by John Barlow
“Who knocked her about?”
“A Ukrainian.”
“Konstyantyn Bilyk?” asks John.
Moran looks down at his notes. “Bilyk was there. The younger one did the physical stuff, Fedir Boyko.” Moran looks at the flat red brick of the station. “Bilyk’s in there now. No lawyer with him that I could see.”
“And Fedir?”
“They’ve only got one Ukrainian that I heard about.”
John blows smoke out in front of him and watches it rise in the air.
“Anything else?”
“The car. He’s been shifty about that. He borrowed it from your place without telling you, that’s his story.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Why? Said his own car was somewhere else, then said it had a dodgy starter motor.”
“He’ll have to get that story straight.”
Condescension flashes across the lawyer’s eyes. “He’ll get it straight.”
“The red Mondeo? What happened to it?”
“He says he lost the keys. Somebody must’ve taken it.”
“He got the car just before midnight yesterday. It’s on the security tape at the showroom. I know nothing else about it.”
Moran nods. He reads over his notes. Says nothing.
“The cash?” asks John, breaking the silence. “Did he say anything about the money in the boot?”
“Said he was sure there was none in when he left the car.”
“And where was that?”
“The Eurolodge Hotel. As I said, he claims that he left the motor there because he lost the keys. And believe me, this losing the keys stuff sounds even more like bullshit when the tape’s running and a copper’s writing it all down.”
“The money?” John asks again.
“Says he’s positive no money was left in the boot. And he said left.”
Let it go, John.
“Was this on record? Is he talking in there?”
“Talking? He’s just bitch-slapped Baron. Interview suspended.”
“You’re joking…”
Just a hint of a smile from John.
“Don’t laugh,” Moran says. “He’s all over the place and he’s got no answers. This is not looking good for him, not at all. And he’s scared, scared of something.”
“Or someone.”
“Whatever. I’ll see what he’ll tell me once he’s settled down a bit.”
“Are they gonna charge him?”
“On this evidence? You’d’ve thought so. It’s not just Freddy, though. There’s a lot of comings and goings in there. They’re looking to wrap this up sharpish.” His cell phone rings. “Talk of the devil.”
He takes the call. A curt yep, then another. Ten seconds.
“We’ve been spotted. Come on.”
***
“First things first, gents,” Baron says, ushering them both into a small interview room on the ground floor. The flesh below his left eye is red and slightly puffed, but his manner makes it clear that no one is going to mention it. “Henry, I need to know who you’re representing here. There’s a potential conflict of interest. It’ll go straight on the record if you don’t sort this out now.”
Moran blanks him. “My client is Owen Metcalfe.”
“If you are seen offering Mr Ray legal advice…”
“Mr Ray is an old friend. I bumped into him. Is that all, Steve?”
“Please,” Baron says to John, “take a seat.”
There’s a desk and four chairs in the room, plus the obligatory tape recorder. John sits and waits as the Inspector and Moran chat in the doorway. Most coppers in Leeds detest Moran. But when they’re in trouble it’s Henry they turn to for a bit of pro bono advice, mainly divorces. He asks Baron about the boys, if they’re happy with the new prep school, same clipped tone as always, like he’s getting the facts straight with a client. Then they shake hands, and he’s gone, not so much as a backwards glance at John.
“Just a few questions,” Baron says as he slides into a chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Clear a few things up. Do you want a duty solicitor?” He knows the answer. “Good.”
The door opens.
“I think you’ve already met DC Steele,” says Baron as the young, sallow-faced detective comes in and takes a seat. He looks cockier now, loose-limbed, pleased to be there.
Baron starts the tape and runs through the details. Then he looks at John.
“Friday evening you travel by train to Peterborough with fifty thousand pounds in your pocket to buy a car. You come back with no car and fifty thousand pounds.”
“Yes.”
“That’s exactly the amount of cash found in your Mondeo with the dead girl.”
“Fifty? I thought you said forty?”
“Is the fifty grand still in your flat?”
“Like I said, you know where I live.”
“Yes, the old high school. Full circle, eh?”
John consults his watch.
“I’ll get to the point,” says Baron.
From his jacket pocket he produces two clear plastic evidence bags and lays them flat on the table. In each bag is a twenty pound note.
“It’s Saturday. Our currency experts are playing golf and the banks are shut. But we think these notes are counterfeit.”
He sits back.
“Does this have anything to do with the wave of counterfeiting I’ve been reading about?” John asks as he takes the first bag and holds it up to the light, then brings it close to his face.
“Man in your line of work, Mr Ray, you need to be on the lookout for funny money.”
John ignores him and examines the first note carefully. It’s a fake. Reasonable quality. Easy to spot.
“You know, I’d have loved to have seen your dad’s fakes,” Baron says. “They all got taken down to London during the Old Bailey thing, I suppose.”
John isn’t paying much attention, but Baron continues.
“They were good, that’s what I’ve been told. Really good. Bit like these.”
“Last time I heard, Dad was found not guilty,” John mutters as he picks up the other envelope.
