Father and Son (17 page)

Suddenly, out of
nowhere, there’s a lead. The incident room is buzzing. People staring at
screens, then jumping up, bustling across to another desk, clumps of papers in
one hand, mobiles pressed to their ears. Everyone is looking for someone else, talking
loudly, two conversations at once, eyes darting around the place.

Steve Baron stands by the door, arms crossed, and feels the
adrenalin run smooth and fast in his blood. A man is killed. And you catch the
killer.
Thou shalt not kill
. It’s that simple. The thrill you get from
finding a killer is unbelievable. Better than sex. Not that he’s had much of
that lately. None, to be precise.

Five minutes since Den rang and they’ve got Dennis Reid’s file from
the National Crime Database, and the photo has been confirmed with the officers
outside the golf club. Reid’s there all right. Dangerous bastard. Plenty of
form. And now he’s working for Lanny Bride, a couple of days after one of
Lanny’s men was murdered.

Lanny, Lanny…
Baron goes over the
possibilities again, blocking out the noise of the room as he tries to think
straight. Lanny Bride. Get more bodies up to Stamforth. Pull him in as soon as
he leaves the golf club this evening. Lanny and Dennis Reid. No fireworks, no fuss.
This is Lanny Bride’s big day. The press’ll be there. Better wait til this
evening. By which time they might even have something on Reid, something that
puts him near the Park Lane on Thursday night.

DS Steele appears in the doorway, looking grim and happy at the same
time, as if he’s ready to inflict pain on somebody, and the thought of it has
wiped away the exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours, which have been twenty
hours of relentless, unproductive slog plus four hours slumped on the sofa in
his terraced house in Beeston.

“What we gonna do with Freddy Metcalfe?” he says, finding it hard to
keep still, pumped up, riding the atmosphere. “His brief’s already here.”

“Right. We’ll do him now,” Baron says, glancing at his watch. “You
and me. Have you read his file?”

Steele holds up a thin brown folder, waves it in the air.

“I lead,” Baron says. “Keep it friendly. Unless he starts
going
,
y’know. Keep it calm at first, let’s see how it runs.”

Steele nods, the muscles in his neck taught.
Unless he starts
going…

Henry Moran, Baron tells himself as they make their way down to the
interview rooms. That’s who they’ll have sent for Freddy. Moran was the Ray
family solicitor for years. It’s the way the Rays always work. First sign of
trouble, call Henry Moran.

Tony Ray hadn’t stayed out of jail all those years thanks to his own
guile and cunning. Moran had been at his side in every interview, year after
year, always the same advice: say nothing. Interviews with Tony Ray had become
legendary at Millgarth, wall to wall silence in the face of police insinuation,
provocation, desperation… No one ever made Tony Ray talk. And through all
those long hours of silence Henry Moran had sat, expressionless apart from the
pursed lips of someone who is listening carefully and dispassionately, rarely
taking notes.

Baron yanks open the door. Inside Freddy is hunched over the table,
big shoulders crammed into a light grey jacket, his hair the colour of straw,
his big face drained of colour, looking scared. But he’s toughing it out.
There’s a note of resilience as he looks up at the Inspector. A few months
inside have taken the youthful bloom off Freddy Metcalfe.

It doesn’t matter, though. He’ll talk. You can sense it in a person
the second you walk in.

Baron sees Freddy and pulls up short, Steele colliding with him from
behind. It’s not the sight of Freddy that causes the surprise. It’s the person
sitting next to him. Henry Moran? No, a younger man, from a different law firm.

“Hello Freddy,” Baron says, making no attempt to hide his sudden
delight. “One minute and we’ll be right with you.”

He turns and bundles Steele out of the room with him.

“See that?” he says, regaining his composure.

“What?”

“Where’s Moran?” he says, moving quickly down the corridor. “Freddy
gets taken in. Who do they call? Who does John Ray call? He calls Henry Moran.
Every time. But Moran isn’t here. You know why?”

Steele plays dumb, knows it’s the best way when Baron’s feeling
cocky.

“Because Moran couldn’t take Freddy on as a client. And why is that?
Who does Moran work for these days, now that Tony Ray’s out of the picture?”

Lanny Bride.

Steele doesn’t need telling. If someone else is representing Freddy,
it’s because Moran knows he’s going to be sitting next to Lanny on this one.
Which in turn means that Moran has already been told there’s a problem.

