Father and Son

by John Barlow

  “Shall I turn this off?” he says. “You don’t normally have it on in the mornings, do you?”

  The old man nods, his eyes widening as he recognises Den. John switches off the TV, and Tony Ray now lifts a hand, pointing to a couple of chairs set against the wall at the back of the room. His arm shakes a little, but he concentrates, holding it there until John grabs the two chairs and brings them across.

  The old man clears his throat, tries to say something.

  Den leans into him, her ear touching his lips.

  “You look beautiful today, Constable,” he says, half whispering, half croaking, his breath bitter and rancid.

  “It’s Sergeant these days. And I’m beautiful every day. But look at you!” she says, zipping up his jacket and straightening the collar. “Why aren’t you in your own clothes?”

  “I’ve asked,” John says, placing the chairs on the carpet so the three of them can sit close and talk in comfort. “They say these suits are more comfortable.”

  “Do they have to be this colour!”

  They sit down, their knees almost touching.

  Tony Ray is grinning, his eyes moving between Den and John.

  “He probably thinks we’re back…”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “How are you, Tony?” She squeezes the old man’s hand. “Treating you well in here are they?”

  Tony nods. Or it might be a shrug. Difficult to say. A shrug of resignation, perhaps. The best way to deal with the inevitable, John tells himself, seeing how Den’s presence has immediately rekindled the old spark of life in his father.

  Den had been the first officer at the showroom the night Joe was shot. She heard the gunshot from down the street and came running. When she arrived, John was still standing there, watching the dark pool of blood beneath Joe’s body spread across the concrete floor. There was more blood from the blast on John’s face. She wiped it off with her cuff and got him away from the body. Cup of tea, cigarette. Within minutes the place was overrun by police, and Hope Road had been closed off. Later that evening, when John went to tell his dad, he asked Den to come with him. The old man didn’t take it well. But he’d’ve taken it a lot worse if she hadn’t been there.

  Den now does most of the talking, telling Tony about her new job, how Manchester has changed, full of coffee shops and tapas bars. More like Spain, she says. He should take a trip.

  Tony nods, just happy to hear her voice again. All three of them, it seems, accept the irony of the situation: a police detective giving Tony Ray the low down on Manchester. It’s a city Tony knows well. His little empire stretched across the Pennines, and further afield than that. He had contacts far and wide, including the Chinese and Hong Kongese triads in Manchester itself, plus just about every other career criminal in the north of England. Good-bad-bad-good. It wasn’t all knock-off perfume, either. Den must have read his file a dozen times. Yet she was always good with Tony, knew how to separate the personal from the professional. She could always keep things in perspective.

  “Right,” she says, turning to John.

  He shifts in his chair. This isn’t going to be easy.

  “We’ve got some bad news, Dad,” he says. “Roberto. You remember him?”

  Tony Ray’s head turns slowly until he’s looking at his son.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. Roberto’s dead.”

  He repeats it.

  Tony Ray’s bottom lip glistens with saliva, just the hint of a tremor.

  “He was killed last night. Lanny’s asked me to see what I can find out.”

  The old man looks at Den. A string of saliva falls from his lip and catches on his jacket. She gets a tissue from her pocket, wipes it off.

  “Someone, they…” John says, searching for the right words, “they did him bad. Before he died, we think.”

  Tony Ray’s mouth is open now, a silent ‘oh’, his lips trembling, wet and uncontrolled. And he’s still staring straight at Den.

  “Is there anything about Roberto we might not know?”

  “He was just muscle, wasn’t he?” Den adds. “Is there anything he might have known? Or seen? Anything at all he might have been into, that someone’d kill him for?”

  But Tony Ray isn’t listening. His breathing is light and fast, and with his free hand he’s fumbling for something down at his side.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” says John. “He was a lovely bloke. Sorry to bring you the news like this. It’s just, Lanny’s asking, and I’ve got nothing to go on.”