He doesn’t need to look at it for long. But most people would. It would fool almost anyone, even some cash machines. Extremely high quality. Chalk and cheese, the two notes could hardly be more different.
“Well,” he says, “I’m not going to pretend I have never seen a forged note before.”
“I’ll consider that progress.”
“They’re both snide.”
Watch what you’re saying here…
“Enlighten us,” Baron says, almost whispering.
“All right. Without touching them I can’t really tell. But the paper looks about right. Watermarks are convincing. Printed, not actually watermarks, but they’re okay. The paper’ll be acid-free, you know, for those magic pens they have on the tills at supermarkets.” He runs a finger across the envelopes. “I’m assuming, if you’ve got more of these, the serial numbers are all different…”
Baron says nothing.
“…so they used a professional numbering press. That makes sense. They’re well crafted. Decent copies, I’d say.”
He stops, sighs somewhat theatrically.
“Look, I haven’t exactly been keeping abreast of developments in the field. The holograms look a bit off, but again, who’s looking? You’d need ultra-violet to check the fluorescent detailing and a magnifying glass to get a good look at the micro-printing. But in a busy pub or a shop these’d both pass muster.”
Baron takes his time. He draws the two exhibits towards him.
“Turning up everywhere,” he says, holding up the first of the bags and looking at it closely.
“Leeds next, eh?”
“Could be,” the Inspector says. “You reckon these two are about the same, then?”
He folds the evidence bags carefully and returns them to his pocket.
“I think so,” says John. “Then again, I’m no expert.”
“Thanks for your time, Mr Ray.”
As the three of them rise to leave John realises that DC Steele has not said a word.
***
A minute later he’s walking up George Street where Henry Moran is leaning on a silver Mercedes.
“What was all that about?”
“Just some bullshit.”
“Is there anything you want to tell me, John?”
“You’re not my solicitor.”
“Confidentiality issues, eh, with me?”
“Let’s get Freddy out first.”
“Fair enough. I’ll keep you posted.”
With that, Moran turns and wanders back down the street.
Baron watches from the ugly concrete entrance of the station, not laughing, but almost.
“You’re a bad liar, John. Really bad.”
Sixteen
Back in the flat, and nothing much to do. Baron’ll be round at some point. What kind of music would suit the occasion? He scrolls through his iPod. Jazz, definitely. But what? When he’s feeling down he head-bangs to Scott Joplin piano rags at full volume. But an evening with the constabulary? Cover them in the warm jazz-spittle of Nora Jones? Too demeaning. Modern Jazz Quartet? Too cerebral. Miles Davis’ Birth of the Cool? Yes. That should put the cavalry at ease.
He sticks a bottle of Manchego Blanco in the freezer and moves across to the window to watch the sun as it sinks in the sky. He smokes a cigarette. Two. Then he can’t stand it anymore. He phones Den.
“John? You’re not supposed to call me.”
“U-hu.”
“You all right?”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m expecting a visit from Laurel and Hardcase. Is it just me or is Steele a tosser?”
“Bloody good copper, I know that much.”
“Don’t want to get on his bad side, that sort of thing…”
“Messers Bilyk and Boyko,” she says. “Interested? Or do you just want to go on insulting the police?”
“I’m interested.”
“The Galey Tractor Company exists. Looks like Bilyk’s business is real. He’s had some sales in the area, the last few weeks. Cut price tractors, big discounts. The orders seem to be genuine, from what I’ve been able to find out.”
“So he’s legit?”
“Look, I did a bit of phoning around, way off the record, and Bilyk does all the selling. It’s a one-man show.”
“What about his partner, the young one?”
“No one mentioned him, nobody who ordered a tractor from Bilyk.”
“And has he turned up yet?”
“The young one? Nope. They’ve had Bilyk in for questioning most of the day. The other guy’s disappeared.”
He mulls this over for a second.
“Any chance I could have the names of the people who’ve bought tractors?”
“No way. Look, if there’s anything dodgy, CID’ll find it.”
He sighs down the phone.
“Why are you so interested in the Ukrainians anyway?” she says. “What about Freddy?”
“Is there any news?”
“He’s a mess. That’s the news. You know he punched Baron?”
“Yep. At least there’s that, then!”
“It’s not funny, John. He’s sitting there in a cell in Millgarth waiting to be charged. He’s got no defence.”
“And why isn’t that young Ukrainian guy the prime suspect? Because he’s disappeared? What is it with you lot, you just take the first available person and leave it at that?”
“Fuck you. CID are doing their job. If you’re so sure he’s innocent how about you start using that old family influence of yours, drag up some useful info? Because as of now, Freddy’s up shit creek. Way fucking up.”
“You don’t believe he did it, do you?”
“Course I don’t. That’s not the point, though.”
“Will you still help me?”
She exhales, takes her time.
“Depends. You can ask.”
“I will.”
A pause.
“John?” she says. “The money in the Mondeo was fake.”
“Yes, Baron kind of told me.”
While he was trying to trip me up.
“That stuff with your dad, y’know, people have long memories…”
“I know.”
