Jack and Jill in again. They’ve not had much time to prep, but it doesn’t matter. This is gonna be child’s play, he’s got croaker written across his fucking spotty face.
Craig Bairstow. He holds up well to start with. Denies everything. They let him get settled, twenty, thirty minutes. No rush. Denies it all. Nice and steady. They get him some tea. Then they tell him they’ve got a warrant for his flat. That gives him the shits.
What can his brief say? Nothing useful, nothing at all. The boy cracks so easy it’s embarrassing. Big flood of tears, snot bubbling from his nose, shaking like he’s got hypothermia. I tried to help her… he’s retching into a bin, phlegm and sick running down his neck, his Iron Maiden T-shirt glistening with it. An accident. It was an accident. The room stinks of vomit and fear.
Result.
***
Den feels the buzz of energy in the station. This is what it’s all about. You can’t bring back the girl, but you can see justice done. Steve? He’s good. He’s bloody good. DCI in no time.
But the atmosphere of victory is distant, blurred. She came down to the station as soon as John had left, and she’s been here all evening, staring at the walls, trying to keep out of people’s way, disorientated and vaguely disgusted with herself; they’ve got the killer, and she doesn’t care.
There’s been half a dozen messages from John. He wants to meet. She looks at her watch. A cigarette, then she’ll decide.
The evening traffic has all but gone, leaving the city at peace as the sun goes down. Over on the other side of St Peter’s Street she sees people milling about outside the West Yorkshire Playhouse. Last time she’d been there was with Steve and a few others to see The Hounding of David Oluwale. An uncomfortable two hours, a play about corrupt coppers from Millgarth. You can’t judge a force by a couple of nasty, sadistic blokes though. Black sheep and all that… doesn’t make everybody bad. Judge the force by men like Steve Baron. And his dad, who knew what real justice meant. And that’s what it’s all about. Justice.
She smokes the cigarette down to the filter, drops it into the curb. She looks at her watch again. The station doors open and Freddy walks out, followed by Henry Moran. Freddy stops, rubs his face with both hands, runs his fingers through matted hair. Moran says something to him, and the two of them make their way up George Street.
A moment later Moran’s Merc glides past. Freddy peers out but doesn’t recognise her, his face pale and haunted. Two and a half days in a Millgarth cell as a murder suspect? Character-building stuff, Freddy. I wonder what they’d’ve done to you forty years ago…
And so to Hope Road.
Hope? Yeah, she says, as in ‘I hope no one sees me’.
Forty-seven
There’s enough security lighting on at Tony Ray’s Motors to give it an eerie silver glow in the encroaching darkness. She casts her mind back to that night two years ago: John standing there, his brother on the floor in front of him going cold.
At the end of Hope Road she turns left and parks in front of The Black Horse. Couple of quick breaths and she’s out of the car. A shiver of nausea grips her as she looks up at the pub. This is where John’s dad used to hold court back in the day, when the crims were all chirpy characters, suitcases full of dodgy gear, kind word for everyone… Bullshit. Tony Ray had ex-boxers and convicted thugs on his payroll. His own son got his head blown off, for Christ’s sake. Scum.
Then there’s Steve Baron and his dad. David Oluwale gets kicked to death by two coppers, and Sergeant Rodney Baron spends the rest of his life working in the shadow of distrust and unexpressed hatred of his colleagues. That’s character. Fuck Tony Ray.
It’s warm inside. Bare floor, pool table, plain brown walls. A grim place in a grim part of town. The heating’s been on, staving off the early autumn chill. And there he is, alone at a corner table, jacket flung over the chair, shirt sleeves unbuttoned, a half-finished pint in front of him plus an empty whisky glass. The fake notes in the boot of his car? Baron has now got those linked back to the Ukrainians. The stolen motors? Was that just John covering up for Freddy, something like that? A misunderstanding. Anything? He’s not like his dad. John’s different…
***
Back in Millgarth, and the duty solicitor can do nothing now. It’s all coming out, through the heavy, guttural sobs that shake Craig’s body and the frequent spasms as he retches air from an empty stomach.