“Fuck not making a scene. Let’s bring Lanny Bride in now. Him and
this Dennis Reid bloke.”

Baron flips open his phone, gives the order.

On their way back
to the nursing home they stop off at the showroom. There’s no one inside. From
the Bose speakers high in the steel ceiling come the annoyingly catchy rhythms
of the Gypsy Kings.

“Great music!” John says with a smirk as Connie appears from the
office at the back. She’s in a low-cut t-shirt and a tailored leather jacket
that manages to be smart and faintly sado-masochistic.

“It’s old enough to be retro,” she says, twirling a hand in the air,
gesturing towards the ceiling. “You can listen to anything after twenty years.”

“Even Bananarama?”

“Who?”

“Forget it. When did they take Freddy in?”

“An hour ago. Oh, hello,” she says, seeing Den behind him.

Connie forces a smile, but it’s directed at John, and it’s not meant
to be genuine. She may be running a legitimate business, but Connie does not
like the police. Especially on her own premises. And it’s not as if Den’s the
first copper here today.

There’s been a forensic team out the back taking the Saab apart,
then more police arrived to take Freddy in. For the last sixty minutes she’s
been alone in the showroom, trying to work out exactly how much she’d need to
buy John’s share of the business.

“Hi Connie,” Den says, returning the fake friendliness and resenting
the very fact of being here, as if she’s just walked into a part of John’s life
that she never wanted to see again.

“We get any more
policía
in here today,” Connie says, “we
might as well put flashing blue lights on the roof.”

“I’m off duty,” Den says, looking around at the cars on offer.

“You people are never off duty. Wait there,” she says to John, as
she turns and marches back into the office, a touch of Gestapo in her step.

A moment later she returns with the silver MacBook.

“Here.” She shoves it into John’s chest. “Take this. I don’t know
what’s going on, but I don’t want evidence lying around here if the police come
back to search the place.”

John nods, takes the Mac.

“Holding onto that, are you?” Den asks him.

“Off duty, eh?” Connie says, running a hand through her long, black
hair.

“You’re right. Once a copper, always a copper. Just tell your
business partner here to go and speak to the police. Go on.
You
tell
him. He won’t listen to me, and I
am
police.”

“Why should I?” Connie asks.

“Freddy in for questioning? John up to his eyeballs in a murder
investigation, withholding evidence, God knows what else?” Den’s voice is
rising, and now she’s talking to John. “For christsake, go to the police. What on
earth’s wrong with you!”

“Let’s go,” he says, already walking towards the doors.

“Yachts,” Connie says as they turn to go. “Look at the yachts.”

He says nothing, follows Den out through the automatic glass doors.

“And another thing,” Connie shouts after them. “Where’s the Porsche?”

“Doesn’t look we’ve got too many buyers today.”

“
Coño!
The place is full of
policia!
Who’s buying a
car here?”

“Sorry about
that!” the Inspector says, taking his seat opposite Freddy and fiddling with
the recorder at the end of the table. “A lot of things going on at once. Moving
fast.”

He inflates his cheeks then blows air out of his mouth, before
switching on the recorder and going through the formalities, noticing how
Freddy’s hands are clasped together in front of him on the table.

“Mr Roberto Swales,” he says, as Steele removes a large colour photo
and places it on the table, its bottom edge touching Freddy’s knuckles. “Found
on waste ground in a shallow grave, shot, body burnt. His head was smashed so
badly that his skull had caved in and what little remained of his brain was
mixed with fragments of his cranium. Oh, and a couple of local kids found his
nose nearby. Look,” he says, tapping the photo with a finger. “See? No nose.”

Baron relaxes, sits back in his plastic chair. He had to say it. But
there’s no malice in him. A stranger could see that in an instant. A certain
fondness for drama, perhaps, but only when it matters. He’s here for the result.

There’s such a thing as a copper’s copper. But that’s not Steven
Baron. Before he made Inspector he spent two years in Professional Standards,
the police corruption unit. He rooted out criminals within the force with the
same energy and persistence he displays with civilians. That’s not the kind of
thing that endears you to your colleagues. Baron doesn’t care. He’s only in it
for the results. All he wants to do now is to find out who killed Roberto
Swales.

The file on Swales had not been as thick as he’d expected. Armed
robbery when he was young, and a few bits and pieces later on, physical stuff
mainly, nothing worse than assault. He never married. No siblings, parents both
dead.

