Father and Son (26 page)

She parks a couple
of doors down. The address was in the file. Harehills housing estate, East
Leeds. Alice Simpson, nineteen-year-old single mother, lived here with her
parents in their council house. No sooner is the baby born, it dies. No father
on the birth certificate. Why was that? Parents didn’t approve? He wasn’t in
the picture? Wasn’t known?

She gets out, aware that whatever she’s thinking, Baron will have
thought it a hundred times already. Wherever Alice Simpson is now, there’ll
have been a team looking into her, checking her file, making sure nothing
connects. Is this even worth it?

An idea. This is just an idea, the only one she’s got.

Big breath, off she goes.

There’s nobody called Simpson listed at the address now.

She chooses the house opposite. They answer, say they’ve only been
here six months.

Next house along no one in.

Third door down, and a woman in her seventies opens. She looks
surprised.

“Hello,” Den says, holding up her warrant card. “Police. Sorry to
bother you. I’m looking for a woman called Alice Simpson.”

“Alice?” It takes her a while. “But she lived across the way,” she
says, nodding up the street.

“Yes.”

The woman blows her cheeks out, brings her hands together. “That’s a
while back, love. What d’you want to bring that up for, after all this time?”

“You knew her, then?”

“Aye. She grew up here. Poor lass, what she went through weren’t
right. The kiddie was only a couple of weeks old.”

“I’m trying to find her. Have you any idea where…”

“Why don’t you leave her in peace. She weren’t even twenty, y’know.
Why don’t you catch the buggars that did it instead?”

“Do you know where she went when she left here?”

The woman is thinking, reliving the horror of the bombing, of seeing
it on TV, and knowing that the small bundle being brought out of the ruins was
Alice Simpson’s son.

“Even the IRA denied it,” she says, ignoring Den. “But we all knew,
didn’t we?” She pulls her cardigan together at the neck. “They got out, didn’t
they. Bombers, murderers, they let ’em all out.”

“You’ve no idea where she went?”

The woman’s about to close the door. “She did well for herself,
after. Picked herself up. Deserves credit for that. She were a good lass.
Clever, like.”

“Married?”

“Aye, married well. Older bloke. Dry cleaners, got a few shops.”

Stay calm.

“Carr’s?”

The woman no more than tilts her head.

It’s enough.

“You can’t bring back that little bairn, though, can you!” she says,
looking down the street again.

Den is already running down the path, shouting “Thank you!” as she
goes.

The electric gate
buzzes open. He marches straight over to the corner of the building. The French
windows are shut.

“Dad?” he says, rapping on the glass then pulling both doors open.

There’s no one there. Bed neatly made, paisley dressing gown hanging
on the bathroom door, slippers by the bed. The bathroom is empty, just the
faintest whiff of shaving soap and Old Spice.

The door. The door to the corridor is closed. It shouldn’t be.

He pulls it open, runs through to the reception. Only now does he
realise that his hair is soaking wet, his suit too, cold and heavy on his shoulders.

“Where’s Dad?”

Terry is startled. She looks up from the reception desk, her eyes
darting up and down his body.

“What happened to…” she begins.

“Where’s Dad?”

“He’s gone with Graeme. Like we agreed.”

“What?”

She shakes her head, confused.

“He was here in front of me when he rang you.”

“Who rang me?”

“Graeme. You know, the carpet man.”

“He took my dad? What the fuck is going on?”

Terry gulps.

“Half an hour ago. I heard him asking you, John. He dialled your
number right here in front of me. Spoke to you.”

“No he didn’t.”

She looks at his suit, at his haggard, swollen face with the gash
above the nose.

“John, don’t worry. He’s with his carer as well. He’s been signed
out, it’s all official. They’ve taken him for a little trip, that’s all.”

“Andrew Holt? What did he say? Tell me exactly.”

Terry flushes, the panic rising visibly in her cheeks, her lower lip
wobbling.

“That, ehm, he said he was going to take Tony on a little trip down
memory lane. I.. I mean, you, I thought he rang you. He said you’d…”

“Open the gate.”

A minute later he’s charging down Roundhay Road towards town. As he
passes Holt’s ministry he sees three patrol cars outside, blue lights flashing,
the traffic backed up behind them, bodies piling through the door as a crowd
gathers on the pavement outside.

Too late for that. That’s not where they should be looking.

He gets his head down, opens the throttle.

“Alice Carr?”

“Yes.”

She’s immaculately dressed, dark blue business suit tailored to her
tall, strong frame. Flat stomach, though; less flesh on her than there might
be.

She stands halfway behind the door. Doesn’t say anything.

“I’m DS Danson.
You’re Alice Carr, née Simpson?
I
s that right?”

The woman exhales.

“I’m a little bit busy, can it wait?”

Her hair is dark chestnut. Dyed? Perhaps. Neatly tied at the back.
Make up is light, a hint of russet to the lips, her cheeks pale.

“No it can’t wait,” says Den. “A quick chat?”

She inches back a little further from the door, as if she might be
about to slam it shut.

“Sheenan?” Carr asks. “The man who murdered my baby boy? He was
killed in his bed two weeks ago. I’ve had a few ‘quick chats’ with you lot
since then. Can’t you leave me alone?”

