Dance of Ghosts (10 page)

And what?
I asked myself.

Comfort her?

Hold her?

Tell her she’s better off without him?

I shook my head, locked my door, and left.

Cal Franks had at least four mobile phones, maybe more. There were his two ‘regular’ phones, which he used for straightforward, everyday calls. There was another which he’d fitted with some kind of signal booster, in case of poor reception. And then there was his ‘special’ phone, which – according to Cal – was totally anonymous, impossible to listen in to, and completely untraceable.

I didn’t know what he used this special phone for, and I didn’t want to know.

I’d already called him on one of his regular numbers before I left that morning to see if he was awake and available, and surprisingly – since he usually stayed up most of the night and only went to sleep when everyone else was getting up – he not only answered his phone and told me to come on over, he actually sounded relatively sane. Which, for Cal, was also quite surprising.

It was around nine o’clock when I pulled up outside his house. The rain was still holding off, and there was even a hint of autumn sunlight glowing palely behind the clouds. It was still pretty cold though, and the wind seemed to be picking up.

A wheelie bin had been blown over at the side of the road, and the bin bags inside had fallen out and split open on the pavement. Bits of rubbish had been picked up by the wind and were flapping around in the air – empty crisp packets, polythene bags, plastic food containers – like confetti at a wino’s wedding.

As I got out of the car and locked it, I wondered why I was bothering. Not only did the car not have a side window, but it was a cheap old pile of shit anyway. I mean,
who the hell was going to steal a twelve-year-old Ford Fiesta that was held together with body filler and carrier bags?

I pulled up my coat collar and headed along the street towards Cal’s house. It was a tall old place with black railings and steep concrete steps leading up to the door. The walls of the steps were cracked and topped with birdshit-encrusted slabs, and the front door was daubed with years of graffiti. The shiny black CCTV camera mounted on the wall over the door didn’t seem to fit with the overall shabbiness of the place, but it was an incongruity that fitted Cal to a T.

Cal had lived here since he was seventeen, by which time he’d already been thrown out by his parents and excluded from every school he’d ever been to. It wasn’t so much that he was a bad kid – although he could be kind of wild at times – nor did his alienation have anything to do with a lack of intelligence or understanding. If anything, Cal was just
too
smart for school. He got bored very easily, and when he got bored, he started looking for something exciting to do. And, for Cal, something exciting usually meant something illegal. Like credit-card fraud, or hacking, or phishing, or mobile phone scams …

He was very good at what he did.

He’d never been caught, never been arrested.

And he made a
lot
of money.

There were rumours that a few years after he’d moved into this house, which at the time had been a squat, he’d very quietly become the owner. I didn’t know if that was true or not. And, if it was true, I didn’t know if he’d bought it
legally or not. But, again, I didn’t care. I liked Cal. And Stacy had liked him too – she was the only member of her family who did – and that meant a lot to me. And it meant a lot to Cal too.

He was twenty-eight now, and he’d been helping me out with things since he was fourteen, and in all that time he’d never, ever, let me down. So, as far as I was concerned, Cal was all right.

I rang the doorbell and waited, pulling up my collar against the wind. The feeling of the house hadn’t changed from its days as a squat – although I imagined that Cal now charged some kind of rent – and as I stood there on the doorstep, I could hear various kinds of music playing in different parts of the house: some rap stuff on the ground floor, a guitar band on the second floor, an operatic voice sailing out from an open window on the third floor. It sounded good.

The girl who opened the door was no more than four-and-a-half feet tall. She was dressed in a pale-blue vest with a tiger’s head on the front, a very short threadbare skirt, black tights, and monkey boots. Plastic bangles rattled on her wrists, silver studs glimmered in her ear, and strings of coloured beads were wound around her neck, together with a knotted thong of black leather and a small plastic doll on a chain. The king-size cigarette hanging from her lip-glossed mouth was far too big for her.

‘Yeah?’ she said, looking at me with glassy eyes.

‘I’m here to see Cal.’

She took the cigarette from her mouth and looked over my shoulder. ‘Who are you?’

‘John Craine. Cal’s expecting me.’

