Father and Son (20 page)

He stares at a tiny
hole in the corrugated iron roof. A chunk of light cuts through the darkness, a
thread of watery blue light hitting the floor in front of him. His eyes hurt,
but they’re wide open, despite the crippling effects of last night’s vodka.
From somewhere or other comes the scratching of vermin and the faintest of
squeaks, their newborns crying for food. The air is damp and smells of oil.

He’s back where it all began, just half a mile from the showroom. If
Baron had thought to search the area, he might well have found John here,
sprawled on the oil-stained concrete floor, his head resting on an old
cardboard box full of junk, and beside him a green Kawasaki 750 shrouded in a
large grey blanket.

When Dad had arrived in Leeds in 1963, fresh-faced from Franco’s
Spain and eager to make a name for himself, he rented this place as a storage
unit. Just about big enough to fit a car or a small van inside, it has never
changed, hidden at the back of a warren of old red brick workshops. There’s a
tyre retreading workshop here, and behind it a place where old washing machines
come to die. The Ray name has never been on the lease, always rented cash in
hand, a secret space to hoard whatever needed hoarding.

John reaches up, feels the gash on his forehead crusted with blood,
its edges like puckered lips. He stabs his finger into the wound, his body
jerking with sudden pain, like a cold knife slicing through flesh.

Jesus, he’s thirsty. His head is spinning, and he’s sprawled on the
floor, drifting in and out of sleep. Moments of sudden expansiveness, when it
seems as if he has all the answers, give way to blind confusion, and he’s left
wondering who the hell he is, and why Jeanette is dead. Alone in the dark, he
has gone over every aspect of his dad’s life, dredging up memories he hardly
knew he had. But still he doesn’t believe it. It’s just not Dad’s style.

1985: Tony Ray, nice suit, cheery face, emerges from the Old Bailey
an innocent man. Even the press seemed to love him, treating his acquittal as
the satisfying end to the Tony Ray Show, two weeks of evidence that all seemed
to point to a cocky, low-level criminal whose only real crime was trusting too
many people as he moved up from knock-off perfume to banknotes. The Artful
Dodger, the papers called him,
still
not a single conviction to his name!
Every photo was the same, neat tie, plain, straightforward smile, nothing
extravagant. The perfect criminal.

He sits up, hears the rats again, wonders where they are. Pats his
jacket for fags, knowing there are none. Instead he pulls out the champagne
cork that he took from beside Roberto’s body and turns it in his fingers as he
thinks, trying to put some sort of order into everything that’s gone through
his mind since he collapsed on the floor, so drunk he could hardly walk, his
face smeared with blood and tears.

When he was a kid people would say
now that’s a grand coat, John!
There’d be a hint of distaste in their voices, knowing that the coat was
probably nicked. And when he was in town with his parents there’d be the odd
nudge, eyes following them around. At home everything was stolen or
counterfeit, although he didn’t know it at the time. There’d be toys in
November, big, complicated ones in boxes you could hardly get your arms around,
the kind of stuff kids pray they’ll get on Christmas Day. His mum too, always
trying on new fur coats or evening dresses like the ones film stars used to
wear, laughing as she gave everybody a twirl. But the next day the dresses and
coats would have disappeared.

Joe’s Kawasaki smells of oil. Two years it’s been here, since the
day he was shot in the head at point blank range, someone or other he’d
crossed, case never solved. Joe, always keen to follow in his father’s
footsteps, had got his head blown off. But what footsteps were they? Who was
Tony Ray?

By the time John was in his teens, he knew his dad was not on the
level. Second-hand car dealer was the official line. But it wasn’t difficult to
piece the truth together: thief, conman, rogue. But he was also Dad. He’d be
there in the mornings reading the paper, and he’d normally be home for tea. It
was just a job, and eventually it had led to counterfeiting banknotes. With
that his reputation was made, right down to a starring role at the Bailey.

The light is getting stronger. He turns, so many aches he doesn’t
know which part of him hurts the most, and yanks the blanket off the motorbike.
It seems remarkably clean, the chrome catching what little light there is, its
green tank fat and full of fury, a massive, obscenely powerful machine. But it
also looks pristine, untouched, like a toy right out of the box. Another memory:
scale models that his dad used to import from the Philippines and Hong Kong,
cars and bikes, knock-offs of famous brands that would go straight onto market
stalls for the Christmas rush.

He runs a hand over the front tyre of the bike. Can’t a person just
be who he seems? Tony Ray, dealer in toy cars and dodgy perfume, now slumped in
a chair at the nursing home, dressed in multicoloured shell-suits and hardly
able to speak. There was always so much fun in Dad; it was as if he’d been born
for the specific purpose of being Tony Ray. He was the real deal, the perfect
rendition of himself. Even when John was at Cambridge, desperate to avoid the
shadow of his larger-than-life father, the thought of Tony Ray in his shirt
garters holding that magnifying glass up to a fake Chanel box and admiring the
printing still made him smile.

