Dance of Ghosts (13 page)

‘You want another?’ I asked him.

He nodded. ‘Might as well.’

I went up to the bar and ordered another large Teacher’s for Cliff and half a Stella for myself, then I took the drinks back to the table.

‘Thanks,’ Cliff said, taking the glass from me. ‘Cheers …’

I touched glasses with his and took a drink of lager. ‘So,’ I said. ‘How’s it going, Cliff?’

He shrugged. ‘Same as … you know.’

‘How’s your wife?’

‘She left me last year.’

‘Oh, right … sorry. I didn’t know.’

He shrugged again and took another drink.

I said, ‘And what about Richey? How’s he doing now?’

‘Fuck knows … I haven’t seen him for two years. He could be dead for all I know.’

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just sipped my lager and said nothing.

Cliff looked at me, a sad smile bringing a touch of light to his face. ‘It’s all right, John,’ he said kindly. ‘You don’t have
to go through all this small-talk shit with me … neither of us really need it, do we?’

‘I suppose not.’

He nodded. ‘OK, so let me get some more drinks in and then you can tell me what you want.’

‘No, you’re all right,’ I said, taking his empty glass from him. ‘I’ll get them.’

He started to protest, but his heart wasn’t in it, and I could tell that he didn’t have enough pride left to care about pride any more.

It didn’t take long to tell Cliff what I was working on. He was a good listener, and he didn’t need everything explaining to him. And, of course, he already knew who Anna Gerrish was. But in terms of any inside knowledge, that was about as far as it went.

‘Sorry, John,’ he told me. ‘But I didn’t have anything to do with the case. In fact, I didn’t even hear about it until the
Gazette
ran the story.’

‘Did Mick Bishop take charge of the investigation straight away?’

Cliff thought about that for a moment, his drunk-steady eyes roaming blindly around the room, and then eventually he said, ‘I don’t know … I mean, I suppose so, but …’

‘But what?’

He looked at me. ‘Is that what this is about? Mick Bishop?’

‘I just want to know why he took the case, that’s all.’

‘Why shouldn’t he?’

‘Come
on
, Cliff … you know what I mean. He’s a DCI,
for Christ’s sake. He’s Mick fucking Bishop. What the hell is he doing taking charge of a shitty little missing-persons case?’

Cliff shrugged. ‘Well, maybe he only took it on after the press got hold of it. You know what he’s like …’

‘No, you see, that’s the thing, Cliff,’ I said, staring intently at him. ‘I
don’t
really know what he’s like.’

Cliff stared back at me for a moment, digesting what I’d just said, and then suddenly he became quite animated – holding up his hands, vigorously shaking his head. ‘No … no way,’ he said, as firmly as his drunkenness would allow. ‘Absolutely not … I’m sorry, but I’m not getting into that.’

‘Into what?’

‘Mick Bishop. No fucking way …’

‘Look,’ I said softly, trying to calm him down. ‘I’m not asking you to grass him up or anything. I don’t want to know any details of what he’s done in the past, or what he gets up to now … I just want to know what kind of man he is.’

‘What kind of
man
he is?’ Cliff said with a bitter snort of laughter. ‘I’ll tell you what kind of man he is – he’s the kind of man who can fuck up my already fucked-up career just like that …’ Cliff tried to click his fingers, but failed. ‘He’s the kind of man,’ he went on undaunted, ‘who, if he knew I was in here talking to you about him, wouldn’t think twice about squashing me into the ground.
That’s
the kind of fucking man he is.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘But he’s not
going
to know, is he?’

Cliff shook his head. ‘I’ve got eighteen months left, John. Eighteen months, and then I’m out on a thirty-year
pension. And I’ve already got a cushy little security job lined up.’ He looked at me. ‘I’m not risking that … I just can’t. I’m sorry …’

‘OK,’ I said, smiling at him. ‘I understand …’

‘You know that I would if I could –’

‘It’s all right, Cliff,’ I assured him. ‘Honestly, it’s not a problem.’

He nodded at me, then busied himself draining his drink for a few moments, and before he had a chance to tell me that he had to get back to the station, I asked him if he’d like another quick one before he went. He made a show of glancing at his watch, but that’s all it was, and I was already on my feet with his glass in my hand when he looked back at me and slurred, ‘All right, go on then. Just one more.’

