Father and Son (4 page)

“You gonna let her
write a book about your dad?”

“What? Oh, that… Haven’t decided,” he says as he drives the Saab
erratically, a cigarette in his mouth, the window right the way down, smoke
blowing into his face. “She just turned up. Sort of, I dunno, she’s…”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“Good, good,” he says, hardly listening, his driving getting worse.

“Not given up the cigs, then?” she says as they take what seems to
be a random series of roads, heading vaguely out of town.

“I thought I had. I thought lots of things.” He drums his fingers on
the wheel, looking left and right. “You fancy a coffee?”

“What’s all this about, John?”

“It’s got to be between us. Is that okay?” he says, narrowly missing
a parked car then braking hard, both of them thrown forwards in their seats.

He thought he was over the worst of it. But now, back out on the
streets, it’s hit him again. His hands are beginning to shake.

“I think you’d better pull over,” she says. “I’ve got something I
need to tell you as well.”

A couple of minutes later Den’s also smoking. They’re on a
tree-lined road, neat semis on both sides. There’s no one about, but she keeps
her voice down.

“So Lanny Bride asked you?”

He nods. They both know why.

“Roberto?” she says. “How old?”

“About sixty. He ran the bar for Lanny.”

“Not active, then?”

“I’d say not.” He stops, shakes his head. “Lovely man. I mean,
obviously to you it’s… it’s…”

He feels her hand on his. When he looks up, he realises there are
tears in his eyes again.

“It’s OK,” she says. “I know who he was. You’ve talked about him
before. I know.”

“Funny, isn’t it? Good and bad? Not that easy to tell apart when it’s
someone close, someone who you
know
was good. What do they say in London?
Diamond geezer. He had no kids, no family. That’s all that’s left of him, a
cliché and a pool of blood.”

She takes a drag, shudders as the smoke hits the back of her throat,
then flicks the cigarette out of the window.

“My advice,” she says, “forget about good and bad. Look at the
facts. And,” she adds, looking out at the calm residential street, “we better
get moving. You all right to drive?”

“I’m fine. Where to?”

“To see your dad. Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, but that was just to…”

“Roberto use to work for Tony, right?”

“Yeah, back when I was a kid.”

“Come on then,” she says. “I haven’t seen him for a while.”

He pauses, hands on the steering wheel.

“What was it you wanted to tell me?”

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

Back when he was a kid? He was about nine when he started to see the
flashes of disdain in people’s faces. He knew it was something to do with his
dad. Yet at home Dad was just the bloke with the funny accent and the suits.
Always a nice tie, smart shoes.
Good
clothes, not natty. Tony Ray was no
spiv. He didn’t get involved with bringing up the kids much, but he was usually
at home in the evenings, never one for the high life.

Every week there’d be something new to discover in their big old
terrace house in Armley. Crates full of cosmetics and perfume in the spare
room, boxes of transistor radios and cassette players piled up against the
walls. Now and then there’d be a rail of clothes in the front room, leather
jackets or women’s fur coats, covered in clear plastic so thin it made a
hissing sound when you ran your hand over it.

Then there were the Saturday mornings down at the showroom with his
brother Joe, never a customer in sight, but always a handful of men hanging
around, playing cards and ruffling your hair too hard. His dad was a criminal? He
was an immigrant who’d made his own way. A Spanish rogue stepping out of the
Yorkshire fog in an overcoat, like a character from a grainy old British film. What
harm had he done, with that dark-eyed smile and the way he had of always
getting what he wanted? Tony Ray was just Dad.

Then it all changed. His dad became famous.

They pull up at
Oaklands Residential Home, about the most exclusive place in the area to spend
your golden years. There’s no good or bad here, five grand a month is the only measure
of your character.

John has told Den everything he knows about Roberto. There wasn’t
much to tell. Rob had worked for his dad until the Old Bailey trial, at which
point he disappeared for a few years, finally resurfacing as an employee of a
young Lanny Bride.

“So,” says Den, “why don’t we hear what your dad’s got to say.”

“Say? You haven’t seen him recently…”

“Another stroke?”

