Father and Son (14 page)

*

The tables at the side of the room are piled high with discarded
plates. Chicken bones and wooden skewers sticky with satay sauce attest to the
kind of buffet that John is rather pleased to have missed. There are still some
cheese vol-au-vents lying about, and the picked-over remains of stodgy-looking
sushi, but nothing is crying out
eat me!

Finally he rescues a solitary piece of pork pie from the debris and grabs
a glass of warm Rioja from a passing waiter. Call it a late breakfast. Lanny is
still over by the makeshift stage, shaking hands and posing for shots in front
of the huge Gear Depot symbol. He has a friendly word for everyone, with his newly
acquired smile and a nice yellow pullover. Butter wouldn’t fucking melt.

Then John sees Jeanette. All that red hair, like Sideshow Bob on a
good day, and beneath it those sharp features, a dangerous sort of beauty
that’s going to stand out in any golf club on the planet. She’s pushed her way
up to the front, and Lanny is listening to her, polite, attentive, pretending
he’s interested, nodding. Yes, I’ll give you an interview… of course… when
would be convenient?

She passes Lanny a card, scribbles something on it. Simple as that. Her
confidence is remarkable. She just assumes people will want to talk to her. Politicians,
terrorists, career criminals? She’s fearless. You can’t learn that kind of
confidence.

Then John watches her move through the crowd towards the exit, a
detached, feline poise in her movements. As she disappears through the double
doors, Lanny is also watching her go, the Teflon smile now a little thin. And
at the other side of the room, perfectly still, his back against the wall, is
Denis Reid, taking it all in.

“Excuse me, Mr Ray?”

It’s Tina with the clipboard.

“Mr Bride would like to see you.”

“How delightful,” John says as he is led out of the reception room
and down a corridor.

He’s shown into a small office and told to wait there. It smells of
warm food and seems to double as a place where the staff dump their coats.

A minute later Lanny walks in, closing the door silently behind him.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” he says, his hands in his
pockets to keep them still, his whole body on edge, as if twenty minutes of being
Mr Nice Guy in a golf club has really taken it out of him. John sympathises.

“Nice to see you too, Lanny. Brought a tear to my eye, your little
speech did. All those baddies corrupting you in your youth, eh? Shouldn’t be
allowed! Funny, it’s not quite how I remember it. But, y’know, very moving.”

“PR man wrote that shit, even the gag about the glasses. I had to
learn it off by heart. There’s a lot of money at stake here.”

Lanny’s looking round, jumpy, keen to be back pressing the flesh.

“So?”

“So what?” John says.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m supposed to be finding a murderer for you, if you remember.”

“Well you’ll not find him here. And to be honest, we don’t want your
face getting recognised, not today. Your family name won’t help.”

“So I gather. The Rays not welcome anymore? The ones who took you
in, treated you like a son.”

“Things have moved on, John. I can’t have all that around my neck.
Not now.”

“Fair enough. I’ll leave through the side entrance. Happy?”

“And what’s with the journalist? I thought I told you…”

“I had no idea she was coming. She must’ve read about it in the
paper.”

“She wasn’t on the list. I dunno how she got in.”

John smiles, wonders if Lanny really can be so naive. “She’s a
bloody journalist. They can get in anywhere they want. It’s a special skill.
Plus,” and he looks around for an ashtray, “I think you’ve got bigger worries
at the moment. I’ve been down Millgarth all morning in an interview room with
Steve Baron. They found the…”

“I know.” Lanny shakes his head in frustration. “I couldn’t get
anybody, y’know, short notice. They screwed it up.”

John puts a cigarette between his lips.

“There’s no line back to you, though, is there? It’s not as if you
own the Park Lane or anything, right?”

“Baron told you that, did he?”

“A-hu. And he’s got your name up in lights, believe me. I reckon he
hates you more than he used to hate my dad. And that’s saying something.”

