Father and Son (6 page)

“Hi,” she says.
“How was your dad?”

She’s dressed now, cramming newspapers and several large notebooks
into an even larger leather shoulder bag.

“Going somewhere?”

“Yep.” She stops. “Is something wrong?”

“Dad wasn’t too good,” he says, closing the door gently behind him.
“I had some bad news for him.”

“Really? Sorry to hear that.”

She doesn’t look away.

He moves towards her, the anger coursing through his body, reaching
the tips of his fingers.

“You know somebody called Roberto? Runs a bar in town?”

Her eyes narrow a fraction.

Watch her.

“Bloke called Roberto. You know him or not?”

He’s right up to her. Raises his hand, his index finger pointing, almost
touching her nose. He could snap her neck. At this moment he could do it. Eye
for an eye.

If he was sure.

“I’ll ask you one more time.”

“Do you think you’re frightening me?” Her voice is flat, slow. “I’ve
been threatened by big fellas before, you know.”

“I’m not trying to frighten you.”

“Good, because to do that you really need to be holding a gun to my
head. Even then, it’s fifty-fifty I give a shit.”

He says nothing. He could break her neck. Who’d know? Who’d care?

“A shot to the leg, was it?” he says. “Then one in each arm? Tape
him to the chair?”

He nods as he’s speaking. It fits. Anybody could have done it,
anyone who could shoot a gun. Did she slip out last night, after he fell
asleep? After he drank all that whisky?

“Why don’t you tell me what this is about, John?” she says.

What other options does he have?

“I’m trying to find out who killed a friend of mine.”

“And what’s that got to do with Roberto?” she asks.

“So you do know who he is?”

She nods.

He waits. But so does she. She’s brave, but she’s also confused.

She doesn’t know.

“He’s dead. Rob’s dead.”

You can fake a lot of things, but you can’t force the blood to drain
from your face. Her skin, never much colour to it anyway, is now grey, her lips
a watery pink. She sits down, arms resting on her thighs, her whole body loose,
as if it’s been dropped there.

He fills two tumblers with whisky and water, brings them over and
puts one in front of her.

“What were you doing talking to Roberto?”

She looks up, frowns.

“What do you think?”

“How about you tell me?”

She takes a drink. A gulp.

“I was getting some background on your dad. The 70s and 80s, y’know,
when he started getting into counterfeiting.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And did you see him last night?”

“John, I was with
you
last night. Don’t you remember any of
it?”

The sad thing is he hardly does. He knows it should have been a memorable
night, great restaurant, beautiful woman, Jura. But his memory’s not been
putting in the hours recently. He doesn’t remember much.

“Who knew?” he asks. “Who else is interested in Roberto, in the Park
Lane?”

“I’m an investigative journalist, and I work alone. Nobody knows
where I am.”

“You interview two men. First Sheenan, then Rob. They both end up
dead. Should I be watching my back?”

“First off,” she says, talking down to the floor, trying to get her
thoughts together, “I think it’s a coincidence. I’m doing my job here, right? An
IRA terrorist and a professional criminal with a violent past? I work with
dangerous people. You think this is the first time I’ve interviewed someone who
got killed sometime later?”

She looks around for cigarettes.

“I ran out,” he says.

“Shit.”

“So when was the last time you saw Rob?”

“Day before yesterday.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Boxing mainly.” She smiles. “I bet it’s years since anybody asked
him about his championship fight.”

“And what did you think?”

“I thought he was a lovely man. I’ve seen it before. Bernard
Sheenan, he was another. People don’t choose their fate. They get caught up in
things, and before they realise it their fate’s been chosen for them.”

“Day before yesterday?”

She nods. “I saw him a couple of days before that as well. Early
evening. He was suspicious. Didn’t want to talk. I said I’d call back.”

“And you did?”

“Yes. He bought me a burger, loosened up a bit. Warmed to me, I
guess.”

“Used your feminine charms on him, eh?”

She ignores him. “He didn’t give much away. He’s been running that
wine bar for five years. He didn’t tell me anything much. Nervous guy, I’d say.
Guarded.”

“Rob? Nervous?”

“Seemed that way to me. I guess when someone asks if you work for
Lanny Bride, you get nervous.”

“Lanny! Now
there’s
someone who’d make you nervous!”

“Lanny Bride? Not any more, that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, good old Lanny, going legit. You think he’s gonna talk to
you?”

“Perhaps my feminine charms’ll do the trick.”

“I doubt it.”

“Know him well, do you?”

“Well enough.”

“We’ll see.”

“You’re a bloody head case.” He sits back, stretches his legs, and
watches her as she takes another drink. There’s something self-contained about
her now. Refusing to be emotional. She’s trying to think. Or trying not to.

“It’s all about fate,” he says. “That your theory, then?”

“It’s got a lot to do with it. You should’ve heard about Roberto’s
childhood. Awful. No wonder people end up in crime. They grow up knowing
nothing else.”

“So did I, but I chose my fate.”

“Yea, it must have been tough for you, growing up surrounded by all
that perfume.”

“Cheeky cow! Anyway, who told you about the perfume?”

“Research. My job, remember?”

“You should’ve smelled our house!” he says, putting the glass to his
lips and finding that he’s already drunk half of it. “The place stank. Fake Chanel
everywhere.” He laughs to himself. “Once, I was only about eight, I took a
bottle of No.5 to school, gave it to this girl I liked. That night her mum came
round, brought it back. She was embarrassed, I suppose, didn’t want it, not
from the likes of us.”