“That and general decline.”

“Can he hear? Understand?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll do,” she says, jumping out of the car.

She looks like a teenager, lithe and alert. The last twelve months
might have taken the bloom off her, but she’s still young, and it still amazes
him that she’d ever had the slightest interest in him.

But she had.

Then you threw it away, John.

They stand at the electric gates as a new member of staff double
checks John’s details. The gate is set in a fifteen foot high metal fence painted
matt black and running all the way around the perimeter of the house and
gardens.

“Is this to stop people getting in or out?” she says, resisting the
temptation to hold her warrant card up to the camera and tell ’em to get a move
on.

A moment or two later the gate swings slowly open and they walk into
Oaklands, an old mill owner’s residence stuffed with oil paintings and
sculptures and over-qualified staff, plus several dozen senile people who pay
for it all and have no idea why.

Tony Ray has a corner room on the ground floor. His double-glazed
French windows give directly onto a raised terrace scattered with wrought iron
tables and chairs. The terrace looks out across a large, fiercely manicured
garden in which several gardeners in overalls are now kneeling over flower
beds, replanting.

John and Den pick their way through the tables. One of the French
windows of the corner room is slightly ajar. From inside they can hear the
television.

“Hi Dad,” John says, poking his head inside. “Look who’s come to see
you.”

Tony Ray doesn’t move. He’s in a high-backed armchair, staring at
the television. The trousers of his turquoise shell suit have ridden up, creased
round his knees so that most of his shins are visible, the skin shiny and yellow.
His jacket is unzipped to the stomach, the vest beneath it showing signs of
breakfast. Five thousand quid and they dress him like a dishevelled clown.

As John steps into the room, a man looks up from the floor.

“Morning!” he says after a moment’s pause, kneeling as he breaks into
a broad smile. “I’ll not be a second.”

Den appears behind John, and they watch as the man flattens out a
Persian style carpet, then gets to his feet.

“Dry cleaned. That’s a bit better, isn’t it, Tony?” he says, nice
and loud over the noise of the television.

There’s an identity card clipped to the breast pocket of his
overalls. The photo is recent. He’s in his mid-forties, balding mousy hair,
pale face.

“I’m Graeme,” he says, still smiling. “You must be John.”

“My reputation goes before me, does it?”

“Ha! He mentions you all the time,” he says, nodding at Tony, who is
staring at the television, ignoring them all. “Not today, though. Bit under the
weather. Anyway,” he says, “I’d better be going.”

He’s already tapping at the screen of a handheld device as he makes
his way out through the internal door which, like all fire doors on the premises,
is left wide open.

“You all right, Dad?” John says, closing the door.

Tony Ray now looks up, taking his eyes off the TV for the first time.
The news bulletin has just finished and now there’ll be chat shows until lunchtime.

“Shall I turn this off?” he says. “You don’t normally have it on in
the mornings, do you?”

The old man nods, his eyes widening as he recognises Den. John
switches off the TV, and Tony Ray now lifts a hand, pointing to a couple of chairs
set against the wall at the back of the room. His arm shakes a little, but he
concentrates, holding it there until John grabs the two chairs and brings them
across.

The old man clears his throat, tries to say something.

Den leans into him, her ear touching his lips.

“You look beautiful today, Constable,” he says, half whispering,
half croaking, his breath bitter and rancid.

“It’s Sergeant these days. And I’m beautiful every day. But look at you!”
she says, zipping up his jacket and straightening the collar. “Why aren’t you
in your own clothes?”

“I’ve asked,” John says, placing the chairs on the carpet so the
three of them can sit close and talk in comfort. “They say these suits are more
comfortable.”

“Do they have to be this colour!”

They sit down, their knees almost touching.

Tony Ray is grinning, his eyes moving between Den and John.

“He probably thinks we’re back…”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “How are you, Tony?” She squeezes the
old man’s hand. “Treating you well in here are they?”

Tony nods. Or it might be a shrug. Difficult to say. A shrug of
resignation, perhaps. The best way to deal with the inevitable, John tells
himself, seeing how Den’s presence has immediately rekindled the old spark of
life in his father.

