The Crooked Beat

by Nick Quantrill

  ‘What’s going on with Niall?’ she asked me.

  I told her what had happened to Connor.

  ‘Is he alright?’

  ‘He’ll get over it.’ I hoped I was right. Regardless of the rights and wrongs of the situation, he didn’t deserve what had happened. ‘He’ll heal over.’ It was the mental scars I was more worried about.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Sutherland was increasing the stakes. I told Sarah I still needed to find a way to get him off my back.

  The library was much quieter than during my last visit. The piece of paper in front of me had the name Gary Bancroft on it. Coleman said I should talk to him. I repeated the search I’d done on his brother. This time I got a result. Gary Bancroft was a low-level career criminal. I found plenty of links to court cases in the Hull Daily Mail. The most recent report from less than a year ago told me the street he lived on. A few more searches and I had the house number. I wrote it down. There was no time like the present.

  The address I had was off Boulevard, which in turn cut across Hessle Road. In a former life, the area had been the heart of the fishing industry. Now, as I drove down it, it was clear those days were long gone. It never failed to shock me, even though I knew the area well. Boulevard was once the jewel in the area’s crown, but now it was downtrodden and decaying. So far as I could see, the regeneration of the area had ground to a halt. I’d once worked a case with a businessman who had big plans for the area. They’d come to nothing, but I wondered if he'd really been the man the area had needed to bring about change.

  The old rugby league stadium, which the black and white half of the city had once thronged to had been bulldozed, a new academy school in the process of being constructed in its place. Back in the day, it had been one of the places the trawlermen, the three day millionaires, headed for during their shore leave, eager to release some pent-up frustration. I’d never played there, and judging by stories I’d heard, it had been no place for the opposition.

  I found the house I wanted, and as usual, drove past, turned around and parked a hundred yards away from it. It was a precaution in case I didn’t want my car recognised. I wasn’t anticipating trouble, but the past few days had demonstrated that trouble had a way of finding me.

  The house was shabby from the outside. I was standing in a small front yard. Litter from the street had blown in and weeds were creeping through the concrete. The downstairs window frames were wooden and in desperate need of updating. I knocked and waited. An old woman opened the door. She stared at me, almost like I was expected. It unnerved me.

  ‘Is Gary in?’ I said.

  She stepped back into her house. ‘You best come through.’

  I followed her into the living room. It was dark and fusty. She sat down in her chair and lit a cigarette, her eyes never leaving me. It was sparse. I glanced at the handful of framed photographs on the mantelpiece.

  ‘There’s nothing left for you to take,’ she said.

  She wasn’t wrong. There was nothing of value. She took a drag on her cigarette. I guessed she was well into her seventies, but she wasn’t worried about having me in the house.

  ‘Don’t think I haven’t already dealt with your sort a hundred times before,’ she said.

  ‘My sort?’

  ‘Parasites. You don’t scare me.’

  I tried to find a place to sit on the settee. I hadn’t noticed the dog, sleeping in the corner. ‘I don’t want anything from you.’

  ‘Who are you, then?’

  ‘I need a word with Gary.’ I passed her a card.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘His name came up in something I’m looking into.’ I didn’t have a better story than that. She was suspicious. I placed a twenty pound note on the coffee table which sat between us. She gave me a small nod. ‘He doesn’t live here.’

  ‘Where will I find him?’

  She ignored my question. ‘Always in trouble with the police, that one.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘And at his age, too.’

  From the newspaper reports, I’d worked out that he was around fifty years old. I asked again where I would find him.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Take a guess?’

  ‘I’m not his keeper. Drops in to see me when he feels like it.’

  ‘You must have some idea where he goes?’

  ‘Probably the bookies or the pub.’

  We were starting to get somewhere. ‘Not working, then?’

  ‘He’s never had a steady job.’

  ‘Not many of them about.’

  She snorted. ‘Not for the likes of Gary.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  She sat forward. ‘You’re a Private Investigator?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You can find people?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  She pointed to a photograph on the mantelpiece. ‘Have a look.’

  I walked across and picked it up. I was looking at a young man in his early twenties. He was smiling for the camera. In one hand he was holding an ice-cream. I recognised the setting. The photograph had been taken in Scarborough. I could see the castle in the background. I placed it back where I’d got it from.

  ‘My other son,’ she said. ‘Andrew. He’s been missing for nearly thirty years now.’

  I sat in my car, but didn’t switch the engine on. I stared at the house and thought over what I’d heard. Andrew Bancroft had been missing for almost three decades. Experience told me people can disappear without leaving a trace, even if it was unusual. Thirty years ago, you wouldn’t leave an electronic trail. It was possible to do. But Coleman had linked this to Don for me. I was sure Coleman could tell me more, but it wouldn’t work like that. I would have to dig a bit deeper before I went back to him again. I needed something to bargain with. I’d left my card with Gary Bancroft’s mother and she’d seen I had cash. He would get the message. I was sure he’d call me. Otherwise, I would have to come back and find him. I took one last look at the house and drove away.

