Hope Road (11 page)

“Fuck you,” John says and stands his ground.

Off to his right a woman starts squealing. She must have picked the winner. After a second or two she stops, embarrassed that she’s the only one celebrating.

Steele walks across to John, a smile on his face.

“That’s you done, big boy,” he says. “Keep out of my fucking face from now on or you’ll be in a cell an’all, understand?”

He snorts like an animal.

And no thoroughbred.

H
enry Moran is fifty-eight but doesn’t look it. Each year his tightly curled hair gets a little thinner, its uniform chestnut brown a little less plausible, and the taut skin of his face and neck becomes ever more like that of a roast duck. Yet he passes for a younger man, and that, strangely for someone of his intelligence, is all that matters.

He knows DI Baron well. First names, bottle of scotch at Christmas. And Baron was not in the least surprised to find Henry Moran waiting at Millgarth when they arrived back from Doncaster. Now the men are facing each other across a desk in an interview room. They’ve been here a while.

“Right,” Baron says calmly. At his side is DC Steele, blank-faced as usual. “Let’s have it again. You left the room, and at that point she was still alive.”

Freddy nods.

“You see, I think she was already dead. Or dying.”

“No,” he says, exhausted, arms on the table, big hands trembling.

“Well, she was dead when she came
out
of that room. You hear me, Freddy? She was already dead.”

“I heard.”

“
So?
”

“She were alive when I left her,” he says, doesn’t even glance at his lawyer.

For his part, Moran looks on impassively. But this is dangerous. Freddy’s in deep shock, about an inch away from breaking down. Baron knows it. And if Freddy cracks now and blurts things out, he might mention the kind of details that’ll make a retraction difficult later. Baron knows that too.

“Okay. There’s another way it might’ve happened. Her skull’s cracked, right on the temple. So this is what I’m thinking…” The Inspector pauses as if to gather his thoughts. “Your Ukrainian friends leave you alone in a hotel room with their private hooker. You fancy a bit for yourself. Nice looking girl, very nice, all alone with a big fella like you? But she says no. She says no, and you don’t like it. Decide to teach her a lesson.”

Freddy looks up at Baron, face screwed up, eyes nearly closed. “What?”

“You’re a strong bloke, Freddy. Look at the size of you, eh? Things get a bit physical, then you slip out of the room to join the others, leave her there on the floor. Where she fucking dies, Freddy, because she wouldn’t give you any!”

“You cunt…”

The table jumps as Freddy springs from his chair, arm swinging out, his hand swiping Baron across the face.

Everybody on their feet. Baron backing off, blinking, a hand over his nose. Steele and Moran grabbing Freddy. Uniforms stream in through the door, pinning Freddy to the table, cuffs on in seconds.

As they drag him out he’s gasping for air between heavy, audible sobs.

Baron rubs his nose, watches as Freddy is led away.

“Henry?”

“What can I say, Steve?”

The Inspector looks uncharacteristically happy.

He moves across to the tape recorder, describes what’s just happened, and terminates the interview. “Reconvene in an hour, counsel?”

Moran nods slowly.

“Thanks for coming, Henry,” John says, getting up from one of the plastic chairs bolted to the floor in the entrance.

“When the going gets tough, eh?” says Moran, pointing to the exit and walking towards it without stopping to greet John.

Back in 1985, Henry Moran had been on the legal team that got Tony Ray acquitted on counterfeiting charges at the Old Bailey. The old Spaniard saw something that he liked in Moran’s humourless, taciturn manner, and Moran remained the Ray family solicitor for over a quarter of a century. After Joe was shot, John decided to start afresh, severing all ties with Moran, as much for his own sanity as anything. The two men haven’t spoken in nearly two years. But when Freddy was arrested at the race track, he knew exactly who to call.

“Dead in the room,” Moran says as he makes his way to a quiet spot outside the station.

“Who?”

“The girl.”

“The hotel room? No, she
walked
out of there,” John says, puzzled, lighting a cigarette. “I saw it.”

“They did the walking for her. She never flexes her ankle joints. Pathologist saw the video. Dead giveaway apparently. No pun, etcetera. She’d been beaten up before she died, and the cause of death was a blow to the temple, enough to crack her skull. That’s all they’re saying at the moment.”

