Father and Son (13 page)

Ten minutes later
and Freddy’s back on the sales floor. In theory, all three of them sell cars. But
the sales floor is Freddy’s domain, and he makes over half the trades in an
average month. He also decides which motors get pride of place here and on the
forecourt. It’s not all high-end stuff either. There’s something for everyone.
If you walk out of here without buying a new set of wheels, it’s because you
were never going to buy one when you walked in.

He’s recovered his composure and is now steering a couple around the
showroom while they pick at little portions of Connie’s potato omelette which
they carry around with them on tiny plates. It’s more like being at a garden
party than a car showroom. They’ve started with the Subaru, but Freddy’s sussed
them already. They’re looking for some decent-looking wheels, smart family car,
nothing too expensive to maintain. So he does what he does best, yatters on about
this and that, fuel economy, insurance bands, who Leeds are playing this
afternoon… anything that comes into his head, until they finally arrive at
the Ford Focus which they will inevitably buy.

Freddy had been a bookie’s runner when John met him, but he was pure
salesman. All he needed was a stage, and the polished concrete floor of Tony
Ray’s Motors was made to measure. Although now, as he goes through the motions,
there’s a slight hesitancy in his movements, and every now and then he glances
over his shoulder towards the back of the showroom, where John is standing,
silhouetted against the open doorway.

The forensic team has just arrived, but they already have both front
seats of the Saab out. John watches them work. Waste of bloody time, he tells
himself, admiring how fast and methodically they do everything, a mechanical
purpose to their movements. Baron knows he didn’t kill Roberto. Apart from
anything else, he’s got an alibi for the whole night.

There’s a funny thing about his alibi, though. Jeanette Cormac might
have spent Thursday night in his bed, but she’s just got to be involved in all
this, one way or another. And something else: Baron recognised her name. John’s
pretty sure about that.

“Here,” says Connie, handing him an espresso and casting a moment’s
glance at the men in overalls as they move silently around the Saab.

“The Mac?” he asks.

When the coppers arrived, Connie had slipped the silver MacBook into
a filing cabinet. She’s good like that. A healthy distrust of the constabulary.
It’s in the blood with her. The Garcías are as bad as the Rays. Most of ’em
have never done an honest day’s work in their lives. But she’s different. She
came to Leeds to oversee her inheritance, the only thing her conman father left
her. And whereas John had rebuilt the showroom on a whim, she was here to make
it turn a profit.

“
Bastante interesante
,” she says, nodding.

Pretty interesting
. They sometimes
switch to Spanish when they’re together. With his dad the way he is, John
doesn’t have anyone else. Plus, it can be useful to have a private language.

In quick-fire Spanish she lists the things she’s found on the Mac. Information
on his dad, scans of old press cuttings, downloaded articles, all taken off the
internet. Tony Ray, Lanny Bride, and dozens of other names she didn’t recognise.

“Bernard Sheenan?” he asks.

She frowns.

“IRA? Irish
terrorist?”

“Ah,
sí, sí
.
Lots about him. But all background, articles, downloads. About
Leeds, too. A bomb?”

“The Leeds bombing?”

“Yes. 1990, lots of stuff about that. Funny thing, though, no email.”

“She emailed
me
.”

“Must use webmail. Nothing on her hard disk, nothing I could find.
No addresses, no messages, squit.”

“
Squat
.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

They look out as a fat man in a white suit leans so far into the
Saab’s boot it looks like the car is about to gobble him up.

“And yachts,” she says. “She likes yachts.”

“Really? She never mentioned that. Then again, who doesn’t, eh?”

Connie rolls her big brown eyes. Every man in her family dreamed of owning
a yacht. A couple of them managed it, although in one case it was for ferrying
suitcases of marijuana resin across the Straights of Gibraltar from Morocco.
Connie wanted nothing to do with any of that. Inheriting a business in another
country had been an unexpected but glorious dream, and she isn’t about to let
it turn sour, whatever John’s involved in.

“A customer,” she says.

John looks up and immediately recognises the figure coming in
through the glass doors.

“I’ll take this one.”

“Welcome,” John
says, hand outstretched, striding towards the doors just a bit too fast.

“Hi. Graeme Thornton,” the man says. “From up at the home?”

He shakes John’s hand, already looking around the place, taking it
all in.

“Yes, I remember,” says John. “Carpets.”

