We head upstairs, which is far quieter. Jack’s demeanor is still and reserved. I imagine that that is because it’s very close to the time to talk. Real talk. There are beans to spill. He also looks like he is processing the conversation he just had with the rather enigmatic Zoe - that earnest, delicate, attractive young woman who seems to be secretly hard as nails on the inside. The prospect is also pretty real that Jack may be about to reveal things that suggest he is not who I pegged him for.
We sit down, and I put the tray in front of him.
‘Eat up,’ I tell him. He looks at me, cockeyed.
‘I bet it was a bundle of fun sharing a prison cell with you,’ he says.
‘You’d have to ask him... although my last cellmate ended up killing someone.’
A true story.
‘Sounds about right,’ he says.
‘You eat. Then you tell me everything. And if you know anything about me you’ll know I’m not that likely to go to the police. But if you want my help it’s no time for secrecy - which will waste time and piss me right off.’
And then we sit while he eats. He eats lazily, and at times like the very thought of another morsel might make him spew all over the table. But he gets there.
I sip water and put the framework of a strategy together in my head, but I am loathe to add too much until I get a bit more meat on the bones of the situation. Before long, Jack is mopping up ketchup with the last scrap of hash brown.
‘I’ll tell you everything I know. But don’t judge, OK? There is a situation I was borne into, and I wish I wasn’t. I wish things were different, now more than ever. The events of the last few days have completely vindicated this.’
He looks broken, resigned, apologetic - a host of mental states that reveal acute doubts, regrets and fears.
‘If this is difficult, Jack, I can ask the questions.’ I suggest.
‘No, it’s fine,’ he replies, as he grabs his coffee. ‘I’ll start from the very bottom but there is a lot to include. If I get muddled, or there’s something I fail to explain properly, then I’ll open it up to a Q and A. Are you sitting comfortably?’
‘Fire away,’ I say, and prepare to listen and soak it in.
‘Everything changed when I was 22. I went into my dad’s office, back at the house we left before. I was looking for an ink cartridge for uni stuff, and thought he might have one stashed away on his shelves and so on. I accidentally knocked a picture frame off the shelf, which smashed on the floor. It wasn’t a picture inside, but a certificate. A certificate for an award recognizing ‘Exceptional Enterprise By A Small Business’ in favor of Quaycrest Mortgage Brokers. It was Dad’s business - well, he was a sole trader, but traded under that business name. He acted as an intermediary between home-buyers and mortgage lenders, negotiating favorable rates in exchange for commission. He had done it as long as I had known him.’
I try to work out where this is going but I wasn’t expecting such a mundane start.
‘I reached down to pick it up, but I noticed the embossed hologram had flaked right off. It was a fake. A forged certificate. Out of its frame, the smart certificate looked like just a printed piece of A4, nothing special about it at all.’
Better, I think.
‘So I do a little digging into Quaycrest, like on Dad’s website and stuff and everything looks fine, like there’s a bunch of testimonials and the like, and a commission pricing structure set out but... everything didn’t ring quite true to me. I’d never looked at Dad’s business before, in any detail. When I finished school he had not offered me a job with him on the assumption I wasn’t interested. He was right - I wasn’t. At all. I checked through Dad’s filing system at his records and letters, and there was surprisingly little of it. I mean, largely there was nothing, except for commission receipts from clients. No correspondence with banks, and no correspondence with clients. It quickly became obvious that Quaycrest was a hollow entity, all backed up by receipts but with absolutely no substance if you were to dig below the surface...’
‘Money laundering,’ I hear myself say, not realizing I had said it out loud, my mind already purring at the story.
‘Right. But what for? So I challenge him on it. And it catches him cold. He ignores my question and goes straight out of the house, speeding off into the night. I sit there, in the wreckage of this lie, as I realize that my life also been a lie. And I try to process it. I have - had - a great relationship with my Dad, and didn’t want to believe that he had either lied to me or was anything different than I thought he was.’
I don’t say anything, but I secretly rather hope Jack would stick to the facts and avoid a Freudian segue.
‘Later that day, Dad comes back. And he sits me down in the kitchen, and pulls the fridge from the wall - literally just pulls it out. And behind it is a safe. I have no idea what is going on at this point. He opens this safe and inside is a collection of items. Four or five mobile phones, about ten 5 by 5 inch perspex cubes containing these little fish in water, a small stack of passports and ID cards, a picture of mum and a pistol. A genuine, like-on-TV pistol. Underneath that, on a bigger shelf, is a load of stacked cash. And then he looks me straight in the eye and tells me about my birth.’
I’m hooked again.
‘Now you’ve noticed that I’ve never mentioned my mum, haven’t you? I mean if her husband just get’s killed, she should be with her son, right? Well, I’m afraid she’s dead too. I had always been told she died giving birth to me - which is still true but only half of the story. Remember Zoe’s Grandad? His name is Felix Davison. My mum gave birth to me in his bath, with three bullets in her. One in the shoulder, two in the chest.’
Jack’s eyelashes quiver, but his speech remains strong.
‘I was born, delivered by Felix himself, while Dad was trying to get some alcohol to treat the wounds. Mum died straight after, right there in the bath.’
