Hope Road (9 page)

As he reaches for his
Marlboro Lights
, Detective Constable Matthew Steele emerges from the hotel. He looks straight up the road and raises his arm, pointing at the Saab like a headmaster picking out a miscreant from a crowded playground.

John considers the arrogant runt for a moment. Cheap suit and a snarl.

Shall I ignore him? See how long he stands there with his arm in the air?

No. He turns the key, fumbling for his lighter as he eases the Saab down the hill.

“What’re you doing here?” Steele says as the motor pulls up in front of the hotel.

John gets out of the car, tilts his head back and exhales into the sky.

“I’m looking for Freddy.”

“Is that right? Been nosing about in there, have you? Talking to witnesses, messing with evidence?”

“Last thing your boss said to me was go find Freddy. So here I am, looking.” Then, as an afterthought: “And why are you here? Ah, yes, cos I tipped you off.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You saved us all of half an hour.”

His eyes are on the swirl of blue smoke that curls from the tip of John’s cigarette.

“Want one?”

“Your car,” Steele says, ignoring him. “Don’t forget, it was your car she was found in. I’d watch my step if I were you.”

Oh, you’re not me, son.

John removes a nonexistent strand of tobacco from the tip of his tongue, examines it, flicks it away.

“Funny, don’t you think, the time between the two security videos?”

Steele doesn’t rise to the bait.

“I mean,” he continues, “it happens with the old tape systems. You take one out, put a new one in. Sometimes there’s a few minutes missing. But
eighteen
minutes?”

They’ll have seen the videos by now, he reckons, especially with the resident Iron Maiden fan at the controls and happy to oblige. Fuller too, for that matter. The videos confirm their version of events.

Baron comes out of the hotel.

“What’s going on?”

“He’s been here all the time, Sir,” says Steele. “Parked up the road, watching us.”

“Is that right, Mr Ray?” He looks with disgust at the cigarette in John’s hand. “This is a murder investigation. And you’re hanging around outside? I’ve a good mind to arrest you.”

John takes another drag. He couldn’t care less about Baron’s threats. The image of a half-conscious Donna getting pushed and slapped around in a deserted hotel corridor keeps returning to him, each time more vivid than the last. And the thought of what must have happened after that makes his nauseous. Money, sex, drugs… He’s seen death close up, the shocking simplicity of it, the metallic stink of fresh blood. Then nothing. A body going cold. And nothing else. The thought of it frightens him to the core of his soul.

“May I go now, Sir?” he says, his contempt taking both policemen by surprise. “I need to find Freddy. He’s late for work.”

“Freddy’s a murder suspect,” says Baron. “Think that’s something to joke about, you fucking smart alec?”

John shakes his head. “It’s not Freddy. He didn’t kill her.”

“So why has he disappeared?”

“It’s not Freddy.”

“We’ll know soon enough. A lot of money and a dead girl, Mr Ray. We’ll see.” He turns to leave. “Straight to us when you know where he is.”

Baron disappears around the side of the hotel.

“That reminds me,” says Steele, the beginnings of a smile on his pallid face. “Have you had any thoughts about that money in the Mondeo? Because
I’ve
had a few.”

John leans on the Saab and smokes, stays calm.

Steele’s mobile rings.

“Yes, I’m outside now. Is he walking?”

As he slips the phone back into his jacket pocket, a tall man turns the corner of York Road and walk towards them. It’s Bilyk, the one who made sure he was somewhere else while his partner was calmly beating Donna then dragging her outside. Who stayed there in the lounge half the night, tapping away on his laptop, until she was curled up in the boot of the Mondeo, dead.

He seems confident, a bounce in his long stride, hair combed back but loose in the wind. A big man, full of himself.

Steele makes a call and a moment later two uniforms are out in front of the hotel. He goes over and exchanges a few words with Bilyk. The Ukrainian concentrates as he listens, nodding, serious. Then he’s led to a patrol car and shown the back seat.

John catches sight of Bilyk’s face in the window. The man who sat patiently in view of the security camera half the night while someone raped and killed Donna Macken and dumped her body. And now, apparently, he’s going to tell the police exactly what happened…

“I grew up with men like you, Mr Bilyk,” John whispers as the patrol car moves past him and turns onto the York Road.

