Father and Son (25 page)

They get coffee
from the Cow and Calf Snack Bar. Not bad, although nothing like the kind of
stuff John had taught her to appreciate. The coffee they’d drunk on those
magical weekends in Madrid, Seville and Barcelona was so strong it made you
growl with pleasure as you sipped it. Once you’ve got used to that, everything
else is just bath water in varying strengths.

“You know,” she says, leaning on the filthy bodywork of the Astra,
“I never understood why they call them the Cow and Calf. They look nothing like.”

There are two rock formations some fifty yards above them on the
moors. The larger of the two is a kind of natural amphitheatre, with high sides,
describing an almost perfect circle, enough room for a church inside. It stands
proud against the grey sky, its stone dark and forbidding.

Next to it is a single lump of rock, about the size of a house. It
looks modest, almost forlorn, alongside its far bigger neighbour. Both
formations are popular practice sites for local climbers; several are here now,
one or two freestylers, others with ropes.

He blows his coffee, takes a sip. The wind cuts across the moor,
buffeting them until they shiver.

“Gotta call ’em something,” he says, the paper cup in one hand, the
other stuffed deep into his pocket.

He’s trembling more than Den. And it’s not just the cold. There’s
dried blood on his collar, his suit’s a crumpled mess, and the gash above his nose
is beginning to swell. The man at the snack bar had almost turned him away.

“Big Tit, Little Tit, could’ve been,” he adds.

“That wouldn’t make sense,” she says. “You don’t get big and little
tits. Not next to each other, I mean, on the same chest.”

“Give me two minutes on the internet.”

John Ray. Facing a murder charge – two – and he’s still joking. She
wants to take his hand, to touch him, anything. But this isn’t the time. And
he’s not asking.

“I went to see her,” he says, looking up at the rocks. “Last night.
She knew everything about the bombing. Must have. How else could she have known
to speak to Roberto? And Lanny.”

“Lanny knew where she was staying, right?”

“Dunno. She gave him her card. Yesterday, at the golf club.”

“Did she write anything on it? Did you see?”

“Yes. Don’t know what, though.”

Den watches as a climber scales the Calf in less than a minute, his hands
and feet finding their holds with swift precision, as if he’s done it a hundred
times.

“Had she been tortured? Like Roberto?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You said it looked as if they’d tried to get information out of
Roberto. But Jeanette?”

He shakes his head. “When they got to her they must have known.”

“Or she was so scared she gave it up.”

“Gave
me
up. Don’t you see?”

He looks down at the gentle sprawl of Ilkley along the broad valley
bottom behind them, and puts his coffee on the bonnet of the Astra.

“I’ve been out of range,” he says, fishing his iPhone out of one of
his jacket pockets then finding the battery in another.

“I’d noticed,” she says, watching as he reassembles the phone. “I
bet you’ve got five dozen missed calls from Steve.”

“Does he know you’re with me?”

“Not just yet,” she whispers.

They both look down at the phone.

“So, what’s it to be, my friend?” she says, managing a smile. “You
gonna ring him?”

“
My friend
? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m your friend, John. But I’m about the only one you’ve
got left. And in an hour you’re gonna start having a lot more enemies.”

He thumbs through the messages.

His eyes narrow. “Shit. She left me a voicemail.”

The wind picks up. Without a word they get into the car.

“Five o’clock yesterday,” he says, looking with undisguised horror
at the phone.

John?

It’s Jeanette’s voice. She speaks clearly, almost a monotone. He can
imagine her frowning as she speaks.

The Semtex came into the country in champagne crates. Four men
involved in the shipment, plus a courier. Your brother, Sheenan, Roberto and Reid.
You know who the courier was. They won’t stop, John. I’m telling you, they
won’t stop. I should have warned you sooner. I’m sorry. I tried. Get away. Now.
Do it now.

Then, as an afterthought:

Look after yourself.

“Again?” he says.

“I heard.”

“They must have seen me. The night I brought the van over. They must
have seen my face. Sheenan, Roberto and Reid, waiting there for the pick up.
Now it’s just Reid and me. And he’s coming for me. On Lanny’s orders, I bet.”

“Reid’s dead. This morning.”

She tries to gauge his reaction.

There is none. There’s nothing left, not a drop of emotion to wring
out of his big, exhausted body.

She gives it a few seconds. Shifts in her seat.