“Yeah,” Lanny says, as if Baron’s more of a minor nuisance than a
threat. “But it’s you he hates the most. And we all know why, don’t we? By the
way, you can’t smoke in here.”

“Who made you the school prefect?”

He leans behind and opens a window, then lights up.

“Why did you sell the bar to Roberto?”

“I wanted rid. I gave him the cash and he bought the place off me.
Simple as.”

“Very decent of you. Not exactly tax efficient, though, is it?”

“I’ve got bigger things to worry about that a few grand on a bar. And
the sale had to be solid. Never let ’em get you on tax. Your dad taught me it.”

“And now you’re disowning him in public.”

“I’m doing what I have to. Times have changed. You’ve made the
showroom legit. I’m doing the same. Look, I haven’t got long. You found
anything out?”

John thinks about what Den had said when they went to see his dad.
That he’d been expecting the news, already fearing the worst.

“Not yet. Baron’s got Roberto’s keys. They’ll be all over his flat
by now. What the hell was he up to?”

Lanny shakes his head. “Nothing, as far as I know. All we need here
is something quick. A name, an address. Anything. Just get it before the
coppers do.”

His hand is already on the door handle.

“Last thing,” John says to Lanny’s back. “The big Scottish guy
prowling about out there. Dennis Reid. Looks pretty handy. You want to tell me
who he is?”

“He’s Irish. Bit of an insurance policy,” says Lanny without turning
around.

“Insurance or protection? You next in line, are you?”

“We’re all after the same thing here, John.”

“And what’s that?”

Lanny stops, still facing the door.

“Just keep the fucking coppers out of it. Believe me, John, that’s gonna
be best for everybody. You included.”

With that he’s gone. Back to his new friends, who would soil their tartan
trousers in unison if they really knew the man they’d invited into their golf
club.

John storms out
through the front doors. Sod Gear Depot. He feels like marching back in and shouting
out his name. Funny, he’s never been proud of his family, but he’s not ashamed
either. Dad arrived in England in the 60s, no trade, no contacts. He did what
he had to. How can you blame a man for that?

The plainclothes are still there, parked up near the exit, looking
bored in their standard issue Vauxhaul-something-or-other. Should he stop and
pose? Perhaps not. He was never one for bating the police. If things had turned
out differently when he was young, he might well have signed up to be a copper.
That’d been his plan, to make the transition complete, from criminal family to
law enforcer. But a gloriously blonde girl from the Antipodes had got in the
way of that.

Down the steps. What was it Lanny said? Keep the coppers out of it.
Best
for everybody. You included.
Say what you like about Lanny, he’s never been
one for overstatement. But what did he mean?

Halfway down the car park something catches his eye. A glint of
light, off to his right. He stops. There it is again. He scans the rows of
motors. Then he sees her in that nippy black Toyota MR2 of hers, sitting there,
doing nothing. Waiting for him?

He smiles, getting out his phone and fast-dialling her. She’s four
rows back, and he can just make out the ring tone. She picks up pretty fast,
doesn’t say anything.

“So you finally got to meet the great Lanny Bride?” he says.

“Yes.” Her voice is flat and weak.

He turns away, looks at the sky, waving a hand in the air as if in
animated conversation with someone miles away.

“You know there’s an unmarked police car up by the entrance?” he
says. “If
I’ve
seen you, they definitely have… Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Jeanette? Are you OK?”

“I’ve got some information,” she says. “And you need to know.”

“What about our friends with the camera over there? Do they need to know
too?”

“Not from me. I have to get away. What if that old, misfiring Saab of
yours were to block them in as I leave, eh?”

She’s pleading, but trying to making it playful.

“I’m in a Porsche as it happens. But, y’know, they misfire
sometimes.”

He’s already moving, car keys in hand.

By the time he’s driving slowly up the lane where the police are parked,
Jeanette’s low-slung Toyota is whining up the next lane in second, going way
too fast. The Vauxhall roars into action, horn blasting at John as he slows. It’s
only a moment, but it’s enough. They can’t pull out. Meanwhile, she guns the Toyota
so hard she almost loses the back end as the car flies through the exit gates,
tyres singing on the tarmac.