Was it an illusion? What if it was nothing but a facade? Had Tony
Ray been involved in bringing Semtex into the country for the IRA? If so, what
else had he done? All the cocky criminal bullshit, was it a front? Had he
counterfeited his own innocence? Because if so, Tony Ray had not only fooled
police and newspaper editors for forty years, he’d fooled everyone else around
him. Including his son.

“No,” he says, managing to kneel up, his hands resting on the seat of
his brother’s bike. “Joe was the shit. Not Dad.”

He gets to his feet, ignoring the killing ache that shoots across
his kidneys and up into his spine. Reaching out for the handlebars he realises
he still has the cork in his hand. He doesn’t dare look at it, slips it back in
his pocket as if he’d rather it didn’t exist.

It does, though. And he knows what it means. He just doesn’t want to
accept it. Not just because of his dad, either.

Den waits in the
main entrance at Millgarth, no clearance to go through on her own. There’s a
drunk slumped on one of the white plastic chairs bolted to the floor over by
the wall, but no one else on this side of the security desk, the late-night
rush of brawlers and trouble-causers all safely down in the holding cells. The
uniform on the reception doesn’t know her, must be new this year.

Another cigarette? She’s been outside for a couple already. Dragged
in at six in the morning, and now she feels like a naughty schoolgirl outside
the headmaster’s office. Whatever they want her for, they’re keeping her
waiting. Shit, shit.

Has she done anything wrong? Of course she has. She’s been meddling
in police business, and this is the second time she’s been called in to explain
herself. But she tries to put it into context. After dropping John off at the
home yesterday evening, she’d tipped Baron off about Dennis Reid, the ex-IRA
bloke that had frightened the living daylights out of John’s dad. Plus, it was
all pointing towards the Leeds bombing. She’d told Baron that too. If it
was
about the bomb, she’d given him two brilliant leads. Perhaps they’ve got her down
here to say thanks, she tells herself with grim irony, deciding to have another
smoke after all.

When she finally walks into her old Superintendent’s office, Den has
to conceal an involuntary shiver. It’s not that she’s intimidated by authority.
But it was here in this room that she’d risked her career for John. As soon as
she’d started seeing him, she’d requested an official integrity interview,
setting out the precise details of her relationship with John Ray and his
family, how she’d found him, covered in the blood of his murdered brother, and
how, in the days and weeks that followed, she’d nursed him through it, the only
person he could talk to. Their relationship had grown out of that, out of trust
and dependency and the shared horror of it all.

The three senior officers who heard her case gave her the all-clear,
with the normal rider that she should stay out of any investigation involving
the Rays and any known associates. Now she’s with a different force, which is
just as well, because she’s up to her neck in the Rays and their known
associates.

Deputy Superintendent Shirley Kirk had been one of the officers at
that interview. She hasn’t changed. Her short dark hair is still meticulous,
her austere wardrobe still ranges from charcoal grey to black, and the good
looks she was well-known for twenty years ago still just about visible beneath
the precision of her gaunt, almost fleshless face.

Six-thirty in the morning and she’s at her desk, a cup of coffee in front
of her, looking focussed and alert. Early starts like these are exactly why
she’s risen so high at Millgarth. She’s probably been here half the night. No
wonder she never had kids, not much of a private life either, apparently.

“Good to see you again, Denise,” says Kirk with a smile. “How’s life
over the Pennines?”

It’s not really a question. She looks straight back down at the file
on her desk. “Take a seat.”

Baron is also here, leaning against the wall behind the Super, dour
and ashen, as if he hasn’t slept for a day or two. He squeezes out a smile,
part sympathy, part apology. That doesn’t auger well. Den lowers herself onto
the chair in front of the desk and tries not to look apprehensive.

She knew Baron would be here. But still her heart sinks. This is the
man she had an affair with, right as his marriage was falling apart. She never
asked him to leave his wife. But he did. Then she dumped him for John Ray.
There’s so much water under the bridge she doesn’t know where to begin, only
that she wishes she’d stayed in Manchester this week, or gone walking in the
Lakes on her own. Whatever this is about, it involves John. It always does.

“Sorry to drag you out of bed,” Kirk says, double-checking something
on the page in front of her before looking up. “I hear you’ve been helping John
Ray with his enquiries, so to speak. The murder of Roberto Swales. True?”

“Yes. Ma’am. Sort of.”

“You spoke to Inspector Baron about it yesterday, I hear. Care to
fill me in?”

