Father and Son by John Barlow Page A

that was Den. He didn’t
care about the money. He should have told her sooner, as soon as he knew she
was special. She would have forced him to choose. And he’d have chosen her, no
contest. But he didn’t tell her soon enough. She was the best thing that had
ever happened to him, and he blew it.
    “So,” she says, changing the subject. “Tell me about the adorable
redhead.”
    “Investigative journalist,” he says, “only known her a few days.” He
opens his eyes wide, as if he’s scared. “But the sex is boom-boom!”
    Jets of frothy beer shoot from her nostrils.
    “Bloody idiot!” she says, wiping her face and inspecting the front
of her t-shirt for beer. “Why is she in Leeds, I mean.”
    “She’s writing something about Dad. She got in contact with me. We
met, had a drink, y’know.”
    “Oh, I know you, Mr Ray… But, your dad? Really?”
    “Why not?”
    She pulls out a smartphone.
    “How about you start thinking with your brain instead of your cock.
Jeanette Cormac’s the name, yes?”
    Thirty seconds later she’s reading from the screen.
    “By-lines on some impressive cases, mainly organised crime and
politics.” She thumbs down the list, already shaking her head. “High-end stuff.
Contemporary. Your dad? Nah. He was interesting in the ’80s. Not now. These
days she interviews people like Bernard Sheenan.” She holds up the phone. “Ten
days ago. Right before he was murdered. Funny, that.”
    The gumbo arrives, steaming in two enormous bowls.
    “God, I haven’t had this for a while,” he says, glad to put all
thoughts of Bernard Sheenan out of his mind.
    “I’d forgotten, you think with your stomach as well.”
    “What?” he says, fork in hand, inhaling deeply as he looks for the
perfect place to dig in.
    “She’s a heavy duty crime journalist. She’s in your flat, in your
family’s business, and you have no idea why. You’re a fool.” She takes up her
fork. “It does smell good, doesn’t it!”
    He puts the first forkful of gumbo into his mouth. The flood of
tastes makes his cheeks sting. For a second he is overwhelmed. This was the
first meal they’d had together, a late night bowl of gumbo after a long evening
talking, just him and Den, a few days after his brother’s death. The smell of
warm blood had still been in his nostrils, the knowledge that nothing would
ever be the same.
    His phone rings.
    “Shit,” he says, chewing fast, twisting about in his chair as he
pulls out his phone. “Freddy. I better take it.”
    He listens, the occasional ‘yes’, but mostly he listens. A minute
later the conversation is over.
    “There were no new faces in the Park Lane last night,” he says, flipping
the phone shut. “Nothing unusual. But there’s good news.”
    “Oh yes?”
    “He just saw three police cars outside. Looks like they already know.
Saves me a job.”
    She nods slowly. “So what’s Freddy doing back at the Park Lane
tonight?”
    “Said he was on his way to the Grand.”
    “The theatre? Freddy?”
    “That’s what I thought.”
    “What was he going to see?”
    “Dunno.”
    “Didn’t think to ask? Perhaps you wouldn’t make such a great copper
after all.”
    He shakes his head, ready to tuck into his gumbo again. “Freddy’s
got nothing to do with this.”
    She smiles. “Thought you said he was in the frame?”
    He pushes his dish away, takes a long swig of beer.
    “John?” she says, putting her fork down. “I had a termination.”
    He freezes, lets the words sink in. Feels his chest heave, his eyes
closing.
    “Six months ago,” she whispers. “An abortion. I’m sorry. I didn’t
know what to do… I wanted to tell you, but…”
    She reaches out for his hand.
    But it’s not there. It’s in the air, ordering another drink.

PART TWO - SATURDAY

Chapter Twenty
    Phone. Door.
Voices.
    Three sounds, all hurting his ears.
    Den?
    Someone’s thumping on the door so hard it’s echoing inside his head,
deep and dangerous, like the thunder of