Father and Son

by John Barlow

  He shakes his head. Then he stops, a grin spreading across his face, turning his cheeks tight and shiny.

  “Perhaps he eloped!”

  “What?”

  “He’s in here with a lady. Very attractive. He buys her a burger. Acting the gentleman, you know. An’ she was tasty. Very.”

  “Describe her,” John says, and now there’s nothing friendly about his tone.

  Nazif tries to hold his smile. He doesn’t want to describe her.

  “Lanny wants to know,” John says.

  That does the trick.

  “Big hair, wavy, loads of it.”

  “Colour?”

  “Red.”

  Out of the door and storming down the street.

  Freddy’ll have to wait.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Hi,” she says. “How was your dad?”

  She’s dressed now, cramming newspapers and several large notebooks into an even larger leather shoulder bag.

  “Going somewhere?”

  “Yep.” She stops. “Is something wrong?”

  “Dad wasn’t too good,” he says, closing the door gently behind him. “I had some bad news for him.”

  “Really? Sorry to hear that.”

  She doesn’t look away.

  He moves towards her, the anger coursing through his body, reaching the tips of his fingers.

  “You know somebody called Roberto? Runs a bar in town?”

  Her eyes narrow a fraction.

  Watch her.

  “Bloke called Roberto. You know him or not?”

  He’s right up to her. Raises his hand, his index finger pointing, almost touching her nose. He could snap her neck. At this moment he could do it. Eye for an eye.

  If he was sure.

  “I’ll ask you one more time.”

  “Do you think you’re frightening me?” Her voice is flat, slow. “I’ve been threatened by big fellas before, you know.”

  “I’m not trying to frighten you.”

  “Good, because to do that you really need to be holding a gun to my head. Even then, it’s fifty-fifty I give a shit.”

  He says nothing. He could break her neck. Who’d know? Who’d care?

  “A shot to the leg, was it?” he says. “Then one in each arm? Tape him to the chair?”

  He nods as he’s speaking. It fits. Anybody could have done it, anyone who could shoot a gun. Did she slip out last night, after he fell asleep? After he drank all that whisky?

  “Why don’t you tell me what this is about, John?” she says.

  What other options does he have?

  “I’m trying to find out who killed a friend of mine.”

  “And what’s that got to do with Roberto?” she asks.

  “So you do know who he is?”

  She nods.

  He waits. But so does she. She’s brave, but she’s also confused.

  She doesn’t know.

  “He’s dead. Rob’s dead.”

  You can fake a lot of things, but you can’t force the blood to drain from your face. Her skin, never much colour to it anyway, is now grey, her lips a watery pink. She sits down, arms resting on her thighs, her whole body loose, as if it’s been dropped there.

  He fills two tumblers with whisky and water, brings them over and puts one in front of her.

  “What were you doing talking to Roberto?”

  She looks up, frowns.

  “What do you think?”

  “How about you tell me?”

  She takes a drink. A gulp.

  “I was getting some background on your dad. The 70s and 80s, y’know, when he started getting into counterfeiting.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And did you see him last night?”

  “John, I was with you last night. Don’t you remember any of it?”

  The sad thing is he hardly does. He knows it should have been a memorable night, great restaurant, beautiful woman, Jura. But his memory’s not been putting in the hours recently. He doesn’t remember much.

  “Who knew?” he asks. “Who else is interested in Roberto, in the Park Lane?”

  “I’m an investigative journalist, and I work alone. Nobody knows where I am.”

  “You interview two men. First Sheenan, then Rob. They both end up dead. Should I be watching my back?”

  “First off,” she says, talking down to the floor, trying to get her thoughts together, “I think it’s a coincidence. I’m doing my job here, right? An IRA terrorist and a professional criminal with a violent past? I work with dangerous people. You think this is the first time I’ve interviewed someone who got killed sometime later?”

  She looks around for cigarettes.

  “I ran out,” he says.

