Father and Son (12 page)

Baron’s talking about the champagne cabinet, a chiller unit made of cut
glass and a gold frame, backlit for effect. It had been smashed yesterday
morning when John arrived. Lanny’s men must have taken it out and got rid of
it, along with Roberto.

“Nope,” he says. “I don’t go in there as a rule. Not my scene.”

“Not your scene…” Steele says to himself, looking down at the
floor, nodding slowly to himself.

“Here,” John says, taking a bunch of keys and a fat wallet from his
pocket. “These are Rob’s. He had a flat in the Riverside Tower, behind the station.”

“We’ve already been,” Baron says.

“Why did you take these things?” says Steele. “It’s an offence,
y’know.”

John is about to reply to Steele when he realises that he’s still
got the cork, the one he picked up from the floor in front of Roberto. He’s
under caution for murder, sitting in an interview room in Millgarth, and he’s
got the blood-stained cork in his pocket. It almost makes him laugh, although
he can feel the sweat on his forehead.

Baron purses his lips and squeezes his eyes together hard.

“You took the keys and wallet from his dead body, having just
vomited at the sight of him?”

“They were behind the bar.”

“Where, exactly?”

They’d been in Roberto’s back pockets. The men there had need to
rock his big lolloping body forwards to get at them.

“They were just there, on the bar.”

“And how did you know the keys were his?”

“Who else was gonna leave their keys there?”

“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.”

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.

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.”