Hope Road (4 page)

“The secret is honesty,” Ray says. “We all know that even the best used car can go wrong. So we offer eighteen months’ full warranty, as well as an MOT, new tyres, new plugs, new filters, you name it. And if you’ve bought a car from us in the past, any car, any time, I’ll take it as part-ex on something else, no questions. List price. It’s that simple. I’ve tried to make buying a used car pretty much risk-free.”

We sit in a tiny office at the back of the showroom and drink ferociously strong coffee, a throw-back to his Spanish roots, perhaps. A framed picture of a Subaru rally car adorns the wall. Music is playing discreetly, and an aura of calm falls on our conversation, broken only by the shrill ringtone of his receptionist’s mobile phone, which seems to go off every minute or two.

For a secondhand car salesman, Ray is curiously shy of the camera, and claims he doesn’t much like being in the public eye. But get him on the subject of used cars and he’ll talk all day. His enthusiasm seems endless, yet he is also at pains to point out that the award is only for the Yorkshire edition of
Motor Trader
. And no, he adds, there are no plans to expand. He likes Leeds. Born and bred here, though he does keep in touch with one or two people from his dad’s side back in Spain.

We talk for a long time, about motors, music and money, the three things that seem to make John Ray tick. But eventually he’s called out to the sales floor.

“One last thing,” I ask, as he extends a large, well-groomed hand. “The name over the door. Why not change that as well?”

“Dad’s still around, you know,” he explains, a rueful smile on his lips. “And this is still his place.”

Some things, it seems, never change at Tony Ray’s Motors.

Yorkshire Post

M
illgarth is a brutal, upwards-sprawling bunker of red brick and concrete. Its central section of solid brick rises six or seven stories with no windows of any kind, more like a power station than a police station.
What do they do in there?
you’re supposed to ask. And you do.

Millgarth
. It’s a long time since the David Oluwale case, but people still remember it. A homeless black man endured months of beatings and intimidation by two officers from the station. They’d go after him for fun, knocking him half senseless then pissing on him as he lay on the ground. Or they’d drive him to some desolate, out of town location in the middle of night and leave him there, beaten and disorientated, to find his way back. Eventually they kicked him to death and dumped his body in the river. Two coppers from the old police HQ at Millgarth.

Then there was the Yorkshire Ripper. The long, desperate search for Sutcliffe was coordinated from the same building, Millgarth’s old rafters straining under the weight of tons of paperwork, the place run through with desperation and chaos, an entire police force going after one man, and going mad in the process. And they only got him by chance. After that it was torn down. The new Millgarth: hard but honest, the face of modern policing, helping to draw a line under the Oluwale affair. Still called
Millgarth
, though. That’s what they should have changed; the name, not the building.

John waits in one of four plastic seats bolted to the floor in the station’s small public entrance. On the wall behind him is a framed photo of Sergeant John Speed, fallen in the line of duty, 1984. He remembers it well. They’d been told about it at school, a moment of civic grief in a year of hatred, the miners’ strike tearing Yorkshire apart, just a few years after the Ripper had done the same.

It’s strange, he thinks as he re-reads the inscription to Sergeant Speed’s gallantry, that he’s always admired the police, despite the fact that they’ve been trying to put his dad behind bars for as long as he can remember. And there are plenty more heroes in the force, alongside the fallen ones. Den for one. She was there for him the night Joe was killed and she’s been there for him ever since. There’s heroism in that.

What now, though? Young female detective sleeping with John Ray? He wouldn’t blame Den if she ended it.
Think of your career
, someone’s gotta be whispering into her ear at this very minute.
Don’t throw it all away, Den, not for scum like that.
He wouldn’t blame her, either. Probably best for both of them, one way and another.

He’s been told to wait for Detective Inspector Baron. Familiar name. Steve Baron led the investigation into Joe’s murder. That night two years ago: Den was first on the scene, Constable Danson as she was then, but Baron arrived not long after, sprinting over from Millgarth as soon as the shooting was called in.
Bad on bad
, they call it, criminal on criminal. A lot happened that night, though. Bad
and
good. He met Den, for one thing. But was it good for her, in the long run? Perhaps only bad comes from bad if you’re police.