Thornton’s mousy hair is thinning, and his skin is pale and worn.
But his grip is good and strong, and he’s got the bearing of a man who knows
his own strength. Something tells John that Graeme Thornton hasn’t been a dry
cleaner all his life.

“Some place you’ve got here!” he says, turning his head to take in
the long curved glass frontage, then looking up into the steel-framed roof. “Been
open long?”

“Couple of years. Had the building specially designed. Used to be Dad’s.”

“Really?”

“Previous building.”

“He sold cars as well, did he?”

“Yeah. More or less.”

“I did wonder, y’know, what with him being such a gent.”

“That’s Dad, all right. Let me show you around.”

They wander across the sales floor, giving Freddy a wide berth as he
leans on the Ford, talking about where he’s going for his holidays this year.

“And this,” John says, making sure the door leading out to the lot
at the back is closed, “is where we make the coffee. You want some?”

Thornton shakes his head.

“It’s not a car you’ve come about, is it?”

Thornton laughs. “No. But that Porsche out on the forecourt? I’d
take that off your hands!”

“I can get you a price if you’re interested. Three gallons to the
mile, it does.”

“I can dream. I was in the market for a van about a month ago. Just
set up my business. Don’t run to sports cars just yet.”

“You don’t like Spanish omelette by any chance, do you?” John says,
grabbing himself a plate. “No? Come on, let’s talk out the front.”

“I’ll deliver shirts once a week, seven at a time, all washed and ironed.
And I’ll press a suit every week, or a jacket and trousers. Dry clean ’em, keep
’em tidy, y’know. I’ll do you a good price. Thirty quid a month.”

“Sounds more than reasonable,” says John, then shovels another
forkful of potato omelette into his mouth.

“I think there’s a gap in the market,” Thornton adds. “The kind of people
in Oaklands, they’re used to being well dressed. All their lives in a shirt and
tie, nice people. Suddenly they’re in pink jogging suits and vests. All they
want’s a bit of dignity.”

John nods. “You’re right. I don’t know why the home doesn’t do it.”

“It’s the fuss. Getting ’em into real clothes takes time. They’re
always short-staffed.”

“And who’s gonna dress my dad in his freshly pressed shirts?”

“There’s a carer. He says he’ll do it. And I’ll help out, when I’m
there. But I reckon once the home sees that it’s a good service, and it means
people look and feel better, they’ll think about giving me a contract. If the
old folk are happier, it’s gotta be good for business.”

“This carer,” he says, waving the fork in the air, “not Andrew Holt
by any chance?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“And was it Holt that put in a good word for you up at the home in
the first place?”

“It was, actually. Do you know him?”

“Oh yes. He helps people all the time, Andrew does. His dad before
him, too. Real caring types. He’s got a place just out of town, sort of a
church.” He wipes his mouth with his handkerchief and puts the fork down on the
empty plate. “But you already know that, don’t you?”

That’s it. There’s only so much nice-time with John Ray. Sooner or
later he gets tired of charming you to death.

Thornton’s expression, at first blank, turns by degrees to wry amusement.
He unbuttons the cuff of his shirt and rolls up the sleeve. His arm is solid
with muscle, and covered in faded tattoos.

“Good grief,” John says. “You have body art. That explains
everything.”

“Artillery,” Thornton says, pointing out a battalion’s coat of arms
on his bicep, and a flag on his forearm. “Prince of Wales Regiment. Sergeant.
Three tours of Belfast, Kosovo twice, Queen and country.”

“And how is this relevant to the state of my dad’s wardrobe?”

“Twenty-two years, I did. Getting shot at, shooting back, training
recruits, travelling like a bastard, never in a place long enough to settle
down. Then they make you redundant, and you’ve got nothing. Just you and the
dole.”

“Army cutbacks?”

“I was in at twenty. Got out, couldn’t take it. Drinking too much,
getting into fights, couldn’t sort myself out. One night I went to Andrew’s
place. Just stumbled in there, pissed.” He rolls his sleeve down, takes his
time buttoning the cuff. “I’m not a religious man. But walking in there changed
my life. Andrew helped me. He’s a good bloke. I mean it. He’s one of the good
ones.”

“Not praying, dry cleaning. Sounds like a poem.”

Thornton chooses to ignore John’s sarcasm.