  “Shit.”

  “So when was the last time you saw Rob?”

  “Day before yesterday.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Boxing mainly.” She smiles. “I bet it’s years since anybody asked him about his championship fight.”

  “And what did you think?”

  “I thought he was a lovely man. I’ve seen it before. Bernard Sheenan, he was another. People don’t choose their fate. They get caught up in things, and before they realise it their fate’s been chosen for them.”

  “Day before yesterday?”

  She nods. “I saw him a couple of days before that as well. Early evening. He was suspicious. Didn’t want to talk. I said I’d call back.”

  “And you did?”

  “Yes. He bought me a burger, loosened up a bit. Warmed to me, I guess.”

  “Used your feminine charms on him, eh?”

  She ignores him. “He didn’t give much away. He’s been running that wine bar for five years. He didn’t tell me anything much. Nervous guy, I’d say. Guarded.”

  “Rob? Nervous?”

  “Seemed that way to me. I guess when someone asks if you work for Lanny Bride, you get nervous.”

  “Lanny! Now there’s someone who’d make you nervous!”

  “Lanny Bride? Not any more, that’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Yeah, good old Lanny, going legit. You think he’s gonna talk to you?”

  “Perhaps my feminine charms’ll do the trick.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Know him well, do you?”

  “Well enough.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “You’re a bloody head case.” He sits back, stretches his legs, and watches her as she takes another drink. There’s something self-contained about her now. Refusing to be emotional. She’s trying to think. Or trying not to.

  “It’s all about fate,” he says. “That your theory, then?”

  “It’s got a lot to do with it. You should’ve heard about Roberto’s childhood. Awful. No wonder people end up in crime. They grow up knowing nothing else.”

  “So did I, but I chose my fate.”

  “Yea, it must have been tough for you, growing up surrounded by all that perfume.”

  “Cheeky cow! Anyway, who told you about the perfume?”

  “Research. My job, remember?”

  “You should’ve smelled our house!” he says, putting the glass to his lips and finding that he’s already drunk half of it. “The place stank. Fake Chanel everywhere.” He laughs to himself. “Once, I was only about eight, I took a bottle of No.5 to school, gave it to this girl I liked. That night her mum came round, brought it back. She was embarrassed, I suppose, didn’t want it, not from the likes of us.”

  “And the perfume boxes led to the money…”

  “Hey, you have done your homework.”

  “I like to be thorough.”

  “I remember all the fuss when Dad tried to get good boxes printed. That’s the key with fakes. Get the box exactly right, what’s inside hardly matters. Night after night he’d be at the kitchen table, comparing the printing on boxes, an old magnifying glass pressed up to his face. He loved the printing, he was fascinated
by it.”

  “And you never felt tempted to join in? Like your brother did?”

  “This is all for the book, is it?”

  “Not really. I’m just interested, y’know, in you.”

  He laughs. “Worst I ever did was a booze run for our Joe. Across to Belgium and back. Fancy wines, top of the range stuff. He slipped me a few grand for it. Mr Big, eh?”

  He doesn’t tell her about the false banknotes he was passing off last year in exchange for second-hand sports cars. It had been a mistake, and it cost him everything: self-respect, his future, Den… Why bring all that up now?

  She grabs the laptop. “Hey, have you ever seen this?”

  Without much enthusiasm he joins her on the other sofa. An image of a twenty pound note fills the screen.

  “Genuine Tony Ray forgery,” she says. “Illegal to have ’em, of course, but there are collectors, counterfeit enthusiasts.”

  He pulls the Mac closer, scrolls down the page.

  “They were pretty good for their time. Says here some of ’em stayed in circulation for years.” He closes the computer and reaches for his drink. “He only got arrested because the kid who did the artwork for the watermarks got pissed one night and told his girlfriend.”

  “I know,” she says. “I’ve read the papers.”

  “Here’s to the British justice system!”