Den made it out of uniform after the Joe Ray case, and Baron became her boss. She’s mentioned him a few times since: good copper, not too great on compassion. CID are a funny bunch, though. They can show unending respect for the biggest arsehole in plain clothes if he’s good at his job. And Baron is good. Den never mentions him with much warmth, but a certain admiration lies close to the surface. Most young DCs would be well pleased if their careers went the way of Baron’s.

The Inspector arrives. Nods a good morning. Hardly opens his mouth. No hand shake. Straight through the double doors.

They take the first interview room they come to, sit on either side of a bare table, just like in the TV dramas. In normal circumstances John might make a comment. But nothing’s gonna be normal now, not with the Mondeo gone.

Baron’s slightly sharp mid-blue suit complements his extra-short hair. Both are meant to make him look intelligent, hard and hungry. It works, up to a point. The hair, though, is also meant to disguise a receding hairline. He can only be mid-thirties, if that.

“You’ve already met DC Steele,” Baron says as all three men take their seats.

Across the table, Steele’s face is sallow, his mouth slightly twisted, as if he’s stifling the urge to vomit. After a while John realises that it’s his natural expression.

Baron looks at his watch, then activates the tape recorder that sits at the end of the desk, right up to the wall.

John hadn’t noticed the recorder. He tries to remain calm as Baron goes through the motions, identifying all three of them. He assumes he could smoke if he wanted, but Baron doesn’t get a packet out, and Steele doesn’t move a muscle. Plus, there’s no ashtray.
Plus
, he doesn’t have any himself.

Jesus, I want a fag.

Both he and Baron have placed copies of the
Yorkshire Post
on the desk in front of them.

“Local celebrity,” says Baron, turning back to face John.

“It comes to us all.”

A pause. Baron makes a bit of a performance of scanning the article, as if he hasn’t read it already.

“We never did get anyone for Joe, I’m sorry to say.”

“I know.”

Regret? Someone took half of Joe’s head off with a shotgun, right there in the old showroom. Baron’s only regret is that his first case as a DI was a bad on bad.

“How’s
Tony Ray’s Motors
doing under new management?” Baron asks, tapping his newspaper with a finger. “Looks like a slick operation!”

“It’s doing okay.”

“Old establishment! When did the original showrooms open?”

“Sixty-three.”

It says so in the article.

“Crikey! The stuff we must have on that place, from over the years. I mean, I bet there are files bulging with it!”

“Yes, yes. I’m from a criminal family.” John looks as DC Steele. “In case you didn’t know, my father and brother were both crooks. And because of that, I am simply not allowed to run a successful business.”

Steele is unconcerned, stares right at him, the derision so firmly wiped from his face you can see the marks it left behind.

“Antonio Ray!” Baron says, ignoring John’s sarcasm. “Quite a name in these parts. How is the old man?”

“He dribbles a lot, and he thinks I’m his Uncle Alfonso. Stopped speaking a couple of months back.”

Baron’s face never slips.

John continues: “Oakwell Nursing Home. It overlooks Roundhay Park. If you ever go, take cash. They charge for breathing.”

“The things your dad never went down for, it beggars belief! He’s a legend in this building, you know.” Baron pauses. “Sorry to hear, you know, about, well, how he is.”

“And my brother? Let’s cover that ground whilst we’re at it, shall we? Joe was even worse, a real nasty piece of work. Then again, you got him a couple of times, didn’t you?”

Baron is trying not to look pleased with himself, having already got a rise out of Ray. He glances involuntarily at the door, knowing that DC Danson won’t be far away, desperate to know what’s going on. Poor Den, off the case, and suffering the indignity of being an alibi witness for Tony Ray’s son. It doesn’t seem fair. She was the first officer on the scene the night of the shooting over on Hope Road. She sponged the remains of Joe Ray’s brains off his brother’s face. Now she’s his fucking alibi. Poor Den.

“I’m not interested in your family,” Baron says, shifting in his plastic seat, trying to get comfortable. “You’re the one we’re looking at.”