“And the perfume boxes led to the money…”

“Hey, you
have
done your homework.”

“I like to be thorough.”

“I remember all the fuss when Dad tried to get good boxes printed. That’s
the key with fakes. Get the box exactly right, what’s inside hardly matters.
Night after night he’d be at the kitchen table, comparing the printing on boxes,
an old magnifying glass pressed up to his face. He loved the printing, he was fascinated
by it.”

“And you never felt tempted to join in? Like your brother did?”

“This is all for the book, is it?”

“Not really. I’m just interested, y’know, in you.”

He laughs. “Worst I ever did was a booze run for our Joe. Across to
Belgium and back. Fancy wines, top of the range stuff. He slipped me a few
grand for it. Mr Big, eh?”

He doesn’t tell her about the false banknotes he was passing off
last year in exchange for second-hand sports cars. It had been a mistake, and
it cost him everything: self-respect, his future, Den… Why bring all that up
now?

She grabs the laptop. “Hey, have you ever seen this?”

Without much enthusiasm he joins her on the other sofa. An image of
a twenty pound note fills the screen.

“Genuine Tony Ray forgery,” she says. “Illegal to have ’em, of
course, but there are collectors, counterfeit enthusiasts.”

He pulls the Mac closer, scrolls down the page.

“They were pretty good for their time. Says here some of ’em stayed
in circulation for years.” He closes the computer and reaches for his drink. “He
only got arrested because the kid who did the artwork for the watermarks got
pissed one night and told his girlfriend.”

“I know,” she says. “I’ve read the papers.”

“Here’s to the British justice system!”

They touch glasses and drain them as if it were water.

“Bloody Old Bailey!” he says, casting a glance at the old school
roll calls on the wall. “I spent my entire adolescence trying to escape the
family name. Getting to university was supposed to be the crowning glory, the final
step. The trial was that summer. By the time I arrived at Cambridge, Dad had
just walked out of the Bailey a free man. He was famous, and I spent another
three years as John Ray’s son.”

“Now
that’s
fate.”

“And after university I went to the other side of the world. Chased
a girl all the way to New Zealand to escape my fate.”

“Here’s to you!” she says, holding up her glass and letting the last
drops run into her mouth. “Look how far you’ve come!”

There’s a glint in her eye.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Escaped the family name, eh? The straight one of the family? So
where exactly did you go before breakfast this morning?”

“You ask too many questions,” he says, digging his fingers into her
thick hair until they reach the scalp.

“Is this your way of avoiding the question?”

“Something like that,” he says, pulling her head towards his.

“You shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Sleeping with beautiful women I hardly know?”

He puts down his glass.

“You’re gonna hate yourself afterwards,” she says.

“I hate myself now.”

“This isn’t gonna be fun, y’know.”

“I’m not looking for fun.”

“That right?” she says, running a hand down his chest. “Perhaps we
should talk about…”

He pushes his mouth onto hers. There’s no more talking.

*

By the time he shakes himself conscious, the afternoon is almost
over. The space next to him in the bed is cold and empty. He listens, hears no
movement in the flat. She’s gone. And she was right. He hates himself.

He hoists himself upright and swings his legs out of bed for the
second time today, feet touching the bare floorboards again. Looks around.
There are none of her clothes on the floor, no bag, no sign of her. When Den
was here there’d always be something in the corner, next to that antique floor
lamp he’d bought for no particular reason. It had become her own little place.
She’d toss a t-shirt over there, but it would always land on her bag, never
quite touching the floor. There was something ordered in her untidiness.

There’s no sign of Jeanette in the rest of the flat. If she stopped
long enough to make a drink, she must have washed up after herself. The two
whisky tumblers are still on the coffee table. The silence is broken by the
distant beat of someone along the corridor playing music. Bananarama it sounds
like. Do people still listen to that?

He considers putting on some Miles Davis or Bill Evans, perhaps even
Dean Martin, anything to cloak the bilious whine of the eighties in something
older, wiser. Can music be wise? Sod it. Let’s have Bananarama. Who needs
wisdom?

Next to the glasses on the coffee table he sees the sleek, sexy MacBook.
Should he drive over with it? The cottage she’s renting is on the outskirts of
town, about ten miles away. She’s going to need her computer.

He texts her instead. Doesn’t fancy talking.

The sky is darkening fast, already the colour of smudged newsprint.
He imagines the breeze getting suddenly colder as the light fades, from
pleasant to biting in ten minutes. Yorkshire weather. Where will Roberto’s body
be now?

He has a quick shower. By the time he’s dressed Jeanette has phoned,
left a message.

“Don’t worry about the Mac,” she says, “there’s nothing
incriminating on it. Feel free to use it to download your yacht-porn.”

Nothing incriminating? He remembers now. Four days ago, he’d
arranged to meet her in the Templars on Vicar Lane. She’d rung him at the
showroom asking for an interview, said she was writing something about his dad
and the Old Bailey trial.

When they met, he liked her immediately. There was something warm and
reassuring in her voice, and they sat there in the pub for ages. He wanted to
be with her, needed someone, and he didn’t mind telling her all about his
father. He even told her about his brother, the night he’d been shot dead in
front of him, and how it had changed the course of his own life.