“He helped me turn things around. And when I started the business,
he put in a good word for me up at the home. He’s a stand-up bloke.”

John gets his cigarettes out. He offers one to Thornton, who shakes
his head.

“Ex-squaddie that doesn’t smoke?”

“Gave up.”

“Well done,” says John, slipping the packet back into his pocket. “Foul
habit.”

The sound of traffic from over on Regent Street is muffled and low-pitched.
And on Hope Road nothing moves at all.

Perhaps I’m wrong about Holt.

John lets the moment run its course. Thornton is patient, calm, no
rush to be off.

“I’ll tell you what,” John says, “why don’t you do one of his suits,
some shirts, and see how he likes it? Can’t do any harm to try. Here,” he says,
handing Thornton three tens from his wallet. “Cash OK?”

“That’s fine. I’ll be in touch,” he says, taking one last look at
the showroom as he pockets the money and turns towards his van.

“S-Y-L,” John says to himself, reading the van’s registration as it
pulls away. “See you later.”

He takes the
Porsche again. Connie isn’t pleased, but the Saab is now in a hundred pieces.

As he heads north out of Leeds, the houses get bigger and bigger as
the city turns by degrees into a verdant pastiche of rural life. Ten minutes
and anyone could be mistaken for thinking they were in the countryside. But
this is pure suburb, the Chingford of Yorkshire. The neat lines of semis might
have become barn conversions and real stone newbuilds, each one set in a couple
of lush, unused acres, but give your neighbour a Holstein-Friesian up here and
he won’t know which end the milk comes out.

The car park at Stamforth Golf Club is full, and every vehicle could
take pride of place on John and Connie’s sales floor. He crawls up and down the
rows trying to find a space. He should have built the showroom out of town, he tells
himself, here among the beemers and the mercs.

Finally he edges in between a tree and a Jag at the bottom of the
car park. The driver’s door opens just enough to allow him to slither out. Off
to his right there’s a match just finishing, four grown men in chequered
trousers and jumpers so garish it looks like a troupe of circus clowns are out
for a stroll. And since when did middle-aged men need multi-coloured caps? With
bobbles?

Something’s wrong. He looks down, realises that his stomach is stuck.
He has to suck his mid-section in hard to get clear of the door. Perhaps he
should start golf? A three-hour walk every week might do him good. But then
there’d be the conversation in the bar afterwards. Plus the hats.

Having slithered free he takes a look at himself. Loose black suit, Doc
Marten shoes, white shirt. He’s dressed like a bouncer. Or someone who doesn’t
give a shit. Which is closer to the mark.

He makes his way up through the car park to the clubhouse, which seems
to have been designed to reflect its members’ taste in clothing. If stone cladding
had been available in Gingham, they’d have used it for Stamforth Golf Club. He
glances up at the roof, half expecting it to be modelled on a tam o’ shanter.
Pity, he thinks, I could half fancy a stroll around here of a Sunday morning, humping
a bag of clubs down the fairways… I wonder if they let you play on your own?

As he gets to the clubhouse steps he spots them: sitting in an anonymous-looking
vehicle are two young men, one with a camera. Baron’s men. He considers giving
them the finger. They’ll have shots of everyone coming in and out today. And Lanny’ll
be taken in for questioning later on. But Baron’s smart, he’s not gonna ruin Lanny’s
big day. Not Baron’s style.

Remember, Baron’s not your enemy here, John.

He puts the police out of his mind, taking the steps to the clubhouse
three at a time, his jacket blowing open in the wind.

“John Ray,” he says, striding up to the young woman hovering just
inside the door, giving her the full-on Ray smile.

She’s in a dark blue jacket and trousers and looks like exactly the
kind of girl you’d want around if you’re trying to give a good impression.
Tina
Fallen, Bride Holdings
it says on her lapel badge.

She consults a clipboard.

“I’m sorry, Mr Ray, I don’t seem to have you name here. Please, I’ll
just double check…”

A large hand appears on her shoulder from behind, the fingernails
short and yellow. John hardly needs to look. And when he does, he sees exactly
what he had expected: a big bloke in his Sunday best, nice tie, clean shirt, but
still looking just a little bit like a piece of shit. Lanny’s men are going to stick
out like sore thumbs in a place like this, however much they’ve spent at
Burtons.

The man bends down and whispers something into Tina’s ear.