“And Freddy?”

“Says the girl was alive when he left the room. Got no idea what happened. He’s scared stiff.”

Moran counts these facts off on the fingers of his left hand as if recalling the items on a shopping list.

“Who knocked her about?”

“A Ukrainian.”

“Konstyantyn Bilyk?” asks John.

Moran looks down at his notes. “Bilyk was there. The younger one did the physical stuff, Fedir Boyko.” Moran looks at the flat red brick of the station. “Bilyk’s in there now. No lawyer with him that I could see.”

“And Fedir?”

“They’ve only got one Ukrainian that I heard about.”

John blows smoke out in front of him and watches it rise in the air.

“Anything else?”

“The car. He’s been shifty about that. He borrowed it from your place without telling you, that’s his story.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Why? Said his own car was somewhere else, then said it had a dodgy starter motor.”

“He’ll have to get that story straight.”

Condescension flashes across the lawyer’s eyes. “He’ll get it straight.”

“The red Mondeo? What happened to it?”

“He says he
lost
the keys. Somebody must’ve taken it.”

“He got the car just before midnight yesterday. It’s on the security tape at the showroom. I know nothing else about it.”

Moran nods. He reads over his notes. Says nothing.

“The cash?” asks John, breaking the silence. “Did he say anything about the money in the boot?”

“Said he was sure there was none in when he left the car.”

“And where was that?”

“The
Eurolodge Hotel
. As I said, he claims that he left the motor there because he lost the keys. And believe me, this losing the keys stuff sounds even more like bullshit when the tape’s running and a copper’s writing it all down.”

“The money?” John asks again.

“Says he’s positive no money was left in the boot. And he said
left
.”

Let it go, John.

“Was this on record? Is he
talking
in there?”

“Talking? He’s just bitch-slapped Baron. Interview suspended.”

“You’re joking…”

Just a hint of a smile from John.

“Don’t laugh,” Moran says. “He’s all over the place and he’s got no answers. This is not looking good for him, not at all. And he’s scared, scared of something.”

“Or someone.”

“Whatever. I’ll see what he’ll tell me once he’s settled down a bit.”

“Are they gonna charge him?”

“On this evidence? You’d’ve thought so. It’s not just Freddy, though. There’s a lot of comings and goings in there. They’re looking to wrap this up sharpish.” His cell phone rings. “Talk of the devil.”

He takes the call. A curt
yep
, then another. Ten seconds.

“We’ve been spotted. Come on.”

“First things first, gents,” Baron says, ushering them both into a small interview room on the ground floor. The flesh below his left eye is red and slightly puffed, but his manner makes it clear that no one is going to mention it. “Henry, I need to know who you’re representing here. There’s a potential conflict of interest. It’ll go straight on the record if you don’t sort this out now.”

Moran blanks him. “My client is Owen Metcalfe.”

“If you are seen offering Mr Ray legal advice…”

“Mr Ray is an old friend. I bumped into him. Is that all, Steve?”

“Please,” Baron says to John, “take a seat.”

There’s a desk and four chairs in the room, plus the obligatory tape recorder. John sits and waits as the Inspector and Moran chat in the doorway. Most coppers in Leeds detest Moran. But when they’re in trouble it’s Henry they turn to for a bit of
pro bono
advice, mainly divorces. He asks Baron about the boys, if they’re happy with the new prep school, same clipped tone as always, like he’s getting the facts straight with a client. Then they shake hands, and he’s gone, not so much as a backwards glance at John.

“Just a few questions,” Baron says as he slides into a chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Clear a few things up. Do you want a duty solicitor?” He knows the answer. “Good.”

The door opens.

“I think you’ve already met DC Steele,” says Baron as the young, sallow-faced detective comes in and takes a seat. He looks cockier now, loose-limbed, pleased to be there.

Baron starts the tape and runs through the details. Then he looks at John.

“Friday evening you travel by train to Peterborough with fifty thousand pounds in your pocket to buy a car. You come back with no car and fifty thousand pounds.”