Fuller paid her in fakes, they tell him. Did you know that, Craig? Donna got paid in fakes. She comes back to the hotel drunk, angry, shows you a twenty note? Do you remember that, Craig? It’s important that you remember. She showed you a fake note in the bar. We’ve seen it on the video. Where’s that note now?
***
Up in the incident room Baron plays and replays the footage, a dozen officers crowding around the laptop with him, incredulous expressions on their faces. Ten in the evening on day three, and the case is as good as wrapped up. All because the video was a few minutes short. The DI’s a fucking genius.
“That’s how the current tape ends,” Baron says. “But it was doctored.”
He fast-forwards. Craig Bairstow walks down the hotel corridor, knocks, puts his ear to the door, speaks right into it.
“He’s been copying security videos of her. Printouts on his walls at home. Photos of her everywhere. Pervert. So he cuts the tape, but he keeps a copy for himself. Watch.”
She opens the door. But she’s almost unconscious, swaying on her feet. He touches her chin, says something as he lifts her head. But she doesn’t respond. He embraces her. She tries to push him off. He kisses her neck, hands moving over her body, pulling her close to him. Then he steers her into the room and closes the door.
“We’ve got the bastard.”
***
…holding her tight, does that feel good, Craig?
Jack and Jill are gentle, respectful. She’s taking the lead.
…then, finally, you’re together. I love you. Is that what you tell her? Is that what you whisper in her ear as you touch her body for the first time? Are you aroused, hard, ready for it? Or do you want to lie with her first, just the two of you on the bed, the softness of her body next to yours? What kind of lovers are you, Craig? You and Donna? We need to know.
…the fall? We know about that. You already told us. Remember? She goes backwards, twists, head against the corner of the bedside table. Weight of two people? Would have killed anybody. But before that? She was out of it, Craig. She wasn’t embracing you. When she opened the door? Did you see the video? We did. We’ve all seen it. She had no idea who you were.
…you’re over to the bed. How many times have you imagined it, alone in your bathroom, her perfume in the air? Can you smell it now? Is it that real for you? You’re over by the bed, holding her; you can touch her now, Craig, she’s yours. Does she like it? Tell us how it was. It feels right, doesn’t it? You can hardly breathe, it feels so good. Then she twists, tries to move away. A struggle? Is that how it is, Craig? It’s all we need to know, sweetheart, come on, help us out…
***
“You wanted to see this, Sir.”
Baron looks up. A young DC passes him a clear plastic evidence bag.
He takes the bag, holds it up to the light.
“She gives him this note in the hotel bar,” he says. “A fake. He serves her a drink anyway, pockets the dud.”
He tilts the envelope, brings it closer to his face. He knows it must be counterfeit. But it’s bloody good. You’d need an expert to tell.
“He told us he’d spent it. But he didn’t. He wrapped it around the memory stick with the video files on and hid it behind the cistern.”
“Why keep it?” someone asks. “Doesn’t make sense.”
“The last thing between them. It was Donna’s, in her purse, and she gave it to him. A few minutes later she was dead. It’s important to him, it’s all he’s got. He’s meticulous. He wants to keep the memory of that night intact. The fake note, her anger at the ot
hers, her embrace, the accidental fall. This is how he’ll remember it. His version of events. That she came to him, died in his arms.”
“So John Ray gets off?”
The voice is Steele’s.
Baron hands the evidence bag back to the young DC.
“There’s no case for him to answer.”
“The fifty grand in the boot of his car?”
“They used his car for the collection on Thursday,” says Baron, snapping shut the laptop. “What case do we make against Ray?”
But when he looks up, Steele’s gone.
***
“Bad sign that, drinking alone,” she says.