“And the father of the child? Has he been questioned as well?”

“You tell me. And I’ve been through all this, several times. Like I
said, I know nothing about him.”

Yes you do.

The footage of the bomb: a young man, baby in his arms, walking from
the wreckage, and looking for all the world like the little kid’s father. John
was right about the video.

“Can I come in?” Den asks.

“There’s nothing else to say.”

Alice glances over her shoulder, back into the house.

“Are you alone?” Den asks.

“I’ve always been alone, from the day they dragged me out of that
supermarket.”

“I need to talk to you, Alice.”

She smiles for the first time, rocks slightly on her feet, then
pushes the door wide open.

“Make yourself at home, officer.”

As she steps inside, Den can smell the perfume, not strong but
enough to suggest that it’s been put on recently. Alice’s black business shoes
make a precise tapping sound on the old wooden floor, the rhythm very slightly
off-kilter: she has a limp.

“Are you expecting someone?” asks Den.

“No,” she says, leading them into a large living room with views
over an extensive, well-maintained garden.

The lounge is tasteful and fastidiously neat. There’s a real fire in
the hearth, its coals emitting just enough heat to make the room feel cosy,
despite its size.

Den looks around, can’t see any photos of newborn babies on the
mantle or anywhere else. There’s a wedding photograph, a few portraits of
adults, but no sign of babies.

“You like Mahler?” she asks, showing Den to one of several leather armchairs
arranged around a mahogany coffee table.

“Fine for me.”

“When you live alone,” she says as they both sit down, “you develop
all sorts of interests. Music, reading, cooking. It’s either that or the telly
every night.”

They sit and listen to the music, which is peaceful yet
fast-shifting, like a rising tide in the corner of a harbour, not knowing which
way to run.

“On second thoughts!” says Alice, turning the music off with a
remote.

Between them, on the coffee table, is a laptop. It seems out of
place amid the various trappings of old-world luxury. It goes with Alice’s
clothes, though, the suggestion that this is a work day and she’s been
interrupted.

“I hardly knew the father,” she says without being asked, as if
she’d rather broach the subject herself. “I’d only been going with him a month
or two. Stupid of me, getting pregnant like that. Kind of thing that happens,
y’know, when you’re young and you lose control.”

“You don’t look like the kind of person to lose control.”

“Not anymore, no.”

She leans forwards, makes sure the laptop is square to the edge of
the table.

“You didn’t put him on the birth certificate,” Den says.

“He didn’t want to know, not at first. Best rid, I thought. Then a
few days later he came to see me. Fell in love with the baby, seeing his own
little son, realising that he was a father. But,” she says, running her hands across
the laptop, “I’d got the birth certificate by then. We were gonna change it.
Never had chance.”

She’s looking down as she speaks, as if talking to the computer in
front of her.

“He walked out of the supermarket. They must’ve got the kiddie off
him. And Graeme dis…”

She looks up, as if startled at her own words. But then she’s smiling,
trying to catch Den’s reaction, playing with her.

“It’s all right,” says Den. “I know who he is.”

Alice’s eyes widen. She can’t hide it. Saying his name is a relief,
a bandage peeled away.

“He disappeared. By the time I’d come round in hospital they were
asking me, wouldn’t stop. I said I didn’t know the father. Reckoned there was
no reason to, nothing to be gained, not if he wanted away.”

She gets up, favouring her left leg, leaning on the arm of the
chair.

“And that was that. I got a gammy leg from the bomb. You want a
drink?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

Her limp is barely noticeable unless you know it’s there, the rest
of her body held perfectly straight and in balance.

“Here,” she says, returning from the kitchen with two large champagne
flutes, giving one to Den then sitting down.

“You’re all dressed up for work but you’re drinking champagne?” Den
says, shuddering as she places the glass to her lips and feels the tiny bubbles
in her nose. “Tell me about Graeme.”

“He disappeared. Gave a false name at the hospital, then slipped
away. They asked me, dozens of times. Needed to trace the man who brought my
child out of the building. But I thought, if he just wants to walk away from it
all, who am I to stop him?”

“And where did he go?”

“Artillery. Prince of Wales Regiment. He was in Iraq in ninety-one
. Desert Storm, remember that? Bosnia a couple of years
after that, then Northern Ireland.”

“He kept in touch?”

“No. Not till after, when he was in jail.”

“Military jail?”

She nods. “Manslaughter, he killed another
squaddie, fight outside a pub. Graeme joined the army to be angry, to scream
and fight and kill. The problem was, he was killing the wrong people. That’s
when he wrote to me, when he had no one else, no one who’d understand.”

“But you’d moved on,” says Den. She looks around
the room. “You made a life for yourself. Got married, a business…”

“It was still there, eating at me. There was
never a trial, no one ever paid for killing my baby boy. How easy is it to get
on with your life after that?”

“
You
did.”

“I got married, did all right. But when Maurice died,
I realised I’d just blanked it out for twenty years. The business kept me
occupied. But when you come home to an empty house every night, the thoughts
come back. And back. I’m glad Graeme got in touch.”