  They touch glasses and drain them as if it were water.

  “Bloody Old Bailey!” he says, casting a glance at the old school roll calls on the wall. “I spent my entire adolescence trying to escape the family name. Getting to university was supposed to be the crowning glory, the final step. The trial was that summer. By the time I arrived at Cambridge, Dad had just walked out of the Bailey a free man. He was famous, and I spent another three years as John Ray’s son.”

  “Now that’s fate.”

  “And after university I went to the other side of the world. Chased a girl all the way to New Zealand to escape my fate.”

  “Here’s to you!” she says, holding up her glass and letting the last drops run into her mouth. “Look how far you’ve come!”

  There’s a glint in her eye.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Escaped the family name, eh? The straight one of the family? So where exactly did you go before breakfast this morning?”

  “You ask too many questions,” he says, digging his fingers into her thick hair until they reach the scalp.

  “Is this your way of avoiding the question?”

  “Something like that,” he says, pulling her head towards his.

  “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

  “Sleeping with beautiful women I hardly know?”

  He puts down his glass.

  “You’re gonna hate yourself afterwards,” she says.

  “I hate myself now.”

  “This isn’t gonna be fun, y’know.”

  “I’m not looking for fun.”

  “That right?” she says, running a hand down his chest. “Perhaps we should talk about…”

  He pushes his mouth onto hers. There’s no more talking.

  *

  By the time he shakes himself conscious, the afternoon is almost over. The space next to him in the bed is cold and empty. He listens, hears no movement in the flat. She’s gone. And she was right. He hates himself.

  He hoists himself upright and swings his legs out of bed for the second time today, feet touching the bare floorboards again. Looks around. There are none of her clothes on the floor, no bag, no sign of her. When Den was here there’d always be something in the corner, next to that antique floor lamp he’d bought for no particular reason. It had become her own little place. She’d toss a t-shirt over there, but it would always land on her bag, never quite touching the floor. There was something ordered in her untidiness.

  There’s no sign of Jeanette in the rest of the flat. If she stopped long enough to make a drink, she must have washed up after herself. The two whisky tumblers are still on the coffee table. The silence is broken by the distant beat of someone along the corridor playing music. Bananarama it sounds like. Do people still listen to that?

  He considers putting on some Miles Davis or Bill Evans, perhaps even Dean Martin, anything to cloak the bilious whine of the eighties in something older, wiser. Can music be wise? Sod it. Let’s have Bananarama. Who needs wisdom?

  Next to the glasses on the coffee table he sees the sleek, sexy MacBook. Should he drive over with it? The cottage she’s renting is on the outskirts of town, about ten miles away. She’s going to need her computer.

  He texts her instead. Doesn’t fancy talking.

  The sky is darkening fast, already the colour of smudged newsprint. He imagines the breeze getting suddenly colder as the light fades, from pleasant to biting in ten minutes. Yorkshire weather. Where will Roberto’s body be now?

  He has a quick shower. By the time he’s dressed Jeanette has phoned, left a message.

  “Don’t worry about the Mac,” she says, “there’s nothing incriminating on it. Feel free to use it to download your yacht-porn.”

  Nothing incriminating? He remembers now. Four days ago, he’d arranged to meet her in the Templars on Vicar Lane. She’d rung him at the showroom asking for an interview, said she was writing something about his dad and the Old Bailey trial.

  When they met, he liked her immediately. There was something warm and reassuring in her voice, and they sat there in the pub for ages. He wanted to be with her, needed someone, and he didn’t mind telling her all about his father. He even told her about his brother, the night he’d been shot dead in front of him, and how it had changed the course of his own life.

  She listened, nodding, not judging… and in all that time she didn’t take any notes. No handheld recorder. Nothing. When he asked her, she tapped her head.

  “If it’s of any use to me, I’ll remember,” she said. “In my line of work, you don’t want to be leaving information lying around on hard disks.”