Jack drinks, and I let the image he has just given me sit in my head while he does so.
‘Now, I guess the big question here is, why did Mum have bullets in her? And the answer is down to what Felix and Dad were involved with. I’m sure you can guess where this is going.’
‘I’m picturing some organized crime connection here?’ I say, seeing my suspicions confirmed. But I wasn’t expecting this kind of story.
‘Exactly. A neat little organized crime group called the Berg, run by Felix Davison - Zoe’s dear Grandad. They hid everything from me - absolutely everything - because, as Dad said when he fessed up, that he wanted me to make my own choices. So that I could be free to do what I wanted with my life. And they asked if I wanted in.’
‘What did you say?’ I ask, without meaning to interrupt.
‘I said no. I said I didn’t want to be involved. Dad respected that. Felix did too, as did the others from the Berg. And everything seemed to be fine. Until three days ago when Dad went missing.’
‘That is quite the story,’ I say, leaning back on my chair.
‘It’s just the start, really. But it’s a start nonetheless. There’s more, but you have the crux of it there.’
‘What is your gut telling you about your father’s death?’
Jack ponders this for a moment, and gazes out of the window, at the drizzle, and the steady stream of traffic crawling into Manchester’s belly.
‘There are 160 organized crime gangs in Greater Manchester. Can you believe that? And, from what I’ve learned and heard, the Berg are right at the top. Whether I pretend it wasn’t true or not, Dad was a power player in a powerful group. A group that people look at with envy. Who knows how many people want to bring the Berg down a peg or two.’
‘And you think Felix might have an idea?’
‘If anyone knows about a high-profile organized crime hit in this city, Felix would be my first port of call.’
‘Then it should be ours too.’
I stand, ready to get Jack moving, but he looks forlorn and lost, still staring wistfully out. He speaks softly.
He runs a hand across his shaven head, and sighs.
‘The Baby and The Brandy is a legend. It’s part of North-West crime folklore. Nobody knows I was the baby in the story. By the time this is through, I’ll make sure they know damn well who I am. That legend is going to get a surprise ending.’
I survey Jack with sadness, and feel for his situation. I have made some appalling choices in my life, that reaped terrible consequences. But Jack never chose any of it. His father did, and it resulted in the death of both of Jack’s parents. And now he is left alone, with more questions than answers and a grief that is pushing him towards actions that will see him in harms way.
But he is not alone. My mind is swimming with the detail I have heard, the injustice and intricacies of Jack’s situation, not least of all, the way that organized crime has claimed another victim - not Royston Brooker, but Jack himself... and I know I will fight his corner until the bitter end.
7
We leave McDonald’s and re-enter Manchester’s ashen, urban embrace, and both climb in the Lexus wordlessly. I drive, since Jack only finished drinking an hour or so ago, and I don’t want any additional attention drawn to us at all.
I put the key in the ignition, but I’m unsure of what to do next - I know immediate progress is needed, but I am honestly not sure what the right first move is, save for waiting. Jack clearly sent a message with Zoe, if she cares to deliver it. He wants a name, and he wants to spill blood on receipt of it.
‘Do you think your plea to Zoe will get you a name?’ I ask. ‘Will Felix give you one? I mean, do you think he even has one?’
Jack thinks this over, as fat raindrops speckle the windshield, pattering like drumming fingers on the glass. I continue.
‘Because, if he doesn’t know anything and we wait for something, we are just wasting time, when I could go out there and have a little poke around myself.’
I’m not really sure what I mean by that other than hitting the streets, heading to the usual places I know of that harbors an underground element, and make a few waves in the hope that somebody knows something, however tiny. But if Manchester really is bent unto the will of the Berg, then Felix really should know something. Or at least give us an idea of which doors to knock on, which rocks to overturn. I can’t sit and wait. Inaction has never been my forte.
‘Look, Jack, the longer we leave it the more dust will settle. And the more dust that settles, the more obscure the answers become. And in that passage of time, your anger will blunt. And if you really want revenge, you can’t afford apathy. You need that fire. You need that conviction.’
‘You don’t have to worry about my fire and conviction,’ he says. That has riled him, and I know it has got his attention.
‘If you are not sure your conversation with Zoe will get that done, you need to force Felix’s hand. Illustrate to him how urgent this is.’
‘We wouldn’t get near him. The Berg are super tight and super protected, and with one of their own getting killed, they’ll have the shutters down, so to speak. I won’t get near them.’
‘How would you contact him? If the relationship between your Dad and Felix was so tight, I’d have thought the least he would do is call you!’
‘Well... we are not exactly on speaking terms. I... recently told him not to contact me again.’
The web weaves ever more complex.
‘Dare I ask why you did that? I mean, I know you want nothing to do with these people...’
This seems to poke at a fresh sore, Jack’s grimace belying the oozing of mental puss.
‘Let’s go,’ he says. ‘Take a left on the way out.’
Progress. Better. I ignite the engine and we hit the road again.
‘He... tried to recruit me. For real. A few months ago.’
As I angle the car into the flow of traffic, my brow furrows a touch. ‘How do you mean, recruit?’ I ask. Jack looks as if he is wrestling with something, but I’m unsure what. This is an interesting development however.
