Hope Road by John Barlow Page A

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