As Baron sits there, he tries to think of what would flash before
his eyes as the final blow came down on his skull: the boys and Stella, all of
them together in the farmhouse up near York; an acre of land out the back
spotted with bikes and colourful plastic toys; him making his way up the ranks,
studying late into the night. DCI at thirty-five, that had been the plan. He
used to repeat it like a mantra each night as he slumped into bed next to
Stella, exhausted but knowing the best was yet to come, that their plans were
coming slowly together as the twins grew.

Across the interview table Freddy is staring at the photo with
undisguised horror. He seems to edge back from it, as if the reality is far
worse than anything he had expected. Sometimes it’s the best evidence, undisguised
recoil. They’d chosen the worst photo they had, the crumpled head in sharp
focus, the remains of a face towards the camera, a darkened hole for a nose,
the rest of the flesh in ribbons. And it’s done the trick. Freddy wasn’t ready
for this.

Baron himself is unmoved by the image. He’s seen it before,
variations on a theme. And he’s learned to see past the injuries, the screaming
pain of death. The only thing that moves him is the desire to find the person
who was capable of this, who could cave in a fellow human being’s head whilst
he was still alive.

He doesn’t care who the victim was. The law doesn’t care, and
neither does he. The knowledge that whoever did this is out there, probably not
too far away, in the midst of ordinary, decent people, pushes him towards
obsession.

Over the years these obsessions have got stronger, more urgent, especially
after he became an SIO for the first time. Senior Investigating Officer? That’s
what ruined his marriage. He knows it now, although at the time it had seemed
like he was building a career, and a life. Long nights becoming all-nights, the
boys’ll understand, it’s important…

“So, Freddy,” he says at last, “sometime late on Thursday night Mr
Swales was murdered down at the Park Lane. According to CCTV from Lower
Briggate, you turned up towards the bar that night at around eight o’clock, and
came back the same way an hour later. Why don’t you tell us what happened in
that hour? Oh,” he adds, before Freddy has a chance to open his mouth, “coffee,
tea anybody?”

A general shaking of heads.

He takes the photo off the table and returns it to its large brown
envelope.

“Right then. Thursday.”

Freddy rubs his face with his big clumsy hands, and begins. The same
story he told John, leaving nothing out, almost word for word. Baron nods
occasionally, asks the odd question for clarification, keeping it polite,
matter of fact. At his side DS Steele says nothing, taking his cue from Baron,
knowing now that this isn’t going to be an opportunity for the bull terrier
treatment. His job is to watch for the body language, to listen for the pauses,
the finest trace of calculation in Freddy’s voice. He may act like a
loud-mouthed, rugby playing thug, but DS Steele knows when to keep his mouth
shut. And he knows it instinctively.

As Freddy finishes, he points to the bruise on the side of his head
where Roberto laid him out.

“Single punch,” he says, looking at Steele as if he’ll get some sort
of reaction. He gets none. “I mean, you wouldn’t normally put me on the floor
with one punch.”

He raises his arms as if to explain what he means.

“Handy with his fists, Mr Swales was,” Baron says. “Ever seen him
use ’em before?”

“No, he never had to.”

“So, if you had to sum up Roberto’s frame of mind,” Baron says, “in
one word, what would it be?”

Freddy shifts in his seat. “I dunno. Regret?”

“Regret?”

Freddy nods.

“Regret that he’d spent his life in the company of criminals,” Baron
says, summarising what Freddy has said, counting the points off on his fingers,
“because he had never had children, because he seemed depressed, because he had
compared himself to a fictional child murderer.”

“Yes.”

Baron looks right at Freddy. “Why now? Any thoughts? Anything at
all?”

But Freddy’s bright enough not to start speculating to CID about one
of Lanny Bride’s employees.

The four men sit there in silence until it becomes clear that Freddy
has no intention of answering.

“And you, Mr Metcalfe?”

“Me?”

“Are you going to take the advice?”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Really? That surprises me. John Ray, he’s something of a father figure
to you, isn’t he?”

“Well, he’s a…”

“I mean, he gave you a job, and together you built that ridiculous
showroom on Hope Road. A year later you’re locked up for counterfeit money, the
same racket Mr Ray’s own father was involved in. And Mr Ray’s brother too,
before he was shot down in cold blood. Dangerous family to know.”