He feels in his pocket and takes out a leaflet:
Galey Tractors. Kiev.

“We’ll see who the fuck you are, Mr Bilyk.”

H
e drives into town, down past the bus station, trying to ignore the ugly profile of Millgarth next to it. He’s always admired the police. Now he’s not so sure…

Why would Freddy take the car without asking?
That
car?

Round onto Regent Street.

Think.

What if they forced Freddy to get the Mondeo for them, to get rid of the girl? That makes sense. But the previous night? Why take the car on Thursday night?

He slows almost to a stop as he indicates to turn right onto Hope Road. Behind him a van brakes hard, its banana yellow paintwork filling his mirror, an angry blast from the horn. He holds up his hand in apology as the van whines down a gear and slaloms past on the inside.

Think. Freddy is the last to leave the room. He looks scared, terrible. The two Ukrainians? They’re laughing. When they all come back, Freddy’s got the Mondeo. And Donna’s about to get taken out. To her death.

He turns. Sees it: an unmarked car outside the showroom, young copper leaning against the passenger door waiting for him.

He drives on, staring straight ahead. Then a left, down past the
Black Horse
. A hundred yards, two hundred, going way too fast. He hits the brakes, iPhone already in his hand.

“In Spanish, Connie.
En Español
. Speak in Spanish, okay? Tell ’em it was your mum ringing.”

“Okay.” Not a trace of panic in her voice.

“The police are there again, yes?”

“U-huh.
Sí
.”

“If they ask, tell them Freddy called you. Tell them the truth. He said sorry for taking the Mondeo.”

“
Okay…
”

He looks at his watch.

“It’s nearly one. Tell ’em you’re supposed to close up for lunch if I’m not back. Just go home. I’ll ring you. And Connie, thanks.”

“
Adios, mamá!
” she says and hangs up.

Jesus, she is a godsend.

He sits, tries to straighten things out in his head. The
Yorkshire Post
has slipped to the floor, its pages fanning out. He leans down and grabs what he can.

Something catches his eye, single column on an inside page:

FAKE NOTE HEADING FOR LEEDS

The city is poised for an influx of counterfeit money. Fake twenty pound notes have been flooding into the north of England in recent weeks, and Leeds may be next.

Several examples of the notes were on display at a West Yorkshire Police press conference yesterday. Detective Superintendent Shirley Kirk told reporters that the copies were good quality, and members of the public should be vigilant. Leeds is now the region’s largest metropolitan area not to have been hit by the counterfeiters.

A leaflet explaining how illegal notes can be identified is available, and Superintendent Kirk was clear to point out the risks involved to citizens. “Though you may come into possession of a counterfeit note innocently,” she said, “attempting to use it as currency is a criminal offence.”

Counterfeiters often use a large network of ‘changers’, each with a small amount of fake money to pass off quickly. Operations are highly coordinated, and a large batch of notes can enter circulation in a matter of hours. Busy pubs and clubs, corner shops, markets, even car boot sales are vulnerable. Fake money is also widely used in prostitution, drug deals and other serious crime.

Do not be tempted to pass off fake currency. This is not only illegal, but keeps the forged notes in circulation. The only course of action open to the public is to contact the police.

Before he knows what he’s doing the Saab is cutting through the Saturday morning traffic, flying around buses, jumping lights, other drivers holding back wondering if it’s a police chase.

It’s not me. This is not me.

He needs to get home. Shaking his head in disbelief, he manages to get a cigarette lit as he drives, his eyes stinging with smoke, the car full of fumes before he can get a window open.

This has got nothing to do with me.

Turns into the old high school car park. He’s sweating and there’s fag ash all over his shirt front and thighs. He sees Den’s white VW Golf in one of the guest parking spaces, and the tension drains from his body. This isn’t the best time, but Christ is he glad she’s here.

He opens the door of the flat. There she is, standing at the windows, looking out. He only has to see her to know this isn’t going to turn out well.