She stared at me for a moment, then shrugged and opened the door. I stepped through into a corridor cluttered with bicycles, bin bags, and damp clothes drying on racks. A high staircase led upwards on the right, and at the far end of the corridor was a large communal kitchen. The house smelled of wet clothes, soup, and marijuana.

The girl took the cigarette from her mouth and scratched her arm. ‘Cal’s down the hall,’ she said. ‘The basement flat.’

‘Yeah, thanks.’

She wandered off up the stairs, and I headed down the hallway. At the end, a narrow stairwell with steep spiral steps led down into the basement. More CCTV cameras were mounted on the wall, and I knew that Cal was probably watching me as I moved stiffly down the steps. My legs were really aching now, and my knees didn’t seem to want to bend – a condition not especially conducive to walking down stairs – so it took me a while to reach the bottom. When I finally got there, the door to Cal’s flat – a solid chunk of reinforced steel – was already open, and Cal was waiting for me in the doorway. He looked as good as he always looked: a handsomely wasted face, an uncombed mess of jet-black hair, rings in his ears, eyebrow studs, a touch of eyeliner. He was wearing a plain black T-shirt, skinny black jeans, and black leather boots with red laces.

‘Shit, Uncle Johnny,’ he said, grinning wildly at the state of my face. ‘What the fuck have you been up to?’

By the time Cal had shown me inside and made me some coffee, and I’d sat down at one of his work desks and
briefly told him what had happened to me outside The Wyvern, I’d already realised that he was wired out of his head on something. His eyes were huge, he was twitching like a lunatic and licking his lips all the time, and he couldn’t keep still for more than a second.

‘How long have you been up for?’ I asked him as he passed me a mug of coffee.

‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged. ‘Day or two … I’m working on something …’

‘What sort of something?’

He jerked his head, indicating a worktop across the room. It was strewn with all kinds of technical stuff: several laptops in various stages of disassembly, mobile phones, wires, cables, routers, tools … bits of equipment that I couldn’t even put a name to. I looked back at Cal, waiting for him to tell me what it was he was working on, but he’d already turned away from me and was walking back across the room towards his cramped little kitchen area. I’d always wondered why the kitchen area was so poky when the rest of his flat was comparatively huge. It had originally been two basement flats, but Cal had converted it into one large living area, with a small bedroom and bathroom at the far end. It was a low-ceilinged room, painted white all over, and most of it was taken up with the tools of Cal’s trade: computers, monitors, printers, scanners, work desks, phones, cameras, TVs, recording equipment. There was a small recreation area in one corner, with a black leather settee and a huge widescreen TV, but in all the time that Cal had lived here, I’d never seen him use it.

‘So these guys who beat you up,’ he said, taking a can of
Red Bull from the fridge. ‘Are they connected with something you’re working on?’

‘Well, that’s the thing –’

‘You didn’t see their faces?’

‘I didn’t see anything. I’m not even certain that there were two of them.’

He popped the Red Bull and drank it down in one go. ‘They didn’t rob you?’

‘No.’

‘Made any enemies recently?’

I thought about Fitch, the straggly-haired dealer from The Wyvern, but Genna had said that he was all mouth, and I got the feeling that she was probably right. And then there was Preston Elliot … but somehow I couldn’t see him going to all the trouble of following me around and lying in wait for me in an alley. It just wasn’t his style.

‘There was a car –’ I started to say.

‘Have you got a cigarette?’ he interrupted.

I took out my packet. ‘Listen, Cal,’ I said, passing him a cigarette and lighting one for myself. ‘When I went to The Wyvern last night –’

‘You know the landlord there’s a meth addict, don’t you?’

‘Really?’

‘Apparently they cook it up in the kitchen –’

‘Cal,’ I said firmly.

He grinned at me. ‘What?’

‘Will you just shut up and fucking
listen
to me for a minute?’

He didn’t stop grinning. ‘Yeah, no trouble … go ahead, I’m all ears.’

‘Right,’ I sighed.

‘All ears and no mouth.’

I glared at him.

He made a zipping motion over his mouth.

I waited a moment, staring into his endearingly lunatic eyes, and then I spoke slowly and calmly. ‘Last night … before I was attacked … I think someone was following me in a silver-grey Renault.’

