Bobby Tanner left soon after. His younger brother, Troy, had died on a boat in the English Channel. Bringing drugs in, presumably, but Jason never found out for sure. Johnny did a runner too, straight after the cabbie was shot. And that was that. Just like that, with one bullet, those days were gone. And good riddance to them.
They say two brothers from St. Leonards now ran things in Fairhaven. Good luck to them, thinks Jason. Still keeping it locally sourced.
He walks over to the fireplace, then crouches. Yep, this was the place, all right. He runs his finger across the reproduction antique tiles. Take them off, keep scraping, and you’d find a little hole Mickey Landsdowne had filled in and painted over, twenty-odd years ago. The one bullet that changed everything.
There was nothing left here now, in the Black Bridge, with its memories, and with its green tea with ginseng. All the gang gone. Tony Curran, Mickey Landsdowne, Geoff Goff. Where’s that Cosworth with a hole now? Rusting somewhere in a field?
And where was Bobby Tanner? Where was Johnny? How could he find them before they found him?”
Jason sits back down and sips his flat white. Well, he supposes, he probably knows the answer to that. Has known it all along.
He sighs, dips his biscotti into his flat white, and calls his dad.
68.
I got the photo on Tuesday morning,” says Jason Ritchie. “Hand-delivered, through the letter box.”
Father and son are drinking from bottles of beer on Ron’s balcony.
“And you recognized it?” asks Ron.
“Well, not the photo; I’d never seen the photo before. But I recognized what it was, where it was, all that,” says Jason.
“And what was it? And where was it? And all that,” asks his dad.
Jason takes out the photograph and shows it to Ron.
“Here you are. It’s Tony Curran, Bobby Tanner, and me. The three of us around the table in the Black Bridge, that’s where we used to drink. Remember, I took you there once, when you came down?”
Ron nods, looking at the photo. In front of the little gang, the table is covered in cash. Thousands, twenty-five grand, maybe, all in notes, just scattered about. And the boys all looking pleased about it.
“And where was the money from?” asks Ron.
“That time? No idea; it was one evening out of many.”
“But drugs?” asks his dad.
“Drugs. Always in those days,” confirms Jason. “That’s where I put my money. To keep it safe.”
Ron nods and Jason holds out his palms, no defense.
“And the police have got the photo?” asks Ron.
“Yep, they’ve got plenty more on me too.”
“You know I’ve got to ask, Jason. Did you kill Tony Curran?”
Jason shakes his head. “I didn’t, Dad, and I’d tell you if I did, because you know there’d have been a good reason if I had.”
Ron nods. “Can you prove you didn’t do it?”
“If I can find Bobby Tanner or Johnny, then I reckon. It’s one of them. I can understand someone else leaving the photo by the body—you know, red herring for the cops to find. But why send it to me too? Unless Bobby or Johnny want me to know they did it?”
“And you’re not talking to the police?”
“You know me. I thought I’d find them myself.”
“And how’s that going?”