“I’m all right, then, am I?” John asks, amused that his dad’s name
still carries enough weight to impress the kind of muscle that Lanny employs
these days.

“You’ve missed the buffet,” the man says, rolling his tongue around
in his mouth to get some food out from behind his teeth. He’s in his fifties,
and he’s not wearing a name badge. Not local either. Scottish? John can’t quite
tell. He thanks him and makes his way across to the reception room.

The sound of applause greets him as he enters, although it’s not for
him. Inside the room are perhaps two hundred people, smart casual, a few suits.
They’re standing in groups, all with their backs to him, looking towards the
far wall, where there’s a small plinth with a lectern on it. Behind the lectern
is a massive hoarding for ‘Gear Depot’, bright red and blue, right up to the
ceiling.

And there’s Lanny Bride, leaning into the microphone, both hands on
the lectern, looking out at the crowd. You could be forgiven for thinking that
he’s just another golf club member, a neat, powder-yellow pullover, fawn chinos,
and a nervous smile.

“Hello,” he says, and immediately lowers his head a touch, as if the
sound of his own voice, so heavily amplified, takes him by surprise.

The room has fallen silent. Lanny puts on a pair of steel-framed
glasses. Now he looks more like the club’s accountant on a dress-down day.

“We had a great tournament this morning,” he says. “Thanks to all those
who took part. And let me assure you that Gear Depot’s sponsorship of this
event is guaranteed for the next five years.”

A smattering of applause follows, allowing Lanny time to take a sip
of water from a glass on the lectern.

“That’s why we’re here today, celebrating our commitment to the
future. On Thursday we bought Yorkwright Holdings, after many months of
negotiations. It’s a massive step for us. This,” and he gestures behind him, to
the wall-high logo of the Gear Depot chain, “gets us into a fiercely
competitive but expanding market.”

The logo features a fifteen-foot man scaling an invisible
mountainside, an arm stretching upwards, something Stalinesque in the
squared-off definition of his body. He could be playing basketball, slam-dunking
the winning basket, or leaping in victory. Or swatting a piñata, John thinks,
chuckling at the sight of little old Lanny Bride up there, an average-sized guy
in average clothes, looking reticent and slightly unsure of himself, the Gear
Depot man about to flatten his head.

“Speeches are not my thing,” Lanny continues, his tone getting
steadier as he relaxes. “But I’m pretty good at doing business. Over the last
few years we’ve focussed on imports and wholesale. Retail is the natural next
step, and with Gear Depot we’ve got an absolute gem.”

There are murmurs of agreement around the room, and from somewhere
at the back people start clapping. It triggers more applause, then some
whooping. He lets it go on, nodding a little, the beginnings of a smile
breaking out on his face.

“Good at this, isn’t he?” someone whispers.

John turns his head. It’s the big man from the entrance, now right
behind him, scanning the room slowly, as if he’s trying to keep an eye on everyone
in the crowd. Or perhaps he’s looking for someone in particular, someone who
likes flattening skulls? Roberto’s dead. Perhaps Lanny reckons he might be
next.

“Aye, he’s a reformed character,” says John, as Lanny milks the
applause, nodding graciously. “Work for him, do you?”

“On and off. Mainly off.”

“But now on.”

“Something like that.” He raises an arm, lets his hand fall gently on
John’s shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Mr Ray. Regards to daddy.”

“Sure thing,” says John, trying to ignore the hand, which remains on
his shoulder. “Who shall I say?”

“Dennis Reid.”

“He’ll know the name will he?” John says, dropping his body slightly
and shifting sideways until the hand falls off. “Because I don’t.”

Reid laughs, still looking out across the room. “There’s plenty you don’t
know, Johnny.”

He gives John’s shoulder a squeeze, then moves away.

The noise of the crowd subsides and Lanny Bride puts an elbow on the
lectern, letting his smile drain away.

“But we all know what’ll grab the headlines tomorrow, don’t we?”

Silence.

“They told me not to mention any of this. But that’s not how I do
business. I like to look people in the eye and tell ’em what I think. So that’s
what I’m going to do today.” Another pause, another sip of water. Then: “I’ve
heard the rumours. I’ve lived with ’em for long enough. Lanny Bride is dodgy.
Snide. A criminal.”