  “Anything you can think of,” Den says, “from any time. Anything at all.”

  Tony has found what he was searching for. He presses the alarm button, his arm quivering, thumb pushed down hard on the button and held there. And he’s not looking at Den any more. He’s staring straight ahead at the blank screen of the television.

  Moments later the door opens and a tall man appears. He’s wearing a white orderly’s uniform, and he doesn’t look pleased.

  “Oh, hi,” he says, pulling up short as he sees John.

  “Hello,” says John. “This is Denise, a friend of the family.”

  The man ignores the information and turns to Tony. A look of concern spreads quickly across his face as he sees the state the old man is in.

  “Let’s have a look at you,” he says as he fusses with Tony’s head, peering into his eyes. He takes his pulse, speaking as he holds the man’s wrist and counts the seconds on his watch.

  “Too much excitement!” he says, placing Tony’s arm carefully down again. “Got to watch his blood pressure.” He glances at Den, as if she’s the obvious cause of the excitement, then back at the old man. “It’s time for your bath. Shall we, eh? Calm you down?”

  It’s not a question. He leans over and gets Tony in a bear hug, then eases him to his feet in a single, well-practiced move. Mr Ray senior, still shaking visibly, sways a little, then gains his balance.

  “Shall we wait?” asks John.

  “Right, Tony, off we go!” the carer says, pointedly ignoring the question.

  A minute later and Tony Ray has shuffled into his en suite bathroom, mouth still hanging open.

  Chapter Ten

  Out on the terrace John lights a cigarette, offers Den one.

  “You made sergeant, then?”

  “Thought it was about time,” she says, refusing the packet. “And I’m guessing that you’re not supposed to do that here.”

  “What did you think about Dad?” he asks, and sucks hard on the cigarette, knowing that at any moment someone will be scuttling towards him wagging a finger.

  “I think he’s got one rude care assistant,” she says.

  “Him? Andrew Holt. He was at school with me, three years below. His dad was a Methodist preacher, or a Baptist or something. He was a prick when he was a kid. Nothing’s changed.”

  “Only now he’s giving your dad baths, whilst the prodigal son has a luxury apartment in the old school and can stump up five grand a month for this place.”

  “Me, the prodigal son? Jesus…”

  John sighs, a big lungful of smoke billowing out around him.

  “Your dad took the news pretty bad just now,” she says.

  “Roberto was… I dunno, he was the kind of person you never doubted, you never doubted the goodness in him. Funny thing to say about someone like that, but you could trust him.”

  “He worked for your dad up until ’85, right?”

  “Yeah, then just before the trial he disappeared. It helped the defence, that did.”

  “So your dad owed him?”

  “Big time. Thing is, after his acquittal Dad started getting more careful. Not so many big jobs, not the kind of work that needed muscle. All the hands-on stuff he left to Joe and Lanny. They loved it, couldn’t get enough action, those two. But for Dad, the Old Bailey was a warning. He pulled back, started thinking more about how to keep out of jail. Especially after Mum died.”

  “And when Roberto came back, he worked for Lanny Bride?”

  �
�Late eighties, yeah. Lanny was still young, but he was making a name for himself, gradually taking over from Dad. I guess Roberto just went where the work was.”

  Andrew Holt appears at the French windows.

  “I can smell that thing in here!” he says, scowling at the burning cigarette in John’s hand, before disappearing again.

  “Son of a bloody preacher man,” says John, dropping the cigarette and grinding it into the flagstones.

  They stand in silence a while. He’s trying to think, but nothing comes to mind. How is he going to find out anything about Roberto now?

  “He seemed to be expecting it,” she says, breaking the silence.

  “What?”

  “Your dad. When you mentioned Roberto’s name. He was already fearing the worst. Something in his eyes.”

  “You reckon?”

  “Felt like it to me. Come on,” she says. “I’ve got to go. If your dad has anything to say, I reckon he’ll need time to remember. Try him later today.”

  “But you said he was expecting it? He must know something, then?”