And she’s gone, so fast they probably didn’t even get the
registration.

John pulls forward, looking into his mirror, all confusion and helplessness.
He sees one of the coppers slap the dashboard, shouting in frustration.
Meanwhile, the scream of the Toyota’s engine recedes as it pulls onto the main
road and vanishes.

He takes it steady, drives out of the golf club, phoning her as he
goes.

Number unavailable.

Bitch!

It doesn’t matter. He saw her turn right onto the Harrogate road.
And he’s in a rather spectacular car.

He turns in the same direction and floors it.

His foot stays pressed
all the way down until he hits seventh, clicking through the gears with the
paddle shift behind the steering wheel. A deafening cry of raucous, dirty
pleasure comes from the engine.

On either side of the road the hedges stream past like solid strips
of green, and if there are any bumps on the road, the suspension is choosing to
ignore them. His hands are clasped tight around the wheel, and his eyes are wide
open and alert, his whole body tingling as the exhilaration of pure speed casts
everything else from his mind.

It doesn’t last long. It never does on this road. He’s spinning down
the gears, sixth, fifth, fourth, third, as a bus up ahead slows. Half a dozen
cars behind the bus are all edging out, eager to get past, but not quite daring
to. And there she is, first in the queue, her cute little Toyota stuck behind
the number seventy-two! The MR2 was never going to be much of a challenge for
the 911, and now he’s got her.

Shit.

He watches as she darts out from behind the bus and is gone, clear
road ahead of her. If he loses her now he might never find her again. He looks
in his mirror and goes for it. The Porsche jerks forward as he pulls into the
middle of the opposite lane, a canary yellow lorry coming straight at him in
the distance as he burns past the waiting traffic. His foot is so hard on the
accelerator his thigh lifts off the seat, as if through the sheer urgency of
his driving he can coax extra speed from the motor.

The lorry sounds its horn, one continuous blast. But there’s no need.
The Porsche tucks itself back into its own lane in front of the bus with a good
twenty yards to spare. By now he can see her up ahead, just about visible as
she approaches the next village. He’s got her in his sights, and he knows the
road. She can’t escape.

Then she stops, or she seems to. She’s braking hard, slowing right
down, indicating.

“What the f…”

He’s going as fast as he can, one eye on an approaching zebra
crossing, the other on the black MR2, which is now turning into the grounds of
Harewood House.

There’s not much point in speeding as he makes his way along the drive
that winds through the rolling grounds of the stately home. Up ahead is
Harewood House itself, a grand neoclassical residence, elegant in its way, but
after two hundred years it’s still trying slightly too hard to be a full-blown
palace.

By the time he pulls into the visitor car park, she’s leaning
against the MR2, rummaging in her bag. Close by there’s a tractor done out in
the estate’s dark green livery. One side of its engine cover is open, and two
men in overalls peer inside, talking in low voices and shaking their heads, as
if the tractor is a badly behaved child that they simply don’t know what to do
with.

“Thought you’d got away from me?” he says, jumping out of the car as
if he’s sixteen again, adrenalin coursing through his body.

She seems a good deal less energised.

“Come on,” she says, already walking, still rummaging in her bag. “I
wanted to make sure we were alone.”

“Jesus,” he said, taking long strides to keep up. “Couldn’t you just
have said?”

She stops, turns to face John, simultaneously locating a packet of
Silk Cut in her bag.

“We shouldn’t be seen together. That’s why I was waiting for you in the
car park back there, to see if I could get away without being followed.”

“But what have you done? The police following
you
? Why?”

She takes a cigarette from the packet, then puts it back, as if even
nicotine can’t help her now.

“Are you sure they were police?”

“Looked like it to me.”

“Well, it’s not the police I’m worried about.”

“Who then?”

She looks around, down past the adventure playground, says nothing.

“OK,” he says. “Do you like scones?”

