Father and Son Read Online Free PDF Page B

five grand a month is the only measure
of your character.
    John has told Den everything he knows about Roberto. There wasn’t
much to tell. Rob had worked for his dad until the Old Bailey trial, at which
point he disappeared for a few years, finally resurfacing as an employee of a
young Lanny Bride.
    “So,” says Den, “why don’t we hear what your dad’s got to say.”
    “Say? You haven’t seen him recently…”
    “Another stroke?”
    “That and general decline.”
    “Can he hear? Understand?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’ll do,” she says, jumping out of the car.
    She looks like a teenager, lithe and alert. The last twelve months
might have taken the bloom off her, but she’s still young, and it still amazes
him that she’d ever had the slightest interest in him.
    But she had.
    Then you threw it away, John.
    They stand at the electric gates as a new member of staff double
checks John’s details. The gate is set in a fifteen foot high metal fence painted
matt black and running all the way around the perimeter of the house and
gardens.
    “Is this to stop people getting in or out?” she says, resisting the
temptation to hold her warrant card up to the camera and tell ’em to get a move
on.
    A moment or two later the gate swings slowly open and they walk into
Oaklands, an old mill owner’s residence stuffed with oil paintings and
sculptures and over-qualified staff, plus several dozen senile people who pay
for it all and have no idea why.
    Tony Ray has a corner room on the ground floor. His double-glazed
French windows give directly onto a raised terrace scattered with wrought iron
tables and chairs. The terrace looks out across a large, fiercely manicured
garden in which several gardeners in overalls are now kneeling over flower
beds, replanting.
    John and Den pick their way through the tables. One of the French
windows of the corner room is slightly ajar. From inside they can hear the
television.
    “Hi Dad,” John says, poking his head inside. “Look who’s come to see
you.”
    Tony Ray doesn’t move. He’s in a high-backed armchair, staring at
the television. The trousers of his turquoise shell suit have ridden up, creased
round his knees so that most of his shins are visible, the skin shiny and yellow.
His jacket is unzipped to the stomach, the vest beneath it showing signs of
breakfast. Five thousand quid and they dress him like a dishevelled clown.
    As John steps into the room, a man looks up from the floor.
    “Morning!” he says after a moment’s pause, kneeling as he breaks into
a broad smile. “I’ll not be a second.”
    Den appears behind John, and they watch as the man flattens out a
Persian style carpet, then gets to his feet.
    “Dry cleaned. That’s a bit better, isn’t it, Tony?” he says, nice
and loud over the noise of the television.
    There’s an identity card clipped to the breast pocket of his
overalls. The photo is recent. He’s in his mid-forties, balding mousy hair,
pale face.
    “I’m Graeme,” he says, still smiling. “You must be John.”
    “My reputation goes before me, does it?”
    “Ha! He mentions you all the time,” he says, nodding at Tony, who is
staring at the television, ignoring them all. “Not today, though. Bit under the
weather. Anyway,” he says, “I’d better be going.”
    He’s already tapping at the screen of a handheld device as he makes
his way out through the internal door which, like all fire doors on the premises,
is left wide open.
    “You all right, Dad?” John says, closing the door.
    Tony Ray now looks up, taking his eyes off the TV for the first time.
The news bulletin has just finished and now there’ll be chat shows until lunchtime.
    “Shall I turn this off?” he says. “You don’t normally have it on in
the mornings, do you?”
    The old man nods, his eyes widening as he recognises Den. John
switches off the TV, and Tony Ray now lifts a hand, pointing to a couple of chairs
set against the wall at the back of the room. His arm