‘Take the next left again.’ I do, while Jack continues. ‘There was a case of cash - Berg cash - that went missing up in Edinburgh. One of the Berg, a little charmer called Leonard Freund, took something of value up to Scotland, although I’ve no idea what it was. In exchange, Leonard was given a case containing £1.25 million, but it went missing. Felix got a tip off, or I should say, that his son Michael did, that the money was on the move headed down to London, in a silver BMW. Directly between London and Edinburgh, sits Manchester, which this BMW had to pass to get where it was going. The Berg were completely stuck, they couldn’t intercept him, and I stepped in. I didn’t mean to, but they were in trouble.’
‘You helped them?’ I ask, my eyes fixed on the road. Jack sighs.
‘I saw the BMW, and I forced it off the road. Red mist seemed to descend, or something like it. I didn’t like the fact that this guy had stolen from my Dad, and I wanted to stop him. I forced him off road, and down into a ditch by the M62. The car was fucked, that beautiful Beemer all twisted up like tin-foil, and the guy inside was scrambled egg. But the case was intact on the passenger seat.’
The revelations keep coming, each new piece of information more explanatory than the last - and tantalizing. With the scale of money involved and the activities discussed, we are talking about some serious organized crime players here. Am I in the right place at the right time or what?!
I’m concerned though, and it’s a deep rooted concern that, for me, is twisted deep inside. Last time I tackled organized crime, with that snake Terry Masters, I bit off more than I can chew. I’m stronger now, more lucid - less of an angry haze surrounding my actions. I feel more assured, composed and ready. This is me. This is now. Jack wouldn’t like to hear it... but the Berg are firmly on my radar. That can be my secret, my ulterior motive. Find Royston Brooker’s killer, and bring them to whatever justice we can. Then I’ll turn my attentions to the Berg.
‘You impressed them...’ I say.
‘They intimated as much,’ he replied. ‘First they replaced my car with this one. I hate it.’
‘I love it.’
‘Then they asked me outright. I got the whole spiel, the whole explanation as to who they really are and why they do it, with all the grim details spared. It felt like the Hollywood version, but after I’d seen that guy crushed to a pulp in that ditch on the M62... There’s no glamour there, only ugliness. A life lurching from one grim foray to the next. I don’t want it and told them so.’
I see where his thoughts drift to, but can also tell that the place they end up at is frequented too often for Jack’s liking. ‘But your hands are already dirty, aren’t they?’
Jack looks down into his lap, wearing regret like a lead cloak. ‘Yes. In trying to help Dad, I... made compromises I can’t take back. So you see, I know what it’s like to kill. And I will kill again. I’ve shown I have what it takes.’
It’s with a shred of sadness that I feel Jack’s transference in joining me in murky lawlessness is complete. We are both killers, but only ever wanted to do the right thing. Those are the hands we were dealt, and we both chose to play them - and for that we only have ourselves to blame.
8
Only five minutes of stop-start travel had passed, before Jack directed me off the main carriageway, and down by a principal intersection next to Old Trafford, the vast, giant, cavernous home of Manchester United. I watch the high red neon lettering blink in the drizzle as the car wheels away down around the stadium, towards the visible water of Salford Quays.
We follow the road around, and end up traveling in direct parallel to the water itself. The Quays are essentially a trade stop-off along the Manchester Ship Canal, whi
ch now shows off Media City, the northern home of the BBC, and the Lowry Centre, a commerce and theatre flagship. All of this is bolstered by a heady volume of commercial and residential real estate, offering a new way of waterside living just outside Manchester city centre.
I haven’t been back here since I left the city for the armed forces, and the changes are wholesale. It is barely recognizable from the quirky shipping district I remember, and now there is more than a hint that this is a place to see and be seen in.
‘There’s a right ahead, just take it and park up,’ Jack instructs. I do just so, and we both hop out of the car in a small car park that overlooks the entirety of the Quays, the full vista spread in front of us atop it’s watery foundations. It’s a good sight, and I feel a hint of pride at my adopted city’s accomplishment.
‘I take it you know where we are?’ Jack asks, carrying a dark undertone to his voice.
‘Yes. Salford Quays,’ I reply, resting against the railing to take in the view, the water’s surface of the canal about 15 feet beneath my feet.
‘Right. When the explosion of building work took place here, the general thought was that it would be the end to the traditional trade route usage of the Manchester Ship Canal, and certain protocols were relaxed accordingly simply down to the lack of requirement for it. Less stuff was coming in, therefore less regulation was needed. Obviously the viability for using this route was clear, and it is something that the Berg played on big time. They went from pretty much writing off the Quays as too difficult to use in any kind of import export sense, to embracing the Quays fully as a gateway for their own expansion.’
That certainly makes sense. If checks on this area are the same, then the Manchester Ship Canal can be used to import directly from the sea if necessary.
‘Another big bonus’, says Jack, as he turns and points high to the sky over Old Trafford, at a plane that is banking right to change course. ‘Incredible, near immediate access to Manchester Airport.’
The Baby And The Brandy (Ben Bracken 1) Page 5