“This place was built with slave money, you know.”

They’re sitting on the broad terrace that runs along the back of the
house, looking out across the pristine, symmetrical gardens. “I guess if you
made it big selling human beings, aristocratic splendour was the next logical step.”

Their pots of tea are brought to the table by a girl whose traditional
black and white waitress uniform is straight from another age, although her
nose is pierced and she doesn’t curtsey when she leaves.

“At least it’s a
silver
stud,” John whispers as she
disappears. “Funny thing, much as I despise the aristocracy, I always reckoned
I should have been born into the leisured classes.”

“You were born into the criminal aristocracy, won’t that do?”

“Not quite the branch I’d have chosen. Anyway, keep your voice down.”

Jeanette is a little calmer now, but her pale complexion is even
paler than usual, and the wicked curl of her mouth has gone, replaced by a
disconcerting stare into the mid-distance.

John’s attention is taken by two women at a table over by the stone
balustrade. Harvey Nics girls, not his type at all, but they catch his eye. There’s
something strange about them. What is it? He tries not to stare.

“Did you hear Lanny back there?” he says, his eyes still on the
women. “Suddenly he doesn’t want my family’s name mentioned in the same breath
as his…”

That’s it. They’re family: mother and daughter, the latter a carbon
copy of her mum, same designer clothes, same hairdresser, same diet. He weighs
them up, comparing their copycat, boutiquey style, as if the two of them are a
single work of art and he’s still trying to decide if he likes it.

“Bloody gratitude for you. He learned everything he knows from my dad,
y’know. By the way, are you still interested in writing something about Dad?”

She frowns, as if she’s hardly been listening.

“No, didn’t think so.”

“I was never interested,” she says. “Sorry. The story was always
about Sheenan. That’s why I’ve been here, to look into the Leeds bombing.”

The images of the bomb immediately flood back to him: the baby, the
young man staggering out from the rubble, the look of desolation on his face…
For more than twenty years those images have haunted him, and Sheenan’s death
has brought them right back into focus.

“So why spin me some shit about my dad? You’ve been in my flat most
of last week. And the research? I mean, you seem to know a lot about Dad. What
was all that for?”

He tries to read her face, but she’s hiding her emotions well.

“I was in your flat because I like you. I like being with you.” She
looks around at the other tables. “I don’t suppose you can smoke here, can
you?”

“Why don’t you do some talking instead?”

“OK. I’ve been trying to find out who was behind the bombing.
Sheenan was going to tell me, lay it to rest, the last secret. Once he was
safely in hospital, sort of a deathbed revelation.”

“Only someone got to him first?”

She nods. “I don’t think he was the only one.”

“What do you mean?”

She looks out over the perfectly manicured, layered gardens that
stretch out beneath them, a concertina’d mini-Versailles, and beyond it the potent
green of prime pasture. “I lied to you yesterday. About Roberto. It’s not a
coincidence, John, none of this is…”

But he’s hardly listening. Over and over, the same images replay
themselves in his mind, the dead baby, and the young man’s face vacant and
disbelieving, so hauntingly familiar, after all these years.

“Roberto?” he says. “How?”

She pours some tea from a silver pot. More of it dribbles onto the
table than makes its way into the cup.

“Shit, why do they always do that!” she says, slamming the pot down
on the table, then sloshing milk into her cup until it overflows. “Sourcing Semtex
had become a problem. Gaddafi was getting unreliable, things were falling apart.
Sheenan found a supplier in the Ukraine. The delivery was made, but in the
meantime the bombing was called off. There was a mix-up in communications. Sheenan
planted the bomb anyway. The provos never claimed responsibility. No one did. It
was a screw-up.”

“He killed a baby,” John whispers, his eyes fixed on a spot close to
the horizon. “Roberto. He said he killed a baby.”

“Sheenan told me the people who organised the delivery of the
explosives from the Ukraine were based in Leeds.”

“And you think it was Roberto?”