It took another couple of rounds before Cliff forgot his reticence and started opening up to me about Bishop, and after he’d rambled on about the old days for a while, I gently brought him back to the present.

‘Can you think of anything about Anna Gerrish that Bishop might want to keep quiet?’ I asked.

Cliff, quite drunk now, gave me a one-eyed frown. ‘Keep what quiet?’

‘The Anna Gerrish case,’ I said slowly. ‘Is there anything about it that Bishop might want to keep quiet? I mean, why would he
not
want her disappearance investigated?’

‘Right … right, yeah … I see what you mean. You think he’s trying to bury it?’

‘Maybe …’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘I don’t know … what do
you
think?’

Cliff took a drink and thought about it. After a while, he looked at me, his head wavering slightly, and said, ‘It was the same with your father … with Bishop, I mean. It’s always been the same with him.’

‘In what way?’

‘There’s only two things that Bishop cares about – money, and looking after himself. That’s why Jim … your father … well, as soon as he went after Bishop … he was as good as dead already.’

‘Dead?’ I said, too surprised to say anything else.

Cliff’s eyes widened and he waved his hands around. ‘No, no … no, sorry, I didn’t mean that … not
literally
dead. Shit, I’m sorry, John … I just meant, you know, that Jim never had a chance of bringing Bishop down, he never had a fucking chance. Bishop’s been doing it too long …’

‘Doing what?’

‘Making money … pay-offs, bribes, drugs … whatever. He’s made a
lot
of money over the years, a
fuck
of a lot … although God knows what he spends it on. The bastard never goes anywhere, never takes a holiday … drives a fucking Honda … lives on his own in the same semi he’s always lived in –’

‘What about family, friends …?’

‘He’s got no family, as far as I know. No friends, no wife, no girlfriend … nothing. Whatever he does with his money though, he’s fucking good at making it. Good at covering his tracks, good at sniffing out anyone or anything that might bring him down …’ Cliff shook his head. ‘Jim was never
bent
, for fuck’s sake. He was the cleanest cop I’ve
ever known. I mean, all right, the thing with the girl was pretty stupid, and there’s plenty who’d say that
whatever
your colleagues get up to, you keep your mouth shut about it … but the rest of it, the idea that Jim was on the take …’ Cliff looked up at me. ‘Your father was framed, John. Bishop set him up.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

Cliff didn’t say anything to me for a few moments, he just sat there looking at me, doing his best to keep his head steady. His eyes were getting heavier by the second now, and for a moment or two I thought he was falling asleep, but just as his head started sinking down to his chest, a glass broke behind the bar. The sound elicited the usual momentary hush, followed by muted cheers and laughter, and when I looked back at Cliff, he was sitting bolt upright in his chair.

‘Yeah, so anyway …’ he said. ‘This thing with what’s-her-name … the missing girl …’

‘Anna Gerrish.’

‘Yeah, that’s it …’ He blinked slowly. ‘What was I saying?’

‘I’m not sure –’

‘Oh, yeah … about Bishop. I mean, yeah, if you’re right about him trying to bury the case, he’s either doing it for money or to protect himself.’

‘How can there be money in it?’

‘Shit, John, I don’t know … I’m just …’ His voice trailed off as his head began dropping again and he wearily rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m fucked,’ he said. ‘I’ve had it …’ He looked at me. ‘Sorry …’

Ten minutes later we were both in the back of a taxi – Cliff fast asleep, snoring drunkenly, while I just sat there gazing out of the window, almost too drunk to despise myself.

But not quite.

It didn’t take long to get to Cliff’s house. I asked the driver to wait while I helped Cliff inside and got him settled down on the settee in his sitting room. He didn’t say very much as I loosened his tie and helped him off with his shoes – at least, he didn’t say much that I understood – but then, just as I was going, I heard him call my name, and when I turned back to him, he said, ‘Don’t worry about it, all right? This … you know … all this, everything … don’t worry about it … it’s OK.’ He smiled crookedly at me. ‘Life’s too shitty to worry about.’