  She laughs. “Doesn’t mean he’s gonna tell us. Give him time. Come on, I should be going.”

  Next to the Saab the dry cleaning man has just finished loading his white van. He hops into the driver’s seat and winds down the window.

  “Did he perk up, then?” he asks.

  “Not much. Having an off day, I think,” John says.

  “Lovely bloke. Not like some of ’em in here. Lovely guy. Real gent.”

  He fires up the van, waves, and off he goes.

  “Do you know him?” Den asks.

  “Him? No. Never stops smiling, whoever he is.”

  “So,” she says, “what are you gonna do now?”

  “No idea.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “There were definitely no stray bullets?” she asks as they drive back to his flat.

  “Not that I saw.”

  “And the shots were in the middle of his arms and his leg?”

  “Yes. Smallish holes.”

  “The Lebanese place is next door. On the other side what is there?”

  “Sandwiches, burgers. Opens late.”

  “Later than the Park Lane?”

  “Possibly.”

  “So, you’re looking for somebody with a handgun who shoots well and might have used a silencer. Did you ever see him fight?”

  “Rob? Only on screen. They had an old cine film of his semi-final. Kept it down at the showroom. English Amateurs. Middleweight. He won it, bloody good he was. But he was arrested for armed robbery before the final. Missed his own big fight. Couldn’t turn pro either. He was screwed.”

  “Yeah, an’ all for a bit of armed robbery. Poor guy.”

  “No comment.”

  They’re nearly back at the old High School. John’s fingers are drumming on the wheel again, but he’s taking it a lot steadier this time.

  “He was like a rhino in that fight. Charged in fast and hard. Referee didn’t stand a chance, never mind the other bloke. Rob had all the shots, he…”

  “So,” she says, cutting John off before he can launch into one of his paeans to the noble art of men punching each other in the face, “he’s ready to lock up the bar. Someone arrives, and the last thing they want is to provoke him…”

  “Because you don’t want a bloody rhino coming at you.”

  “Right. Whoever it was either knew him, or talked his way into the place once it was closed.”

  “And then?”

  “Pop, right into the leg. He looks down. Pop, pop, into the arms. Being shot, doesn’t matter how hard you are, the body goes into shock. Adrenalin kicks in, hyperventilation, your vision can be affected. All your instincts are about self-preservation.”

  “And that’s when he gets pushed down into the chair and taped there.”

  “Nice and secure. The rhino tamed. As for the rest…”

  They pull up outside the old school.

  “That,” he says, “doesn’t bear thinking about. Not just now. You fancy a drink?”

  “At this time? Even you were never that bad. Anyway, we better get something straight.” She searches for car keys in her bag as she talks. “I’m not getting involved in this. If Lanny Bride’s more important to you than informing the police, you’re on your own.”

  “Lanny has me over a bit of a barrel.”

  She frowns. “You found the guy who killed his daughter last year, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, and this morning he made sure I was down at the scene of the crime a few hours after the murder. I’ll be a suspect if the coppers get involved. He dragged me down there so I couldn’t go to the police.”

  “Motive? What’s your motive supposed to be?”

  “You think Lanny won’t think of something? Lanny always gets what he wants. And what he wants now is to have this sorted out quickly and quietly.”

  “Well, whatever you decide,” she says as she opens the door, “I’ll be around. But I’m not getting involved unless you take it to the police. Understood?”

  “Fair enough. Dinner?” he throws out, more in desperation than hope.

  She stops, hand on the door handle, one foot on the pavement.

  “Okay. But don’t tell gingernuts in there. I get one call from her, you’ll never hear from me again. Got that?”

  “I’ll ring you later.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know. Get your thinking cap on. I’m paying.”

  “Yes you bloody are. Eight, my sister’s house.”

  She slams the door behind her and goes in search of her old white Astra, which is showing all the signs of having spent a year in the abundant rainfall of England’s second-best county.