“Didn’t expect to see you,” he says.

“Come for some stuff.”

There’s a cardboard box on the floor by the door, in it her MacBook, an iPod wrapped in a tangle of USB leads and headphones, half a dozen paperbacks, a hairdryer, an assortment of sprays and brushes…

“Oh?”

“All above board. I informed Inspector Baron of my intention to visit the residence of the suspect.”

“Fucking glad to hear it!”

She doesn’t laugh.

“You wanna check the box?” she says. “Make sure I haven’t taken any of that cash in the bread bin?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You told Baron there was fifty k in the flat. Think I don’t hear things?”

He walks over to the kitchenette and puts the kettle on.

“And it’s true,” he says. “I buy expensive cars with cash. You’ve seen me carrying that kind of money before.”

She comes across and leans on the kitchen island. Gotta be bad news: face to face is her bad news mode.

“So there’s fifty grand here, and there was fifty in your Mondeo. Plus a dead girl. I can’t stay here, John. Not while this is going on.”

“If you think I had anything to do with that girl…”

“This is a CID investigation. I’ve got to be careful. And on top of all that, if you’re gonna be sniffing around hotels…”

“Baron told you?”

“He just called,
warning
me. Manager of the hotel’s threatening to make a complaint about you.” She blows the air out of the side of her mouth. “You’re a suspect, for Christ’s sake. And if you ask me, as a copper, I’d say your actions are a bit strange.”

“All I’m trying to do is find Freddy before you lot do.”

“And what can you do for him?”

“Make sure he doesn’t do anything silly. Give him some support, listen to him, whatever. I think he’s been set up. You want coffee?”

“No. Who set him up?”

“Dunno. But you know what Freddy’s like. Always jumps in with both feet. What if he got himself mixed up in something, didn’t see where it was heading? You should have seen the video of him coming out of that hotel room. He looked shocked, no,
destroyed
. I’ve never seen him like that before.”

“Yeah, well you’ve never seen a murderer…”

She stops mid-sentence. Because that’s exactly what he has seen. He’s looked straight into the eyes of the man who killed his brother in cold blood.

“So,” she says, quieter, “you’re gonna find out who set Freddy up?”

“Doesn’t hurt to try, does it? And I’ve got an advantage. No disrespect to your wonderful boss, but my name gets me into places where Baron would be scared to show his face.”

“I’ll tell you what, you must be a bloody nut case. But if I was in Freddy’s shoes I’d be glad to have you on my side.”

“So, will you help me? This is Freddy we’re talking about. And he’s in trouble.”

“How
can
I! I’ll get suspended if they find out.”

He shrugs. “So they don’t find out. Here.”

He slides a leaflet for
Galey Tractors
towards her, a business card stapled to the top corner.

She takes it, folds it twice and pushes it deep into the pocket of her jeans.

“If Freddy tells you that he did it, whatever the reason or the circumstances, you’ve gotta bring him in, right?”

“Deal.”

“I’ll be in touch,” she says, already half way to the door. “Oh, and don’t be tempted to give him that fifty k and tell him to get on a flight to Rio.”

“It never crossed my mind.”

In the bedroom, the white duvet is still heaped in the middle of the bed, and over by the window two crystal tumblers sit on the floor, next to them the
Auto Trader
award. Will she be back? Who knows. He doesn’t deserve her though, he knows that.

He takes the glasses and the award through to the kitchenette.

Dead girl, money in the car… where the hell is Freddy?

“I have no idea,” he tells himself, grabbing his jacket, “but I’m not staying here on my own while somebody else finds him.”

Back in the Saab he stares at the windscreen, ignoring the newspaper that lays strewn across the passenger seat. Forget the counterfeits and Baron. Forget everything. Where’s Freddy? Where would he go?

He switches the radio on. They’re already talking up Leeds United’s away game with an in-form Doncaster Rovers side that has not lost at home since…

He blocks out the boyish excitement of the journalist, and tries to put himself into Freddy’s shoes. But the voice is grating and insistent:

…staying in Doncaster, the Saint Ledger Stakes, the last of the year’s classic flat races, gets under way later this afternoon…