“Leeds means Lanny Bride, right? The only name I could find linked
to him still working in Leeds was Roberto Swales. That’s where I started. I’ve
been following him, trying to get a lead. Roberto was working for Lanny at the
time of the bombing. And whoever killed Roberto, I think I led them to his door.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

She sighs. “Two weeks ago I went to see Bernard Sheenan in Ireland.
A day later he was dead. I think I led the murderer to him. Then to Roberto. I
don’t want to lead him to anyone else. So I’m packing up and getting out. You
should be doing the same.”

“Me?” He shakes his head in confusion. “Why me? I’m trying to sort
out the thing with Roberto. I owe him that, at least. Whatever he did.”

But the words sound hollow, sickening.

The Harvey Nics women are now making a start on their cream teas,
talking between miniscule bites, scones held up to their mouths as they whisper
to one another, mother and daughter in afternoon conclave. They brush their
long, straight hair from their faces, the two of them at blissful ease with the
world.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you,” she says, pushing a ball of
soggy paper napkin around the table, trying to soak up a pool of hot milky tea.
“Sheenan was tortured. It wasn’t in the news. Was Roberto tortured as well?”

John doesn’t answer. He watches the mother and daughter eating their
scones, their beautiful scones and their beautiful lives. Different parts of
his brain are trying to work on different ideas, and the strain is pulling his
face in several directions. He sits back, runs a hand through his hair.

“Yes,” he says. “But something’s not right. You knew about Sheenan
yesterday, when I told you Roberto had been murdered. What’s freaked you out
now, all of a sudden?” he says, keeping his voice steady, avoiding her eyes. “You
were all smiles half an hour ago, giving Lanny Bride your card. Mrs Charming!”

“Dennis Reid,” she says, picking at her nails, staring down at them
like a nervous child. “I saw him on my way out of the golf club.”

“The ape in the bad suit?”

“That’s the one. You know anything about him?”

“Nope. How come
you
know his name?”

She exhales through her nose. “Did you notice the accent?”

“Irish. Although he sounded a bit Scottish to me.”

“He’s been living in Aberdeen since 1999. November 1999.”

“That’s very specific.”

“His release date. Part of the Good Friday Agreement. He’s ex-IRA.”

“So why is he here working for Lanny?”

“I dunno exactly. But Reid recognised me,” she says. “I’m pretty
sure about that. He pretended not to, of course.”

John does his best impression of a nonchalant shrug.

“Perhaps
that’s
a coincidence? A hard man without a cause? He’s
gotta work for somebody. Lanny’s got contacts, he needed a man…”

She’s already shaking her head, and her hands are busy, messing with
the soggy napkins, with the sugar bowl, her cup and saucer…

“Reid was an IRA fixer. On the mainland.”

“1990?”

She lowers her head. Her body seems to sink a little further in on itself,
her frame diminishing by the minute. And she looks older. In an instant she’s
middle-aged.

“Yes. And he’s a fucking psycho.”

With that she gets to her feet and moves around behind John.

“I’m going, and so should you,” she says, slipping her hands inside
his jacket and down the front of his chest.

“Still working your feminine charms, eh?”

She closes her eyes, pushes into him until her lips are touching his
ear, her face nestling in his neck. “Leave,” she whispers. “Go away. A few
days. Weeks. Whatever.”

“Why should I?”

“They’re gonna find a connection. Lanny… Leeds… your family,
whatever. They’re gonna find something. Just get out of the country, lie low
for a while.” He feels the palms of her hands push harder into his chest. “New
Zealand,” she whispers, her lips tickling the edge of his ear. “1990, you were
in New Zealand, right? After you graduated from Cambridge?”

He pulls away, twisting around in his chair but unable to see her
face.

“What? Yeah, I was in New Zealand when the bomb went off. I told
you. I saw it on the news over there. But what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Who sent you out of the country, John?”

“Nobody sent me out of the country! I went to see a girl. I was
twenty-one. Love’s young dream. You heard of it?”