John is staring down into his glass, didn’t see her come in.
“Den,” he says, getting to his feet. “What do you want?”
He’s off to the bar before she has chance to answer.
“A Coke’ll be fine,” she calls after him.
There’s hardly anybody in the pub, and nobody’s feeding the jukebox. She likes pubs when they’re quiet, when you can relax, reclaim a modicum of peace.
He returns with a cluster of glasses, fresh pint and a whisky for him, Coke for her.
“You never do chasers,” she says as he sets the drinks down in front of him and knocks back what’s left of his previous pint.
“True,” he says. “But tonight I don’t know where I’m going to end up. Might be the gutter.”
“Yeah, well you’re on your own, mate.” She takes a sip of Coke. “By the way, looks like they’ve got a result on the Donna Macken case.”
“Yeah, Moran rang. They bailed Freddy on conspiracy charges. Dud notes, the daft sod. He’s off the murder, though. That’s the main thing.”
“Are you going to see him?”
“Freddy? No, he’s gone away for a few days. Sort himself out.”
He loosens the collar of his shirt. “Aren’t you hot in that leather jacket?”
“Cold actually,” she says. “Look, I’m still an alibi witness and I shouldn’t be talking to you. So, shall we?”
He drinks his whisky down in one and follows it with a good neckful of beer.
Beer and whisky? She’s never seen him drink much of either.
“The snide notes in the boot of the car were mine,” he says.
A little laugh to herself.
“Well, someone else is getting the blame for ’em…”
“They were mine, Den. And the cars,” he whispers, the pint glass an inch from his lips.
“Is that right…”
“Yeah. You want details?”
The glass is still hanging there, as if her answer will determine how much he drinks tonight, and for a long time after that.
“You lied to me for two years,” she says.
Still he holds up the glass, says nothing.
“I’ve spent two years of my life with someone I don’t know,” she whispers.
“You know me.”
“I’ve been through integrity interviews for you, John. I swore blind that you were straight…”
“You weren’t to know.”
“I do now. Any idea what this’ll do to my career?”
“Why not listen to me first?”
“Not here,” she says. “I’ll be outside, if you can tear yourself away from the booze.”
Forty-eight
“Is this a general feeling?”
Detective Superintendent Shirley Kirk has been following events closely all day, and now she’s called Steve Baron up to her office to discuss the timing of charges.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he says, pinching his brow with thumb and forefinger, closing his fatigued eyes. “But there’s a feeling that we should be looking at John Ray a bit more closely.”
“Which officers?” she asks. “Matt Steele by any chance?”
“Mainly Steele, yes.”
“Do you agree with him?”
“There might be something in it. Ray didn’t buy the Mondeo from its last registered owner. He got it from a bloke at the side of the road who we can’t trace. Ray leaves it unregistered, and five days later there’s a dead girl in it. Plus there’s the fake cash in the boot, obviously.”
“But there’s a trail of evidence from the boy’s flat back to the money in the Mondeo, and ultimately to the girl. So there’s no case against Ray on that score, right? The notes do match, don’t they?”
Baron nods. “But the notes that are now turning up all over town? From the flood we’re pinning on the Ukrainians? They’re different.”
She sits back in her chair, looks up at the ceiling.
“All of them? There’s no crossover at all?”
“No. So far, it’s just the note found in the suspect’s flat. Donna gave him it, we’ve got that in his statement and on video.”
She grimaces as she thinks.
“The Mondeo was used to collect Bilyk’s latest shipment. We have Freddy Metcalfe’s statement on that, and there’ll be CCTV at Immingham docks. Bilyk’s smart. Perhaps he’s got more than one source. That would guarantee a steady supply, in case anything gets stopped at customs or stolen. Multiple sources makes sense. The supply of counterfeits is not going to be a hundred percent reliable, is it? It’s not baked beans you’re buying from a factory.”
Baron freezes.