“John’s been trying to find out who killed Roberto. He was an old
friend of John’s, from when he was a kid. I was over here visiting my sister.
John wanted to talk to someone. Couple of times. That’s about it.”

Kirk nods.

“Oh, by the way, thanks for your help with
our
enquiries. The
tip-off about Dennis Reid, very good. Heard anything else about him? Where he
might be staying?”

Den shakes her head.

“Oh,” the Super continues, “and the Leeds bombing. Very useful. The
investigation’s coming together. But the thing is, Detective Sergeant,” and she
puts both hands around the mug of coffee, criss-crossing her fingers, “I’m not
sure the Manchester Force would see things the same way. Involving yourself in
an illicit manhunt instigated by Lanny Bride and involving one of the city’s
best known criminal families?”

Den opens her mouth, discovers that she doesn’t know how to respond,
and closes it again. She glances up at Baron, but he’s staring down at the
carpet as if it’s hypnotising him.

The Super takes a sip of coffee.

“How well do you know Jeanette Cormac?”

“I don’t. Met her once.”

“But you know she’s been seeing John Ray? Staying at his flat?”

“Yes.”

“And presumably you know she has been investigating Bernard Sheenan
and Leeds bombings.”

“Y-yes,” Den says, a little confused. “I mean, yes, I told Steve
that last night…”

“Indeed. You also told him that there was a possibility that the Ray
family were involved in the shipment of Semtex used in the bombing. Let me
see,” she says, pointedly taking her time to find the relevant note, “you
visited John Ray’s father at Oakland’s Nursing Home yesterday, just as a man
fitting Dennis Reid’s description was leaving. We’ve got the security video.
Tell me, Den, when did you last speak to John Ray?”

“Yesterday evening. I dropped him back at Oaklands about an hour
after that. Then I rang you, Steve.”

But Steve isn’t looking.

“He’d left his car up there,” Den adds, as if in her own defence.

“So John Ray had been with you in
your
car? Why?”

Den feels the cold waters circling around her ankles, knows she can
do nothing about it now.

“We followed someone. Thought they looked suspicious. It wasn’t
anything.”

The Super nods slowly.

“Perhaps we’ll come back to that. Have you seen John Ray since?
Spoken to him?”

“No. He’s not answering.”

“Tried his flat?”

“He’s not there.”

“We know. You say you left him up at the home?”

“He was going to talk to his dad again, try and find out the truth
about the bombing.”

“Did he have plans for the evening?”

“I dunno.”

The Super sits back, places the mug of coffee to one side.

From the corner of her eye Den sees that Baron is now looking at
her, something mournful and loving in his face. It’s the face of a good man.
She knows that well enough. But she doesn’t want to be reminded of it, not
here. Steve’s not going to be good to her now. He’s going to do his job,
whatever it takes, whatever it means for her.

“Jeanette Cormac,” the Super says, “was murdered at her rented
cottage in Bramthorpe yesterday evening. A man matching John Ray’s description
was seen coming out of the house, covered in blood, and driving off at high
speed. We’ve found his car, with her blood all over it.”

Her voice is almost a monotone. An old trick. You say it flat and
watch for the response. Do they play it calm? Shocked? They’ve only got a split
second. Whatever they do, if they’re not one hundred percent convincing, you’ve
as good as got ’em.

Den finds herself looking agog at the Super. Doesn’t try to say
anything, and to begin with she doesn’t notice that her mouth is hanging wide
open. There’s a dense tangle of thoughts inside her head, so confusing that she
wouldn’t know where to start if she were to try to understand them. The blood
is pumping in her ears, and she squeezes her hands, her toes, anything to keep
the panic at bay.

John? John? It’s a mistake. Some sick joke? He didn’t do it. That’s
what she wants to say. John? No way. Are they testing her? It’s not John.
Whatever’s going on here. There’s just no way.

“So,” the Super says, having let Den suffer in silence long enough,
“what we’re going to do is this. You’re going to find Mr Ray and bring him in.
Unofficially. As a favour to me. Then we’ll say no more about any of this.”

“But…” Den begins to say.

“Or, as an alternative, you can pop over to the Arndale Centre later
this morning and see if there are any vacancies for security staff. Get
yourself measured up for one of those nylon uniforms whilst you’re at it. Pay’s
not so good, and there’s no early retirement.” Kirk’s eyes narrow a little, out
of compassion. “You’ve got yourself into a mess here, Den. Get yourself out of
it, is my advice.”

Den forces herself to say absolutely nothing. Experience has taught
her that nothing is often a good course of action, especially with senior
officers. And even more so when you don’t have a clue what to say, or think.

“Welcome back to the team, Den,” the Super says with no obvious irony.
She stands and waits for Den to do the same. “Steve, fill her in on the
details. And let her take a look at the file. Just so she knows who we’re
dealing with.”