Den had been the first officer at the showroom the night Joe was
shot. She heard the gunshot from down the street and came running. When she
arrived, John was still standing there, watching the dark pool of blood beneath
Joe’s body spread across the concrete floor. There was more blood from the
blast on John’s face. She wiped it off with her cuff and got him away from the
body. Cup of tea, cigarette. Within minutes the place was overrun by police,
and Hope Road had been closed off. Later that evening, when John went to tell
his dad, he asked Den to come with him. The old man didn’t take it well. But
he’d’ve taken it a lot worse if she hadn’t been there.

Den now does most of the talking, telling Tony about her new job, how
Manchester has changed, full of coffee shops and tapas bars. More like Spain, she
says. He should take a trip.

Tony nods, just happy to hear her voice again. All three of them, it
seems, accept the irony of the situation: a police detective giving Tony Ray the
low down on Manchester. It’s a city Tony knows well. His little empire
stretched across the Pennines, and further afield than that. He had contacts
far and wide, including the Chinese and Hong Kongese triads in Manchester
itself, plus just about every other career criminal in the north of England.
Good-bad-bad-good
.
It wasn’t all knock-off perfume, either. Den must have read his file a dozen
times. Yet she was always good with Tony, knew how to separate the personal
from the professional. She could always keep things in perspective.

“Right,” she says, turning to John.

He shifts in his chair. This isn’t going to be easy.

“We’ve got some bad news, Dad,” he says. “Roberto. You remember
him?”

Tony Ray’s head turns slowly until he’s looking at his son.

“I’m sorry, Dad. Roberto’s dead.”

He repeats it.

Tony Ray’s bottom lip glistens with saliva, just the hint of a
tremor.

“He was killed last night. Lanny’s asked me to see what I can find
out.”

The old man looks at Den. A string of saliva falls from his lip and
catches on his jacket. She gets a tissue from her pocket, wipes it off.

“Someone, they…” John says, searching for the right words, “they did
him bad. Before he died, we think.”

Tony Ray’s mouth is open now, a silent ‘oh’, his lips trembling, wet
and uncontrolled. And he’s still staring straight at Den.

“Is there anything about Roberto we might not know?”

“He was just muscle, wasn’t he?” Den adds. “Is there anything he
might have known? Or seen? Anything at all he might have been into, that
someone’d kill him for?”

But Tony Ray isn’t listening. His breathing is light and fast, and
with his free hand he’s fumbling for something down at his side.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” says John. “He was a lovely bloke. Sorry to bring
you the news like this. It’s just, Lanny’s asking, and I’ve got nothing to go
on.”

“Anything you can think of,” Den says, “from any time. Anything at
all.”

Tony has found what he was searching for. He presses the alarm
button, his arm quivering, thumb pushed down hard on the button and held there.
And he’s not looking at Den any more. He’s staring straight ahead at the blank
screen of the television.

Moments later the door opens and a tall man appears. He’s wearing a
white orderly’s uniform, and he doesn’t look pleased.

“Oh, hi,” he says, pulling up short as he sees John.

“Hello,” says John. “This is Denise, a friend of the family.”

The man ignores the information and turns to Tony. A look of concern
spreads quickly across his face as he sees the state the old man is in.

“Let’s have a look at you,” he says as he fusses with Tony’s head,
peering into his eyes. He takes his pulse, speaking as he holds the man’s wrist
and counts the seconds on his watch.

“Too much excitement!” he says, placing Tony’s arm carefully down
again. “Got to watch his blood pressure.” He glances at Den, as if she’s the obvious
cause of the excitement, then back at the old man. “It’s time for your bath. Shall
we, eh? Calm you down?”

It’s not a question. He leans over and gets Tony in a bear hug, then
eases him to his feet in a single, well-practiced move. Mr Ray senior, still shaking
visibly, sways a little, then gains his balance.

“Shall we wait?” asks John.

“Right, Tony, off we go!” the carer says, pointedly ignoring the
question.

A minute later and Tony Ray has shuffled into his en suite bathroom,
mouth still hanging open.