Father and Son by John Barlow Read Free Book Online Page B

tumblers with whisky and water, brings them over and
puts one in front of her.
    “What were you doing talking to Roberto?”
    She looks up, frowns.
    “What do you think?”
    “How about you tell me?”
    She takes a drink. A gulp.
    “I was getting some background on your dad. The 70s and 80s, y’know,
when he started getting into counterfeiting.”
    “Is that right?”
    “Yes, that’s right.”
    “And did you see him last night?”
    “John, I was with you last night. Don’t you remember any of
it?”
    The sad thing is he hardly does. He knows it should have been a memorable
night, great restaurant, beautiful woman, Jura. But his memory’s not been
putting in the hours recently. He doesn’t remember much.
    “Who knew?” he asks. “Who else is interested in Roberto, in the Park
Lane?”
    “I’m an investigative journalist, and I work alone. Nobody knows
where I am.”
    “You interview two men. First Sheenan, then Rob. They both end up
dead. Should I be watching my back?”
    “First off,” she says, talking down to the floor, trying to get her
thoughts together, “I think it’s a coincidence. I’m doing my job here, right? An
IRA terrorist and a professional criminal with a violent past? I work with
dangerous people. You think this is the first time I’ve interviewed someone who
got killed sometime later?”
    She looks around for cigarettes.
    “I ran out,” he says.
    “Shit.”
    “So when was the last time you saw Rob?”
    “Day before yesterday.”
    “What did you talk about?”
    “Boxing mainly.” She smiles. “I bet it’s years since anybody asked
him about his championship fight.”
    “And what did you think?”
    “I thought he was a lovely man. I’ve seen it before. Bernard
Sheenan, he was another. People don’t choose their fate. They get caught up in
things, and before they realise it their fate’s been chosen for them.”
    “Day before yesterday?”
    She nods. “I saw him a couple of days before that as well. Early
evening. He was suspicious. Didn’t want to talk. I said I’d call back.”
    “And you did?”
    “Yes. He bought me a burger, loosened up a bit. Warmed to me, I
guess.”
    “Used your feminine charms on him, eh?”
    She ignores him. “He didn’t give much away. He’s been running that
wine bar for five years. He didn’t tell me anything much. Nervous guy, I’d say.
Guarded.”
    “Rob? Nervous?”
    “Seemed that way to me. I guess when someone asks if you work for
Lanny Bride, you get nervous.”
    “Lanny! Now there’s someone who’d make you nervous!”
    “Lanny Bride? Not any more, that’s what I’ve heard.”
    “Yeah, good old Lanny, going legit. You think he’s gonna talk to
you?”
    “Perhaps my feminine charms’ll do the trick.”
    “I doubt it.”
    “Know him well, do you?”
    “Well enough.”
    “We’ll see.”
    “You’re a bloody head case.” He sits back, stretches his legs, and
watches her as she takes another drink. There’s something self-contained about
her now. Refusing to be emotional. She’s trying to think. Or trying not to.
    “It’s all about fate,” he says. “That your theory, then?”
    “It’s got a lot to do with it. You should’ve heard about Roberto’s
childhood. Awful. No wonder people end up in crime. They grow up knowing
nothing else.”
    “So did I, but I chose my fate.”
    “Yea, it must have been tough for you, growing up surrounded by all
that perfume.”
    “Cheeky cow! Anyway, who told you about the perfume?”
    “Research. My job, remember?”
    “You should’ve smelled our house!” he says, putting the glass to his
lips and finding that he’s already drunk half of it. “The place stank. Fake Chanel
everywhere.” He laughs to himself. “Once, I was only about eight, I took a
bottle of No.5 to school, gave it to this girl I liked. That night her mum came
round, brought it back. She was embarrassed, I suppose, didn’t want it, not
from the likes of us.”
    “And the perfume boxes led to