  Niall was working alone in the kitchen. I closed the door behind me. I wanted to make sure he was ok after what Sarah had said. He put his knife down and turned to stare at me before launching himself across the room. He pinned me to the food preparation table. I tried to shake him off, but he was too strong. I was going nowhere.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ I said.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  I continued to struggle. ‘Tell you what?’

  He shouted. ‘The truth. The fucking truth, Joe. I know Connor took the cigarettes.’

  I closed my eyes. Niall released his grip on me. He picked up an empty pan and threw it at the wall. ‘Fuck’s sake, Joe. I’ve seen him. I’ve seen the state of his face.’

  I stood back up and rearranged my clothes.

  ‘Say something, then,’ he said.

  There was nothing to say. I couldn’t believe Connor hadn’t told me he was going to tell his dad. This was why it wasn’t a good idea.

  Niall walked towards me. ‘Aren’t you going to try and justify it to me? Tell me why you thought I shouldn’t know that my son stole from me, what he was getting involved in?’

  ‘It was for the best.’

  He shoved me in the chest. ‘It was for the best? Are you out of your mind? Even Connor had the balls to front up to me and tell me truth. What have you got, Joe? You watched as your nephew took a kicking in front of you.’

  He continued to push me. ‘I’m not going to fight you,’ I said. I wanted to tell him not to take the moral high ground. We were talking about smuggled cigarettes. We were all in this shit together.

  Niall squared up to me again. ‘You always know best, don’t you, Joe? Always have done, but I’ll tell you this for nothing, I’m fucking sick of hearing it from you.’

  I shoved him away from me. ‘You didn’t need to know. I’m sorting it.’

  Niall sneered at me. ‘Sorting it? You’ve only made things w
orse.’

  I took a breath. Making it worse? ‘I’m doing my best,’ I said.

  My brother stared at me before deflating in front of me, like he’d got the worst out of his system. ‘He told me everything, Joe.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You should have told me.’

  ‘I made a decision.’

  ‘I’ve kicked him out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand.’

  It was my turn to shout. ‘Understand what?’

  ‘What it’s like to have a son.’

  He looked ashamed as soon as the words left his mouth. I was too angry to care. I ignored him and headed for the door.

  ‘I didn’t mean that, Joe,’ he shouted after me.

  I carried on walking. ‘Fuck off, Niall. Maybe you should stick to building wardrobes in your lock-up.’

  I had to decide what to do. I felt bad for what I’d said to Niall and thought about calling him to apologise. But we both needed some time to calm down. I called Connor instead. ‘Where are you?’ I asked him.

  ‘At Milo’s dad’s place.’

  I cut the connection and put my mobile back in my pocket before taking one last look around the office.

  Milo’s dad stared at me as I walked into his office. ‘Problem?’ He shook his head. I immediately felt bad. He was probably as worried for his son as Niall was for Connor, even if my brother couldn’t admit it. Connor stared at me. The state of his face following the attack at Sutherland’s pub made my heart sink. I nodded to the door. He followed me out to the car park. I watched the trail of traffic leaving the city on the A63. I wondered if I should be using it, too. Was I doing any good being here? For a moment I thought about travelling the world. I hadn’t seen much of it. I smiled at the thought, like I was still a daft teenager with everything in front of me. I knew where I belonged, and that was here, sorting out my family’s problems whether they wanted my help or not. Connor leaned against my car.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said to him.

  ‘It’s not your fault. I deserved it.’

  It wasn’t the point, but there was nothing more to be said. ‘Why did you tell your dad?’

  Connor shrugged. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘I thought it was the right thing to do. It’s my problem to sort, not yours.’

  ‘I was sorting it.’

  ‘We were lying to my dad. You shouldn’t have to do that.’

  ‘It was for the best.’ It sounded weak, I knew that, but it was the truth.

  Connor put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. ‘It was still a lie.’

  He was right, but no good had come from Niall knowing the truth. It didn’t make any difference whether it was Connor or someone else who’d taken the cigarettes. They were gone. I walked around the car and leaned on the bonnet next to him. ‘Feel any better for doing it?’

  He took his time before answering the question. ‘Not really.’

  ‘What happened when you told him?’

  ‘He went mental.’

  ‘Can’t really blame him for that.’

  ‘It’s my mum I feel bad for. He was shouting at me, calling me all sorts of names, but she was just crying. I thought he was going to hit me at one point. It’s what I deserve.’

  ‘He wouldn’t hit you.’

  ‘Felt like he might do.’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ I repeated. I was pretty certain he was going to hit me, though, back at the bar. ‘He’s proud of you.’

  Connor shook his head. ‘Doubt that.’

  ‘I was there when he brought you home from the hospital as a baby and I saw his face at your christening. He was the proudest man I’ve ever seen.’

  Connor smiled weakly. ‘Even so.’

  ‘We’re all at fault here.’

  It was what was actually happening that was important. The idea of fault or blame wasn’t of interest to me. I’d always been someone who simply tried to sort things. ‘Where did you stay last night?’