***
Steele’s face is close up to the intercom, magnifying his nose and making him look like a greenish-grey elephant man. Behind him Baron stands, arms crossed.
John buzzes them in and throws the apartment door open. Then he gets the wine, uncorks it, and sits the bottle in an aluminium cooler. That makes him feel better.
They appear in the doorway and stop, their eyes drawn to the great Victorian triptych directly across from them, three huge windows glowing a deep, red-flecked orange as the last flames of day burn themselves out.
“Please, come in,” John says, as he sets three tall-stemmed glasses on the wooden-topped kitchen island in the centre of the kitchenette. “I’m assuming in CID you don’t do that not on duty stuff.”
“You should know,” Steele says. “I’ll have one.”
“I’m fine,” says Baron.
There’s now some reddening on his left cheek just below the eye, the skin shiny.
John pours two glasses and hands one to Steele, who sips and nods appreciatively.
“Nice,” he says.
John takes a sip.
“Mmm… almonds, notes of sweet grass.”
“A good year, is it?” says Baron, rolling his eyes with contempt.
“Well, y’know, it’s a fresh Manchego. Tends to be drunk young.”
“Ah.”
“I’ll take a look around, if that’s all right,” Steele says. “Place looks a bit sparse. Someone just move out?”
He wanders down one side of the room, stopping to squint at pictures of yachts, thumbing through piles of magazines, reading the titles of books.
“Used Car Dealer of the Year,” says Baron, seeing the perspex award over by the sink, next to it the two crystal whisky tumblers.
“Yorkshire region.”
“Modesty accepted. Why you? A car’s a car, isn’t it?”
“Demographics. I sell to a lot of professionals. Junior doctors, solicitors, accountants, civil servants over at Quarry Hill, teachers, lecturers…”
“That’s your secret?”
“That’s who I target. People who need decent wheels but still want to go secondhand. I sell ’em a car for a fair price, and if it goes wrong I fix it, no argument.”
“You really do that?”
“I really do. And when someone gets that kind of service, the whole office hears about it. An honest secondhand car salesman? It’s a story in itself. Professionals are also more likely to be from out of town. They don’t know who my dad was, back in the day. I do a lot of trade with the newly-arrived.”
Baron nods as he listens. He’s more subdued now. If John didn’t know better he might think the Inspector was making amends for earlier in the day, or keeping him sweet, given that so far today both the crime scene and prime suspect have come from him. He does know better though. It’s like the music in the background. Birth of the Cool sounds relaxed, spontaneous. But it was all planned in advance, scored out, note for note, like a symphony. Baron and his sidekick are playing their parts too. Only they’re not doing it as well as Miles Davis.
“There it is,” John says, indicating a small wooden chest on the kitchen island. “You want to…?”
“I only need to see it, I don’t need to find it myself.”
“Okay.”
John opens the box, takes out a half baguette, then retrieves five white envelopes, Barclays Bank printed in the corner. Each envelope is the size and shape of a small brick. He empties one of them onto the work top. Ten thin bundles of twenty pound notes, each bundle with a red paper band around it.
“There’s ten bundles of a thousand in each. Five envelopes.”
“W
hen did you make the withdrawal?”
“Monday morning, first thing. Barclays, Headrow branch. I always give ’em plenty of notice.”
Baron can’t help but stare at the money. Near enough his gross annual salary. Although, after tax, National Security, police pension, maintenance for his wife and the twins, plus the lion’s share of their prep school fees, he’s left with about a third of it for himself, just about enough for one of John Ray’s better secondhand models.
“Do you mind?” he says, before carefully pulling a note out from the top bundle and examining it for authenticity.
John reaches for his cigarettes and watches, wondering if Baron really knows what he’s doing.
When the lighter clicks, Baron’s head snaps up.
“Sorry,” John says, pushing the packet towards him as he exhales.
“No, I don’t.” Baron returns his attention to the note in his hands. “It’s a lot of money, fifty k.”
“Not when you buy Porsches, it’s not.”
“Do a lot of that, do you?”
“Porsches? Hardly ever, as it happens. Middle executive down to tidy runabouts, that’s my stock in trade. Beemers to Golfs.”
“The Porsche just a whim then?”
“Something like that.”
“Why go all the way to Peterborough?”
“It was a GT3, you know, not a Boxster.”
“There were several very similar cars for sale within a thirty mile radius of here,” Baron says, still examining the banknote.
“Were there?”
“Five minutes on the Internet this afternoon, we found three. Same age, same kind of price. You haven’t been to see any of them.”
“Like I said this morning, when you spend that kind of money it’s all about instinct.”
“That’s why you didn’t buy it, instinct?”
“Yes.”
He hands John the note.
“The seller was a woman.”
“Yes, she was.”
“Said you took one look at her and did a runner.”
“I saw a situation, I saw a very expensive car, and I made a decision. Blink. You read that book? Instant decisions are often good ones.”
“Young mother, possible financial difficulties. Why would that bother you? This morning you said if they’ve got money problems you can beat ’em down on price.”