I got the taxi driver to drop me back at my office. When I got there, George Salvini was taking another of his many cigarette breaks, leaning against the wall in another of his many expensive three-piece suits, and as I walked up to the door, and I saw him taking in my appearance, I wondered what he must think of me – half drunk, bruised and battered, dressed as ever in a dull black suit …

‘Ada’s just left,’ George said to me, smiling.

‘Sorry?’

‘Your secretary, Ada, she left some minutes ago. She asked me, if I see you, to tell you that everything is up to date, there’s a note for you on her desk.’

‘Right …’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

He smiled again. ‘You’re very welcome.’

I left him to his cigarette and went up to my office.

Ada’s hours of work are pretty much up to her. She basically works for as long as she needs to, and then she goes home. Some days that might mean being in the office from nine till five, or later, other days she doesn’t even bother coming in at all. It suits her, and it’s fine with me. And it’s what we agreed on when I poached her from Mercer Associates shortly after setting up my own business.

Today, clearly, there hadn’t been all that much to do.

There were some cheques for me to sign on my desk, a list reminding me of the phone calls I had to make, and – in the note that George had mentioned – a summary of the calls that Ada had taken that morning.

All of it could wait.

I went into my office, closed the blinds, and poured myself a drink. I looked at the clock on the wall. Tick, tock …

It was 15.45.

I sat down on the settee and closed my eyes.

Ripped open on the bed
.

Naked
.

Butchered
.

Bled white
.

Dead
.

I cradle Stacy’s ruined body in my arms, howling and sobbing … holding her for ever, for ever, it’s all I can do. I can’t let go. I can’t ever hold her enough …

I can’t
.

There’s nothing left
.

After a timeless time – a thousand years, a minute, a day – I wipe a smear of blood from her mouth, kiss her cold lips, and whisper goodbye. I have to let go now, Stacy. Just for a while. I have to call the police. I don’t want to. I want to stay here with you, holding you in my arms … I don’t want to let you go. But I know if I stay here, I’ll stay here for ever, and if I stay here for ever I might as well be dead. And dead’s no good to me now. Not yet. I have to attend to the business of death
.

I opened my eyes, wiped the tears from my face, and took a long shuddering drink from the whisky bottle. A flood of wretchedness welled up inside me, a feeling so awesome and desperate that it defied all logic and reasoning. Stacy was dead … for ever. The child she was carrying, our child, was dead …

For ever.

The tears filled my eyes again as I went over to the wall safe, opened it up, and took out my father’s pistol. I went back to the settee, and sat there for a while with the gun in my hand, wondering – as I’d wondered so many times before – where my father had got it from. Did he buy it? Was it police issue? Had he owned it for years, or had he got hold of it specifically to end his own life?

I slipped off the safety catch and wondered how it would feel to rest the barrel against my head and gently pull the trigger.

It wouldn’t feel like anything
, I told myself.

It wouldn’t feel like anything at all
.

Twenty minutes later, I reset the safety catch, put the pistol back in the wall safe, and lit a cigarette instead.

The office was dark and quiet when I woke up, the whole building hushed with the edgy silence of a time and place that isn’t meant to be heard. I could hear the light spit of rain on the window, the unconcerned hum of a water pipe, a low groaning creak from somewhere downstairs …

There is no silence, not anywhere. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the sound of the machine beneath your skin.

I reached for my whisky glass and took a long, slow drink, savouring the sedate heat of the alcohol.

My head hurt.

My legs ached.

It was 8.55 p.m.

Time to get going.

I lit a cigarette and set about trying to remember where I’d left my car.

An hour or so later, after I’d walked back to the Blue Boar to pick up my car – stopping only at a cashpoint in town and for a couple of quick drinks in the pub – I was driving slowly along a street of terraced houses at the back of Hey Town’s football ground. London Road looked much the same as any other residential street on the south side of
town – parked cars, satellite dishes, pavements glistening dully in the street-lit rain – and during the day there was no way of telling that this street, together with a handful of others, was at the heart of Hey’s red-light district. At night though, especially late at night, when the skinny young girls appear on the streets, and the men in cars come creeping around … well, it’s not hard to guess what’s going on then.

I hadn’t seen any working girls yet, but I guessed that as the rain was still coming down quite heavily, I’d probably find most of them up by the railway bridge at the far end of London Road.