Hope Road (31 page)

“And he blackmailed you into telling him? Threatened to give this to me?”

He nods.

“And now you’re giving me it anyway? Why?”

“Dunno. I felt like telling you the truth. It’s what people do.”

“And you’ll go to jail for it,” she says, slipping the envelope into the pocket of her jeans.

He shrugs. Waits for more.

He wants more. Then he wants to tell her everything. Let her hear it all.

But no.

“Off you go,” she says, staring him down, her eyes wide but nothing in them.

“That’s how it ends, is it?
Off you go
?”

“That’s about it.”

“Den, I just…”

“Get out.”

D
C Matt Steele finds himself alone. He looks around with disgust: olive green bathroom suite, no grime around the taps, no tide marks, the chrome handles on the bath shiny. Meticulous.

The flat is being taken slowly apart, everything bagged and tagged and off to the station. The important stuff has already gone, a perfume-impregnated handkerchief, a photograph, a memory stick wrapped in a banknote… And despite all the people in and out of the place, carpets taken up, cupboards gone through item by item, the faintest hint of perfume still hangs in the air. Fucking pervert.

“Need a lift back to Millgarth,” he hears.

Superintendent Kirk is in the doorway. She likes to take a look at a crime scene now and then. Puts everybody on edge. She should stay in her office, let everybody do their job.

“He’s croaking for it, is he?” Steele says, but there’s no triumph in his voice.

She considers the patterns of little smudges on the walls.

“You think these were all of her?”

“The pictures? Dunno. Yeah, probably. We’ll find ’em. Bin men don’t come til Thursday round here.”

He sits on the edge of the bath.

“You all right?” she asks.

His face is pasty. Not enough sleep, and nothing but take-aways and Mars Bars since Saturday morning.

“Poor bitch,” he says. “That photo? Did you see her?”

“Always seems worse when they’re pretty, Matt.”

His head snaps up. But his anger trickles away in seconds. She’s right, and he knows it.

“Come on.” She puts a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get back. Don’t you want to see his face when they take him down to the cells?”

There’s a buzz inside Millgarth when they arrive. Coppers that knocked off hours ago are hanging about, huddled in groups, going over what they’ve heard. There’s plain clothes everywhere, walking fast, a spring in their step.

End of day three and it’s over. Murder
and
the counterfeiting. Double bubble. Nobody’s saying so, not in as many words. But Steve Baron looks like he just took a shot of adrenalin up the arse, and the press officer is on his way in. Double bubble.

Baron found something. That’s the word. Young bloke, works at the hotel. Been interviewed twice already. But now there’s evidence. Video. The best. News travels fast when it’s this good. There’s so many people down by the interview rooms the duty sergeant has to tell ’em all to piss off.

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’.

T
here’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 others, 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?”