  ‘At Milo’s.’

  ‘With his parents?’

  Connor shook his head. ‘He’s got a flat.’

  ‘Right.’ I didn’t like the fact he wasn’t supervised. ‘I’ve got the space for you to stay at my flat.’

  ‘I don’t want to cause you any trouble.’

  I would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so serious. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of my nephew as a boy again. He was scared, so I made light of the situation. ‘I can keep an eye on you, for a start.’

  Connor nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Not a problem. You can have the settee.’ I glanced back at the office. Milo’s dad was staring at us from the window. Once he realised I was staring back at him, he turned away. At least he’d given Connor a chance. I owed the man an apology. ‘You can pay me some board,’ I said to Connor, as I passed him the key to my flat. ‘And don’t bother going out.’

  Once I was back in my car I checked my mobile. There was a text message from Gary Bancroft. He was in the Whalebone pub on Wincolmlee if I wanted to buy him a pint. I wasn’t surprised to hear from him, but I was surprised he’d strayed so far away from his Hessle Road patch.

  The pub was close to the River Hull on the edge of the city centre. It was one of the few pubs still standing in the area. The housing had long gone and the industry was slowly dying away, taking the passing trade with it. The Whalebone was small with black and white photographs lining the walls. The majority were of long gone pubs in the city and football memorabilia. It was a proper old-fashioned pub, the kind my dad would have loved. Under other circumstances, I would have enjoyed a visit.

  Even though I had no idea what Bancroft looked like, the only customers were three men sat together around a small table. I walked up to them. They were all about the right age. They all stared at me with dead eyes. I got the message. They’d all eaten people like me for breakfast. Even though they were older than me, I didn’t want to take my chances. I didn’t know the lie of the land in here.

  One of them spoke. ‘Geraghty?’

  I nodded and assumed he was Gary Bancroft. He was rolling tobacco on the table. His slow and deliberate movements were those of a man whose body had been ravaged over the years by alcohol.

  ‘Buy us all a drink,’ he said.

  I went to the bar and waited for the landlord to appear. When did he, I ordered three pints of lager.

  ‘For yourself?’ he said, placing the glasses in front of me.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Treat yourself.’

  I told him to take the money for a diet coke and walked back to the three men. I told the two who weren’t Bancroft to leave us alone. They eventually walked away with their drinks.

  ‘Old habits die hard?’ I said.

  Bancroft picked up his drink. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The welcoming committee.’

  He set his glass back down and shrugged. ‘My mam said you wanted a word.’

  ‘Good of her.’

  ‘What do want?’

  ‘Your brother’s name has come up in an investigation of mine.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘Because he’s been gone for thirty years?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  I assumed he would be upset at the mention of his brother’s name, but I’d seen things and learned something about human nature. I took a couple of twenty pound notes out of my wallet and put them in front of him. I didn’t need to be subtle with him. ‘Tell me about your brother.’

  ‘There’s not much to tell.’

  I let him take his time. If he wanted to show he was in charge, that was fine. Bancroft pocketed the money. ‘Our kid always was a selfish wanker.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for that, but no birthday cards? No Christmas cards?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You weren’t close?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Your mum seemed pretty ups
et by it.’

  ‘That’s up to her.’

  ‘You didn’t get on with him?’

  ‘Take him or leave him, to be honest.’

  ‘Even though he was your brother?’

  He leaned in closer to me. ‘Don’t think you can be coming in here telling me what to think.’

  I conceded the point. ‘Did you look for him when he disappeared?’

  ‘What could I do? He was a grown man. He could do as he pleased.’

  ‘But you must have been able to have a guess where he went. Places you knew he had friends? Places where you’ve got family?’

  He relaxed. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Did you speak to his mates?’

  ‘Can’t say I did.’ He finished his pint and slid the empty glass across the table to me. I took it back to the bar, returning with a fresh pint for him. He took a mouthful before speaking. ‘I was working away. What could I do?’

  I was genuinely taken back by his attitude. It was his brother. Even after our bust up, I would still do anything for Niall. ‘What about the police?’ I asked him.

  Bancroft smiled. ‘The police?’

  ‘They’d have helped.’

  ‘Don’t take the piss out of me, Geraghty. You know as well as I do that they don’t give a shit.’

  ‘Because you’ve got a record?’

  ‘And the fact he was a grown man who could make his own decisions. My mam contacted them, but that was her lookout.’

  ‘Nothing happened?’

  ‘Didn’t give a fuck, did they? We’re scum to them.’ He paused. ‘How’s Don doing these days?’

  I leaned forward this time. ‘What’s Don got to do with anything?’

  Bancroft smiled again. ‘The card you left had his name on it.’

  The old cards. Don Ridley & Son. ‘Why do you want to know about Don?’

  He was obviously pleased he knew something I didn’t. ‘Because when our kid went missing he was the only policeman who took it seriously and wouldn’t let it go. Like a dog with a bone, you might say.’

  ‘Don Ridley?’

  ‘The very fucking one.’