  Right. Enough reminiscing, he tells himself, throwing on his jacket. He’s got Freddy to sort out.

  He grabs the Mac and makes for the door.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tony Ray’s Motors: the lightning-blue neon sign above the main entrance immediately catches your eye, a touch of Las Vegas in a drab, poorly lit backstreet. And the showroom itself, sitting there on Hope Road, is like a glazed spaceship amid the re-tread tyre places and anonymous workshops that hide behind high gates and barbed wire.

  Forty years ago Hope Road had been the perfect place for Tony Ray to set up, half a mile from the city centre, but right in the shadows. It hasn’t changed much, apart from the glass and steel UFO full of second-hand cars.

  There are no customers. Nearly five on a Friday afternoon? They might as well close up, save on the electricity. But Connie wouldn’t hear of it, and she owns half the business.

  “Good afternoon!” she says as John strolls in. “Didn’t expect to see you today.”

  “How’s things?” he asks, kissing her on both cheeks.

  Concepción García, the daughter of ‘friends of the family’ from back in Spain. Twenty-five years old, bright, and with a good head for figures, Connie arrived last year. Since then profits have doubled.

  “We’ve had better days.”

  “The Subaru?”

  “Couple of people called. Y’know, from the ad. It ran this morning.”

  “You got the Post?”

  “Freddy’s got it.”

  At the back of the showroom he sees an opened Yorkshire Post and a couple of size ten shoes up on one of the sales desks.

  “Right,” he says to Connie. “Could you pop out for a minute, I need a quiet word.”

  She’s gone in a second, cigarette already in her mouth.

  Freddy hears the footsteps. But it’s too late. The newspaper flies out of his hands. John grabs Freddy by the tie and shoves him until the chair tilts back, halfway to the floor.

  �
�Where the fuck were you last night, big boy?” he says, holding him there.

  Freddy, early twenties, blond hair, big as a bear. He’s wearing a two hundred quid light grey suit as if it’s a pair of overalls.

  “What the…”

  “You’re outta jail two minutes and you’re hanging around Lanny Bride’s place? You twat, I could fucking swing for you.”

  John’s breathing is fast, and his golden eyes are wide open. Freddy can see every trace of red in the bloodshot whites as he is held there, his feet off the ground.

  For a moment John considers letting the chair go, watching Freddy crash to the floor. Instead, he yanks him back upright, and shoves his face right into Freddy’s.

  “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

  Freddy flexes his neck, stays where he is. He could take John, no trouble. Same size, same build, half his age. They both know it. But it’s not about that.

  “Jesus Christ!” says John, pulling up a chair and slumping down into it.

  Freddy had been in a bit of trouble last year. They all had. Freddy got done for supplying counterfeit money. He went behind John’s back, messed everything up. Did four of a six month sentence for his trouble. First offence.

  “I was just having a drink.”

  “Is that a bruise?” John says, noticing a raised patch of pink skin around Freddy’s temple.

  “Yeah, walked into a door.”

  “Fist-shaped?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Whatever. Who were you with at the Park Lane last night?”

  Freddy looks confused.

  “It was just a drink. I know a few blokes down there. That’s all.”

  “You know ‘a few blokes’ down there? In Lanny Bride’s bar. You got any idea how dodgy that sounds?”

  John doesn’t care about the bother last year. Freddy had wanted to prove himself, show he could mix it with the real men. Young lad, thought he knew it all, so he got himself involved. Now this? It looks like he hasn’t learned his lesson.

  Freddy picks the loose pages of the Yorkshire Post up off the floor.

  “Hey, granddad, times are changing.”

  Lippy bastard, too. A few months in a category B prison was never going to change that.

  “Look,” he says, holding up a fistful of pages. Both men have calmed down now, pulses slowing, glad the confrontation is over. “Hold on a minute.” He ruffles through the pages, dropping them as he goes. They glide down onto the polished concrete until he only has one left. “There,” he says.