Then, hardly knowing what she’s doing, she grabs his hair and yanks
his head around until they’re facing each other, close enough to smell each
other’s breath. She pulls his hair hard, shaking his head from side to side in
a sudden fit of desperation.

Nothing.

He seems on the verge of losing consciousness.

With her other hand she slaps the side of his head. He doesn’t lift
his hands. Lets her do it. Again. Then again.

Panting now, she looks around, at the moors, the car park. There’s
nobody to see them, no one’d hear her, not in this wind. She’s alone in a car
with him. What if Steve’s right?

She releases her grip.

Still he doesn’t move. But a tear is making its way slowly down his
cheek.

“I killed a baby,” he says quietly.

“No, John, no…”

“Two weeks old. I killed it.”

“You didn’t.”

He coughs, pulling out a hanky too late to catch a flood of bile as
it courses up from his stomach. The car fills with the stink of old alcohol and
chlorine as it pours onto his thighs and trickles through onto the passenger
seat.

“Look,” he says, fumbling with his phone.

“C’mon, John. This can’t wait. Ring Baron. Or I will, whatever…”

“Look! This is what I did,” he says, his hands shaking as he prods
the phone’s tiny screen, looking for something.

“Shall I ring?” she says, still looking around. “They’ll have
someone pick you up.”

“Watch,” he says, as he finds the YouTube clip.

Reluctantly, she watches it with him.

There’s something about the tiny screen, the way it seems to cram
images into a space way too small for them. Especially old video. Everything
appears indistinct, unreal. The people look like faded, indistinct versions of
themselves. Older. Familiar.

The young man emerges from the rubble, holding a dead baby…

Suddenly he fumbles with the phone, pausing the video and holding
the phone close up to his face.

“It’s him. He’s the father,” he says.

“What?”

Too late. The car fills with the shrill ringtone of her phone,
making the speakers in the doors rattle.

“You not going to answer that?” he says.

She lets it ring, six, seven times.

Then she answers.

“
Den?
” The voice is Baron’s. “
Ilkley. We’ve got a team on
the way.
”

John freezes. But only for a second.

Den is already shaking her head, imploring him with her eyes, no, no…

“
Den? Are you there? It’s Steve…
”

John’s already reaching for the door handle.

No, no, she’s telling him, mouthing the words silently. Begging him
not to go. It’s not what it looks like. No, no, no…

He pulls himself quickly out of the car, a man betrayed, but
accepting it. Then he pauses, smiles, his face full of love and forgiveness.

A second later he’s on the bike.

“
…Den! Answer for christsake. Den?
”

“Yes, I’m here,” she says as the Kawasaki thunders into life,
throwing up a massive cloud of gravel and dirt as it catapults out of the car
park.

“
Den!
”

“I don’t know anywhere else in Ilkley,” she says, watching as the
bike quickly becomes a spot in the distance, then disappears over the crest of
the nearest hill at a hundred miles an hour.

He pushes the bike
hard, leaning down until his stomach touches the tank, the heavy, guttural
vibrations of the engine sending his body numb. The Sunday traffic is light,
and he weaves through it easily, horns sounding behind him, cars pulling out of
the way as he flies past.

Three strokes? Bollocks to your three strokes. You’ll tell me this
time, Dad. All these years and you’ve been trying to hide it, to ignore it.
Well it won’t go away now. Joe and Lanny were importing Semtex for terrorists,
and you knew about it. You must have done. Looked the other way, eh? Not any
more.

He sends the engine into a deafening whine as he drops down through
the gears, eases onto the bypass, then lurches forward again as he takes it
straight back up to fifty, sixty, seventy…

Made your confession, did you, Dad? Tell the priest,
mea culpa
,
and all is forgiven. Well, that’s no good now. You knew. Lanny and Joe couldn’t
have done it on their own. A bit of advice, a useful name here and there? Tony
Ray wouldn’t have been involved, oh no, that’s not the way to stay out of jail
all your robbing, lying life. But you knew, Dad, you knew. And now Lanny’s
gonna have me killed, like he’s had everyone else killed.

It’s started to rain, a fine, constant drizzle. His jacket is
buttoned up, but it billows with the wind at the back. He feels the rain on his
neck, little streams running along his back like cold fingers of metal slowly
taking hold of him.

Lanny and Joe? They were ambitious, never passed up an opportunity.
But then Joe decided to use his little brother. The most dangerous part of the
operation, and they sent John Ray, fresh out of university, to do the dirty
work. Did Dad know that? Could he have stopped it? Would he have?