Freddy’s brief shifts in his seat, begins to raise a hand, as if
he’s about to restrain Freddy from saying anything else.

“Sorry,” Baron continues, “I was simply wondering whether, given the
circumstances, you might have considered taking the advice to walk away. After
all, it wasn’t John Ray sitting in a prison cell last year, was it?”

Freddy sniffs, looks away, as if he’s already tired of the innuendo.
But the truth is he’s been asking himself the same question ever since he
learned of Roberto’s death.

“How is Mr Ray?” Steele says “How’s he been, y’know, the last week
or so?”

“John? Same as ever. You know John…”

A bit of a grin from Freddy. Baron forces a quick smile himself, even
Steele and Freddy’s solicitor raise their eyebrows. They all know the script: John
Ray, confident, unconventional, flamboyant, and one of the best-known
bon
vivants
in the city. Yes, they all know the script; it’s smiles all the way
with John Ray.

Not when it comes to murder, though, Baron tells himself. John Ray
is in this deeper than he’s letting on. When this gets sorted, no one’s going
to be smiling, least of all Ray himself.

“Nothing different, then?” Steele asks. “Spring in his step? I
mean,” and he fishes in the envelope for a another, smaller photo, “I’d be
pretty pleased if she was making my toast and marmalade of a morning.”

He lays an image of a woman on the table, taken outside, like a
paparazzi shot, the subject unaware of the camera. She has masses of red hair
and a pale complexion. And she’s strikingly attractive.

“Is that her?” Freddy asks.

“You tell us.”

“I dunno. He was with someone, last few days. Didn’t mention her
name. I don’t know anything about her.”

“Would he normally keep that kind of thing quiet, an old Casanova
like John Ray?”

Casanova
? Baron’s thoughts turn for an
instant to Den. Nobody at Millgarth knows that he had an affair with DC Denson,
right as his marriage was breaking up. In fact Den was the reason Baron finally
left his wife. A clean break. A new start. Then John Ray walked in and took Den
from him. Nobody at Millgarth knows, apart from the Super, and she’s so
discreet you could tell her the pin number of your bank card.
Casanova
?

“Jeanette Cormac,” he says, putting Den out of his mind.
“Investigative journalist. He never mentioned her by name?”

“John? No, like I said.”

“What about Mr Swales?”

“Roberto?”

“Jeanette Cormac met him at least once. Did he mention that when you
spoke to him on Thursday night?”

“No.”

“And you? She’s been getting around a bit. Very interested in the
Ray family, apparently. Lanny Bride too. Sure you haven’t come across her
recently.”

Freddy blanks them.

Baron turns to his colleague.

Steele nods.

“I think we’re done,” says Baron, already getting to his feet.

But then he sits back down.

“One more thing, almost forgot. The Park Lane. Do you go in there a
lot?”

“A bit. I know a few blokes who drink down there. And it’s quiet.”

Baron thinks. Concentrates.

“Where do you sit, as a rule?”

Freddy frowns.

“I dunno… at the bar normally, I suppose.”

“Describe it to me.”

“What, the bar?”

“Imagine you’re sitting there, having a drink. What do you see?”

Freddy casts a glance at his brief, who nods.

“The bar… it’s, y’know, black. Flat, nothing much on it…” He
feels like an idiot. What does Baron want him to say?

“Go on. Just tell me what you see when you’re sitting there.”

“No pumps. Beer’s all bottles. On the wall behind there are optics,
and a couple of shelves of whiskies. About fifty bottles, I think, good stuff
an’all…”

He looks at Baron, like a child seeking approval.

“What else can you see, Freddy? Think.”

“There’s a cabinet behind the bar. Next to the whiskies. Big thing.
Glass, gold edges. It’s lit from behind. When you come in off the street you
can see it at the other end of the room, like it’s glowing.”

“What’s in the cabinet?”

“Champagne. Full of the stuff. Orange labels.”

“And was the cabinet there on Friday night? Chock-a-block with champagne?”

Freddy nods slowly, as if he’s just said the wrong thing, but can do
nothing about it.

A minute later the interview is over and Freddy is free to go.

“Telling the truth?” Baron says at a whisper as he and Steele make
their way back up to the incident room.

“Yep,” Steele says, as if it’s a formality. “Bring on Lanny.”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s gonna be as cordial.”

The salacious grin returns to Steele’s face.