Cal said nothing, just raised his eyebrows.

‘I thought I’d lost them,’ I went on. ‘But just before the first guy hit me, I saw the Renault parked down the street. Now, that doesn’t
necessarily
mean that I was beaten up by whoever was following me in the Renault, but I’d say it’s a pretty good bet. Wouldn’t you?’

Cal just looked at me, his mouth clamped shut.

‘You can talk now,’ I sighed.

He smiled. ‘Did you get the number?’

‘Yep.’

‘Shit. Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?’

‘I would have if you hadn’t kept –’

‘Interrupting you?’

I looked at him. ‘Have you got a pen?’

‘Just give me the number,’ he said, grabbing the nearest laptop.

I gave it to him, and watched as his fingers skipped across the keyboard, his eyes fixed manically on the screen.

‘How long is this going to take?’ I asked, glancing at my watch.

‘That’s odd,’ he said, frowning at the screen. ‘Are you sure you gave me the right number?’

‘Yeah.’

He nodded. ‘You couldn’t have misread it, or maybe just remembered it wrong?’

‘I don’t think so. Why, what’s the matter?’

He tapped a few more keys, then shook his head. ‘It’s a blocked number. The database won’t give me any details.’

‘What does that mean?’

He carried on staring at the screen for a few moments, then he took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. ‘It means,’ he said, blowing out smoke, ‘well … it
could
mean that you’re in a lot of trouble.’

‘Why?’

He looked at me. ‘A blocked registration number usually means the vehicle’s registered with the military, the police, or secret services.’

‘Secret services?’

‘Yeah, you know, MI6, MI5, GCHQ …’ He smiled at me. ‘You haven’t been fucking around with spooks, have you?’

I shook my head. ‘Not as far as I know.’

‘If it’s a police vehicle,’ Cal went on, turning back to the screen, ‘I can probably work out a way to access the details. But if it’s military or intelligence … well, that’s a bit more tricky. More risky too.’ He looked back at me, and I could tell that he was intrigued now, desperate to know more about the case. But despite his tendency to jabber away all the time, especially when he was speeding, Cal would never just come out and ask me what I was working on. He’d always wait for me to tell him. And if – for whatever reason – I didn’t want to discuss the case
with him, he’d simply accept my decision without question.

‘Do you remember that local girl who went missing about a month ago?’ I said to him.

He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. ‘Yeah … Anne Mellish or something? She was a model –’

‘Anna Gerrish.’

‘That’s it.’

‘And she wasn’t a model. She was just …’ I paused for a moment, annoyed with myself for thinking of Anna as
just
anything – just a barmaid, just a junky, just a part-time whore. She was just a person. ‘Well, anyway,’ I went on. ‘Anna’s mother has hired me to look into her disappearance. That’s what I was doing at The Wyvern last night. Anna was a barmaid there.’

Cal nodded. ‘And what about the Renault and the guys who beat you up? What’s their connection?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What’s the situation with the police? Are they still looking for her … have they got any leads or anything?’

‘I’ll find out in an hour or so,’ I said, glancing at my watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting at 11.30 with the DCI in charge of the case.’ I looked at Cal. ‘Do you know Mick Bishop?’

He scowled. ‘Yeah … I know him. He’s a cunt.’

‘Yeah.’

Cal frowned. ‘Didn’t he have something to do with the charges against your dad?’

I nodded. ‘You could say that.’

Cal looked at me, waiting for me to go on. When I didn’t, he took the hint and changed the subject. ‘Well, anyway, I’ll
see what more I can do with the registration number if you want … it might take a while, though.’

‘Yeah, thanks, Cal.’

‘And if there’s anything else I can do …’

I shook my head. ‘Not just yet … I want to try and find out if there’s anything more to all this first.’

‘Yeah, OK,’ Cal said, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

‘But I’ll let you know as soon as I need you,’ I told him. ‘All right?’

The smile he gave me then wasn’t the grin of a street-wise hustler, it was the smile of the child he used to be. The smile of Stacy’s little nephew.

‘You know I really like working with you, Nunc,’ he said almost shyly.

‘Don’t call me Nunc,’ I said, smiling at him.