Only one way to find out. Look him straight in the eyes. Three
strokes? His eyes still work.

He pushes the Kawasaki harder, almost losing control as 750ccs take
him screaming through the wind and rain.

Where has John
gone? Den asks herself, taking it a little slower as she too returns to Leeds.
It’s not a long drive when the roads are clear. He should be safely locked up in
Millgarth, or lying low somewhere, if he knows what’s good for him. Does he,
though? She’s not sure. But she knows he’s not a murderer.

There’s something else on her mind, something that’s been nagging
her all morning.

Dare she?

She has more information than Baron.

Looks at the clock. An hour, that’s all she’s got.

Dare she? Last shot?

She thinks it through. Reid’s dead. They’re all dead. All those
involved in the shipment. Baron doesn’t know it yet, he doesn’t know the
connection. But she does. They’re all dead, apart from John. And he’s next.

She swallows hard, wishes she had a fag.

They’re all dead, even Reid.

This is revenge, has to be.

Where do you start?

“God, I hate
Macs,” says Steele, prodding the keyboard as if it’s infectious. “An’ I hate
folk that have ’em. Pay twice the price for a laptop ’cos it’s got a pink cover
and a bloody apple on the back? Dickheads.”

No one’s listening to him. He doesn’t care. Less than ten hours’
sleep since Thursday and he’s running on empty. So is Baron. They’re gonna need
to get their heads down soon. Adrenalin only takes you so far, and they got
there yesterday.

He runs his hands down the edges of the sleek aluminium case,
loathing its pointless elegance, its preening self-assuredness. It’s not John
Ray’s computer, but it’s the kind of thing he’d have.

“And why save links to a load of yachting websites?” he asks out
loud.

“It’s a message for Ray,” Baron says, looking up from a pile of
witness statements which are telling him absolutely nothing.

Steele snorts in frustration.

“And the champagne?”

“It’s a
message
,” Baron repeats.

They both know it’s a message. From Jeanette Cormac to John Ray. Must
be. The sites were added one after the other on Friday morning, plus the Veuve
Clicquot site. The yachts mean John Ray; the champagne means the Leeds bomb.
What they don’t know is why.

“Friday morning, only Roberto was dead,” Steele says.

“And Sheenan,” Baron adds, returning to his file.

“If our investigative journalist knew about the champagne, she must
have known about the bomb,” says Steele.

Deputy Superintendent Kirk is standing in the middle of the room,
deep in thought. Around her people come and go, looking down at papers, or
speaking into phones, everyone going a little faster and more efficiently now
that she’s in charge.

“We
know
,” she says, coming over and regarding the screen
with suspicion, as if it’s hiding the truth from them. “It’s a warning.
Whoever’s doing this is trying to bury the truth by picking off everybody
involved.”

Steele shakes his head. He doesn’t like the theory, but what else is
there?

“Sheenan,” he says, “murdered on his deathbed.”

“One,” she says.

“Then Roberto Swales.”

“Two.”

“Now Reid. But what about Cormac? Why kill her? Because she
knew
?”

The Super rests a hand on Steele’s shoulder.

“That’s what we’re going with, John. And if we’re right, whoever
else was involved is in danger.”

Baron looks up again.

“John Ray? He’s still our main man, no? Or has something changed?”

Multiple murderer? It can’t be Ray
, she
tells herself.
Not this
.

“We’ll see, as soon as you find him,” she tells Baron, with just a
hint of rebuke.

Before he has time to think of a reply, a young WDC walks briskly
over from the other side of the room.

“Ma’am, we’ve got a connection,” she says, like a girl-guide coming
to collect her
Job Well Done
badge. “We got Jeanette Cormac on CCTV, the
day before Roberto Swales was murdered, turning up towards the Park Lane. And
this,” she holds up a clear evidence bag with a business card inside, “was
found in her things. The Ministry of Eternal Hope.”

Baron is on his feet, dropping the papers he’s been reading and not
bothering to pick them up.

“It’s Holt…”

“The church?
That
Holt?” the Super asks.

“Yes. His job?” Baron asks the WDC, his voice raised as he pulls his
jacket on. “He works at Tony Ray’s nursing home, right?
RIGHT?
”

The WDC nods. “He’s Tony Ray’s carer.”

But Baron’s already gone.

And Steele’s not far behind.

Kirk and the WCD look at the open door.

“Too much testosterone, not enough sleep,” the Super says. “Let’s
see what we can dig up on this Holt character, shall we?”