He recites from memory:

“John Ray, criminal family, breaks with tradition, does well at school, then Cambridge. Spends a number of years living in Spain, before returning to the UK to train as an accountant. Fifteen years at two high-ranking accountancy firms, first London, then Manchester. Two years ago gives it all up to run the family business. Wins a prize for selling secondhand cars. No criminal record. The end.”

John smiles. “You make it sound so, I don’t know, dull.”

“I have a way with words.”

Both men smile.

“Funny thing,” Baron adds, “all those years as an accountant, big firms too, and you never made junior partner?”

“I’m not ambitious.”

“No managerial position of any kind?”

“Let’s just say I’m not good at taking orders.”

Baron stretches his arms, then lets them fall down by his sides, flexing his fingers.

“Steady profession, accountancy. It’d be an effective cover, wouldn’t it?”

“Cover for what?”

“I don’t know.”

John laughs. “My family were crims, so
I’m
a crim! Yep, I rob banks in my spare time. Little hobby of mine…”

Baron moves forward, both forearms flat on the table.

“Mr Ray. This is about a young woman found dead in the boot of one of your cars.”

“What?”

He’s bluffing. What the…

“Dead. In the boot. Beaten up, skull smashed in. Possibly raped.”

“I thought this was about a stolen car.”

“This is about murder, Mr Ray. That and forty thousand pounds cash tucked away inside the spare tyre.”

Silence.

“A dead girl,” Baron finally says, “and forty thousand in cash.”

Forty? Ignore him. Ignore the money.

“Who was she?” says John, confused. “Who was it? Was there, I mean who, who the hell was she…?”

“The victim died sometime between ten o’clock last night and two this morning. Can you account for your whereabouts for those times, Mr Ray?”

Baron doesn’t wait for an answer. He opens a brown file and takes out a photograph of the dead girl. Her head lies on one side, and her skirt is almost around her waist.

“Jesus,” John whispers, shaking his head in disbelief at the sight of her fragile, huddled body.

“You know her?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

He stares at her face, the eyes almost closed but not quite, dark lipstick smudged, some swelling to the cheeks and around the eyes. Strong features, pretty. Even in death.

A beautiful, dead face.

But he doesn’t know her. Why should he?

What the hell is this? Den? Where’s Den?

“I was
there
last night, at the awards,” he says, pointing to the newspaper, perhaps to allow him to avert his eyes from the girl, perhaps out of disbelief.

“The car,” Baron says, ignoring him.

Think. Now think…

“The car? Mondeo.” He finds it hard to think. Unknown girl dead in one his cars. And not just any car. “It just came in,” he says, desperately trying to keep himself together, to think straight. “Bought it from a bloke down on Kirkstall Road. He had it parked up,
for sale
sign in the windscreen.”

“When?”

“Monday. Monday, about twelve.”

“Funny time for someone to be selling a car, isn’t it?”

“Not if you’re out of work it isn’t. Good for me, that. Beat him down on price.”

“Kirkstall Road. What were you doing down there?”

“Coming back from Frazer’s place.”

“Social call?

“Yeah, and looking over his stock, his prices, you know. We all do it.”

Baron pauses as Steele gets up and leaves the room. He returns in what seems like seconds.

“The car,” Baron says when his colleague has retaken his seat. “Tell us more.”

“Young guy, twenties. Ehm, short brown hair, bomber jacket. He was putting the
for sale
sign in when I saw it. He wanted 900, I offered 550 cash. He looked desperate. I gave him 575.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. I’ll sell it for 800. I might even part-ex it on something better. Scrub up well, Mondeos.”

“Aren’t you a bit above bangers like that?”

“You’d be surprised. Not everybody moves up. If you’re driving a decent motor and you can trade down to something cheap but tidy, you make quick money. The neighbours’ll talk, but you’ve still got wheels. Some of my best mid-range stock comes in that way.”

“Interesting. Did you know that, DC Steele?”

Steele shakes his head, raised eyebrows, playing along.

“So, I had three hundred quid on me. I went to a cash point about half a mile further on, got three hundred more. Bought the car there and then. Locked it up, drove back to the showroom, got a taxi back and picked up the Mondeo.”