“Yes.”

“That’s exactly the amount of cash found in your Mondeo with the dead girl.”

“Fifty? I thought you said forty?”

“Is the fifty grand still in your flat?”

“Like I said, you know where I live.”

“Yes, the old high school. Full circle, eh?”

John consults his watch.

“I’ll get to the point,” says Baron.

From his jacket pocket he produces two clear plastic evidence bags and lays them flat on the table. In each bag is a twenty pound note.

“It’s Saturday. Our currency experts are playing golf and the banks are shut. But we think these notes are counterfeit.”

He sits back.

“Does this have anything to do with the wave of counterfeiting I’ve been reading about?” John asks as he takes the first bag and holds it up to the light, then brings it close to his face.

“Man in your line of work, Mr Ray, you need to be on the lookout for funny money.”

John ignores him and examines the first note carefully. It’s a fake. Reasonable quality. Easy to spot.

“You know, I’d have loved to have seen your dad’s fakes,” Baron says. “They all got taken down to London during the Old Bailey thing, I suppose.”

John isn’t paying much attention, but Baron continues.

“They were good, that’s what I’ve been told. Really good. Bit like these.”

“Last time I heard, Dad was found not guilty,” John mutters as he picks up the other envelope.

He doesn’t need to look at it for long. But most people would. It would fool almost anyone, even some cash machines. Extremely high quality. Chalk and cheese, the two notes could hardly be more different.

“Well,” he says, “I’m not going to pretend I have never seen a forged note before.”

“I’ll consider that progress.”

“They’re both snide.”

Watch what you’re saying here…

“Enlighten us,” Baron says, almost whispering.

“All right. Without touching them I can’t really tell. But the paper looks about right. Watermarks are convincing. Printed, not actually watermarks, but they’re okay. The paper’ll be acid-free, you know, for those magic pens they have on the tills at supermarkets.” He runs a finger across the envelopes. “I’m assuming, if you’ve got more of these, the serial numbers are all different…”

Baron says nothing.

“…so they used a professional numbering press. That makes sense. They’re well crafted. Decent copies, I’d say.”

He stops, sighs somewhat theatrically.

“Look, I haven’t exactly been keeping abreast of developments in the field. The holograms look a bit off, but again, who’s looking? You’d need ultra-violet to check the fluorescent detailing and a magnifying glass to get a good look at the micro-printing. But in a busy pub or a shop these’d both pass muster.”

Baron takes his time. He draws the two exhibits towards him.

“Turning up everywhere,” he says, holding up the first of the bags and looking at it closely.

“Leeds next, eh?”

“Could be,” the Inspector says. “You reckon these two are about the same, then?”

He folds the evidence bags carefully and returns them to his pocket.

“I think so,” says John. “Then again, I’m no expert.”

“Thanks for your time, Mr Ray.”

As the three of them rise to leave John realises that DC Steele has not said a word.

A minute later he’s walking up George Street where Henry Moran is leaning on a silver Mercedes.

“What was all that about?”

“Just some bullshit.”

“Is there anything you want to tell me, John?”

“You’re not my solicitor.”

“Confidentiality issues, eh, with
me
?”

“Let’s get Freddy out first.”

“Fair enough. I’ll keep you posted.”

With that, Moran turns and wanders back down the street.

Baron watches from the ugly concrete entrance of the station, not laughing, but almost.

“You’re a bad liar, John. Really bad.”

B
ack in the flat, and nothing much to do. Baron’ll be round at some point. What kind of music would suit the occasion? He scrolls through his iPod. Jazz, definitely. But what? When he’s feeling down he head-bangs to Scott Joplin piano rags at full volume. But an evening with the constabulary? Cover them in the warm jazz-spittle of Nora Jones? Too demeaning. Modern Jazz Quartet? Too cerebral. Miles Davis’
Birth of the Cool
? Yes. That should put the cavalry at ease.

He sticks a bottle of
Manchego Blanco
in the freezer and moves across to the window to watch the sun as it sinks in the sky. He smokes a cigarette. Two. Then he can’t stand it anymore. He phones Den.

“John? You’re not supposed to call me.”

“U-hu.”