“As of now,” the Super continues, “we’ve got enough to take both cases to the CPS. Let’s do that first, then Steele can have a poke around, see what he finds on Ray. Agreed?”
He planted the evidence. The thought has been at the back of Baron’s mind since John Ray came to see him. He switched the note in the bathroom. It’s the only way this could have happened. Ray planted the note, then he planted the idea in Baron’s head.
The Superintendent rises from her chair, hand outstretched.
“Well done Steve. Brilliant work.”
He leaves as calmly as he can and manages to get to the senior officers’ toilets before he throws up.
Forty-nine
She’s in her car when he comes out. Leans across to open the passenger door.
As he gets in she takes one last draw on a cigarette and extinguishes it in the ashtray.
“Can I have one of those?” he asks.
“No. Talk.”
Hope Road is behind them, to their left. You can see the edge of the new showroom, a strip of silver light in the darkness.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about Joe,” he says. “It’s probably not the right time for this, but thanks, y’know, for getting me through everything the way you did.”
“No, it’s not the right time. But okay.”
“After Joe died, there was a lot of stuff up in the air. Houses to sell, debts that needed paying. Me and Dad had to deal with it all, make sure no one was ripping us off. There was something wrong, though.
“Just before he was killed he sold a couple of houses. When I traced the proceeds from the sale, a hundred twenty-five grand was missing. Dad and Moran didn’t know anything. It was a mystery.
“Then, a couple of months later, a bloke came looking for me. Turns out Joe had ordered a shipment of counterfeit notes, hundred twenty-five grand, face value of half a million quid. He paid up front but never collected. The bloke didn’t offer a refund. But what he wanted to know was whether we still had a deal. Seems like it was a regular order.”
“And you said yes?”
He laughs.
“I said no. The guy left me his phone number. Plus, he left a sample note.”
Den looks straight ahead, waits.
“The sample note was good. Very good. Twenties are hard to forge these days, loads of security features, very tricky to copy. But these notes were done by professionals, no doubt about that. And it was a very discreet operation from what I could see. Well organised, offering only a limited supply. Joe was buying at twenty-five points…”
“That’s a good price, is it?”
“For notes of that quality? It’s pretty decent, yeah. Ironic, really. He always strug
gled to live up to Dad’s reputation, but the last thing he does is score the best fake notes I’ve ever seen. He’d have sold ’em easy. Buy at twenty-five on the pound, sell down the chain at fifty. Double your money. He could have retired in a couple of years, tops.
“Really good producers are in it for the long haul. They’re very careful not to over-supply. No flooding the market like those stupid Ukrainians. If your product is good, you look for a few careful buyers, sell ’em a bit at a time, let the trail go cold each time.”
“Fancy giving a seminar for us over at Millgarth?”
He ignores her sarcasm.
“I gave it some thought. Ended up saying yes. The showroom’s a cover. Plus it kind of links in with what I do with the money.”
“Which is?”
“I buy sports cars. Expensive ones, secondhand. Always down south, or Scotland, far enough away that nobody’ll bump into me the next day.”
“How many?”
“Each shipment of notes is half a million quid face value. They stash it for me in an old motor and I buy it off ’em, somewhere nice and visible, like it’s just a bloke selling his car at the side of the road.”
“The Mondeo? What about the registration documents?”
“They buy the motor off someone desperate enough to sell ’em it without doing the paperwork. Not difficult. And that way, the bloke I buy it from can’t be traced.”
She sighs. “So you keep the car in your lot, and store the money there? Is that why there was money in the Mondeo on Friday?”
“Yes. Freddy had no idea. He probably saw that the car hadn’t been entered into our system, that’s why he used it. There were notes left in there because the last person I went to see on Friday wasn’t suitable.”
“Suitable?”
He shrugs. “Just didn’t like the look of her. In general I get a shipment of notes on a Monday, buy two cars every evening for five nights.”
“How many shipments?”