  Chapter Twelve

  He takes a taxi down to the Park Lane. Doesn’t know why, really. If there’s no police, who’s going to be looking at CCTV? And if anyone does start looking, the Saab’s already at the scene of the crime, 7 a.m., right outside the front door. Still, instinct says taxi.

  When he arrives two men are loading old floorboards into a van. The young pasty guy in the joggers is one of them. He sees John, straightens up, waits for him to pay off the taxi.

  “New floor?” John says.

  “Aye. New carpet an’all.”

  “I wish I could get tradesmen that quick. Anybody in there I should be speaking to?”

  He shakes his head. “Just us three. There’ll be some blokes doing the floor this after’, but they’re just contractors.”

  John had already drawn a blank with the three of them earlier this morning. Hardly worth speaking to them again. They didn’t seem to know anything, didn’t look like they were hiding anything either. Badly shaken up, and not trying to disguise the fact, chain-smoking and giving the dead body a wide birth. Roberto was one of theirs, and all morning they would have been asking themselves the same question: why?

  “Okay, if you see Lanny tell him I’ll be in touch.”

  The guy turns, disappears back inside.

  What now? Roberto lived alone. No family. No friends that anyone could think of, apart from those who drank in the bar. He looks up and down the street. No one’s about. Is it worth sniffing round Roberto’s flat? It’s not far away, nice city-centre bachelor pad, and he’s got the keys. No, something tells him not to.

  This is ridiculous. He’s got nothing to go on. Next door the take-away is already open for business. It’s worth a try.

  The place smells of frying oil and garlic. New oil as well, a nice combination. But he’s not hungry.

  “Hey!” says a bald man from behind the counter. “How you doing? John Ray, yes?”

  That scuppers his plan to play an insurance adjuster. He’ll have to be himself now.

  “Sorry,” he says, “I…”

  “It is Mr Ray, isn’t it?”

  John nods.

  “Thought so. I bought a BMW off you last year.”

  “Ah, right. Is it going well?”

  “Li
ke a dream.”

  “Can’t go wrong with a beemer.”

  A large, knuckle-heavy hand is held across the counter.

  “Nazif,” he says. “I met you down at the showroom when I picked up the motor.” Nazif smiles as he pumps his hand enthusiastically. “I used to know your brother.”

  “OK, right… yes.”

  That was two murders ago. Shit.

  “Freddy sold you the car, did he? Freddy Metcalfe. He sells most of ’em, to be honest.”

  “Yeah, great lad, Freddy. In here all the time. Loves his kebabs.”

  “That’s Freddy!”

  That’s Freddy. His heart sinks. Freddy, his best friend and employee, the bloke who helped him build the new showroom. What’s Freddy doing hanging about down here, at Lanny Bride’s place?

  “Seen him recently, have you?”

  “What? Freddy? Yeah, was in here last night.”

  “On his own, was he?” he asks, letting the information about Freddy sink in, but keen not to dwell on it.

  “I think so, yes. That boy can eat!”

  “That’s the truth. By the way, you haven’t seen Roberto today, have you?”

  “From next door? See him all the time. Now there’s another greedy…”

  “What’s his normal routine? Grabs something when he closes up, late on?”

  Nazif shifts, doesn’t like this.

  There’s no choice, John tells himself, he’ll have to say something.

  “He’s disappeared. No one knows where he’s gone. Left town, just like that! He’s an old friend of the family. I’m trying to work out where he is.”

  That’ll be the story. Rob just disappeared. It’s not as if he’s coming back. Just disappeared. The end of Roberto.

  Nazif still looks suspicious.

  “He used to work for my dad,” John adds.

  “Roberto?”

  “Yeah, years ago. We’re worried about him.”

  Those large hands are held palm-upwards.

  “I wish I could help.”

  “You haven’t seen him for a day or two?”

  Nazif thinks, his forehead crumpled up. “Saw him yesterday… No, day before.”

  “Anything unusual? Did he seem different?”