The atmosphere is suddenly electric. Most people in this room will
never have met Lanny Bride before. They know him by reputation, though. He’s
never in the papers, ever. But he’s a fixture in a world that they know exists,
close enough to touch, but hidden from sight. Like rats in the city. Lanny
Bride’s name, just as Tony Ray’s used to be, is as familiar in Leeds as the
lions outside the Town Hall, as the rain on the streets. And now Lanny has got
the audience wrapped around his little finger.

“So,” he says, his eyes looking straight into the middle of the
crowd, his voice unwavering, “where are the charges? When was I last arrested?”

He pauses just long enough so that anyone who knows the answers to
these questions has had time to remind themselves.

“Never, is the answer. Ladies and gentlemen of the press, could I
repeat that for your benefit? I have never been charged with any crime. I have
never even been arrested. Not once in my entire life.”

He removes his glasses.

“These, by the way, I don’t need ’em. I was told they made me look
more intellectual.”

There are a few sniggers as he places the glasses carefully on the
lectern in front of him where everyone can see them.

“That’s modern business. No stone left unturned, nothing left to
chance. You want due diligence? Try buying Yorkwright Holdings! Our books have
been gone over until the pages started to wear thin. And as for the public relations
people, they’d’ve had me in elocution lessons if I’d let ’em. But that’s not
me. Let me tell you who I am.”

He shifts a little, swallows. “I started in business young. The
first thing I had was a car wash. I ran it, and eventually I bought it
outright. It was up on Gelderd Road. If you’re too lazy to wash your own motor,
you’ve probably called in there at some point.”

Laughter from the crowd.

This isn’t Lanny Bride, John tells himself as he stands at the back
of the room, arms crossed, watching the show. This sounds like somebody doing
an impression of Lanny after a lobotomy. Lanny-Lite. The people here today have
never seen the thrill he used to get from violence, down at the showroom when
he was little more than a kid, facing off to the biggest men and knowing they’d
back away, his reputation already secure. Blokes who got in Lanny’s way used to
ended up on crutches. He wasn’t big, but he was quick and nasty.

Nobody at the golf club today has heard of Mark Woolstencroft, who
wouldn’t sell his refit workshop to Lanny when he was buying the rest of the
units in an old converted factory in Cleckheaton. Woolstencroft was hung from a
disused viaduct by his feet and left there all night, gagged to muffle his
cries. When the police hauled him up at dawn he’d had a stroke. But he never
grassed on Lanny.

“I built things up from there. Simple businesses, things a young lad
could understand. Amusement arcades, sandwich shops, bars… Small-scale stuff.
This was the nineties, and I got into lap-dancing clubs. I don’t deny it. I was
young, and I was ambitious. And the truth about all those businesses is, you’re
going to meet criminals. One way or another, if you run bars and car washes on
Gelderd Road, you’re going be in contact with some dodgy folk. Guaranteed.
That’s my background, and I’m not ashamed of it. The question is, am I guilty
by association?”

He looks around, takes his time.

“Nice place, this. Very. I didn’t grow up in a place like this. I
grew up on the eighteenth floor of a Harehills tower block. Never knew my dad.
Mum had her problems. I was fostered at ten, but I kept running away. Not the
best start in life. But it’s what I had. And now I’m here.”

He continues to look around the room, nodding appreciatively.

“On the way, I fell in with a certain crowd. A bad crowd, I think
you’d say. I was young, and I didn’t know any better. I had energy, drive,
wanted to get on. But I was alone, and it doesn’t matter how clever you are, when
you’re a kid you are not wise. So I made mistakes, drifted into bad company.
I’m not asking for your sympathy, and I’m not going to pretend I never nicked a
bag of crisps from a corner shop, because I did.
Plenty
…”

Some supportive laughter.

“I’m here because I left that behind, the people who’d influenced
me, everything. Hard work is what got me here, that and a pretty good head for
business. Last year we had a turnover in excess of fifty million pounds, and
it’s growing year on year. Today is another milestone for us. Retail is where
we want to be. And with Gear Depot, plus our contacts in the East, we can be
the next Primark. In five years we want it to be among the best known high
street brands. Good value stuff, keen pricing, make Gear Depot a place you want
to go back to, again and again. That’s the vision. Look at the bloke behind
me,” he says, turning to look at the massive logo. “He’s reaching for the sky. So
are we. Thanks for coming.”