She finishes her wine and gets up from her seat.

“Alice,” Den says, “I need to know about
Graeme.”

“So open the computer. Go on.”

Den does nothing, stays where she is, sensing
something new and unnerving in Alice’s tone and not sure how to respond.

But Alice has disappeared into the kitchen
again. When she returns there’s a bottle of Dom Perignon in her hand.

She pours herself more, and sets the bottle down
on the floor by her chair. Then she opens the laptop, turns it so Den can see
the screen, and perches on the arm of the chair across from Den.

“Do you know why my baby was killed? Because we
were going to buy a bottle of champagne for the christening party. We were busy
choosing which brand. Couldn’t afford this, of course,” and she gestures
towards the bottle on the floor. “But something good, the real stuff.”

For perhaps a minute she is silent.

“We always knew who’d killed our baby.”

“How?”

“Bernard Sheenan. It’s common knowledge.” The
screen of the computer flicks into life. “Ah, here we are.”

On the screen is Graeme, the carpet guy from the
home. And John was right, it’s the young man who walked from the wreckage
twenty-odd years ago, the same slim, pale face, the father of the dead child.
His head is close in to the camera now, which he appears to be setting up.

“When did he get out?” Den asks, her eyes fixed
on the screen.

“Dishonourable discharge, two months ago.”

“And Sheenan? He killed him?”

“Yes, of course he did.”

The camera judders, nothing but blurred images
of Graeme’s back now, no sense of what’s going on.

It only takes a moment. When Den looks up Alice is
standing behind the armchair, a gun in her hands.

Den manages to keep her breathing under control,
takes stock, remembers where the exits are, her eyes never leaving the gun.

“Alice, you don’t have to…”

“My house, my life. Don’t you dare tell me what
I can do with either.”

A standard round-chambered pistol, long chamber,
black. It fits her hands perfectly. She holds it at arm’s length, both hands
clasping it, a finger already on the trigger. She’s not shaking much. And the
gun’s pointed at Den.

“Terrorists,” she says. “You can almost
understand ’em. They’ve got a cause, a war they call it.” She pauses, swallows.
“Afghanistan. That’s a war, right? How many have we killed there, innocent
families, children? But the Leeds bomb? Whoever sold them the Semtex, they knew
what it was for, and they didn’t give a toss. For them it was just business.
And there was a lot of money on offer. Problems with supply. I’ve read all
there is to know about it, believe you me. One of my many hobbies.”

“So you killed them all,” Den says, as she leans
forward, dropping her
shoulder
as if deflated by the information, and making sure her feet are planted firmly
on the floor.

“Just watch the screen!” Alice says, moving a little
way back. “And no heroics, officer.”

“You killed them all? Jeanette Cormac, the
journalist? What had she done?”

“What had my baby boy done?” There are tears
welling in Alice’s eyes, but apart from that she’s as solid as a rock, the
shaking gone, and in her voice there’s a new confidence, as if this is bringing
her a kind of satisfaction.

They both watch the screen as the camera is
finally trained on its subject and brought into focus.

There sits Tony Ray, slumped in a chair.

“Live video link. Amazing, isn’t it? All done
with mobile phones.” She leans on the back of the armchair. “I didn’t know
whether you two would come here first, or go straight down there.”

“Where?”

Alice laughs to herself.

“We saw you yesterday. You and John Ray,
snooping around here. So we knew there wasn’t much time.”

“John’s not here.”

“Added bonus. He’ll be down there all the quicker.
I was going to ring him, but since you’re here and he’s not, I assume he’s on
his way.”

Den’s head is spinning. On the screen Tony Ray
looks petrified, his jaw hanging open, his body trembling. He’s been dumped on
a stool. Around his chest is what looks like a twisted white sheet. It runs
under his arms and up behind him, where it is tied to a large plastic barrel.
The sheet is all that stops him toppling to the floor.

Barrels?

There are more barrels close by. Blue chemical
barrels. He’s in a factory of some sort, at one end of a large workshop. About
fifteen feet away from Tony Ray is a doorway.

“It’s the dry cleaning unit,” Alice says, as if
to put an end to Den’s confusion. “You probably passed it coming here. And, for
your information, the journalist woman never mentioned John. She said Reid was
the courier. Which was a lie. I know how terrorists work. Reid wouldn’t have
brought the stuff across on the ferry himself. But lying about it saved her
from a worse fate. She didn’t deserve to suffer, not like the rest of ’em.”

“Jesus,” Den whispers, trying not to look at
Tony Ray, but unable to take her eyes off his pathetic, shaking frame. “You killed
them all.”

“Not me. I couldn’t even look at those men,
knowing what they did. But this one,” she says, nodding to the screen, “I want
to see this.”

“You killed them, one after the other, till you
had all the names.”

“Sheenan talked in the end,” Alice says. “But he
could have been lying. We needed to double-check. And we also needed the last
man, the one Sheenan didn’t know. Roberto wouldn’t say a thing, apparently, not
until he was almost dead, then he gave us Reid. And
Reid
talked as soon as
he saw the gun. He confirmed what we already knew. Plus, he gave us the last
man, the courier: John Ray.”