Dance of Ghosts

10

As I followed DC Wade along the corridor back to the lift, I was half thinking about Mick Bishop — the things he’d said, the things he hadn’t said — and at the same time I was half looking out for anyone with a skull ring on their finger. I still wasn’t totally convinced that Bishop had anything to do with me getting beaten up, but his reaction when I’d hinted at it, together with the fact that he hadn’t asked me how I’d received the injuries to my face, had given me a lot to think about. But, even so, I wasn’t really expecting to see the hand that formed the fist that had smashed into my head last night …

And I didn’t.

What I did see, though, as the lift door opened and I stepped aside to let some people out, was a face I hadn’t seen for a long time. His name was Cliff Duffy. He’d been a DC when my father had died, and he was still a DC now. Our eyes met as he passed me by, but we didn’t openly acknowledge one another.

I kept my eye on him as I followed DC Wade into the lift, watching which way he went, and just as the lift doors were closing, I reached out and held them open, said ‘Hold on a minute’ to Wade, and before he could stop me I walked quickly along the corridor and caught up with Cliff Duffy just as he was entering a room. He stopped and turned round as I touched his arm, and as I made a show of shaking his hand and smiling broadly at him, I whispered under my breath,’ Blue Boar, half an hour … it’s important, OK?’

He didn’t answer me, just carried on shaking my hand, but the almost imperceptible nod of his head told me that he’d heard me. I gave him a parting pat on the arm and went back to the lift, where DC Wade was waiting impatiently for me.

‘Sorry,’ I told him. ‘Cliff’s an old friend of my father’s …’

Wade said nothing, just pressed the button for the ground floor.

About ten years ago, Cliff Duffy had got in touch with me about a problem he was having with his eighteen-year-old son. The problem, Cliff had explained to me, was that he’d been working on a small-time fraud case that had unexpectedly developed into a much bigger operation which involved several high-profile politicians, including the MP for Hey West, Meredith Chase, who at the time was a member of the Shadow Cabinet. Cliff’s role in the operation was relatively minor, but he’d been part of a surveillance team that had managed to obtain a number of photographs showing Meredith Chase in a series of intimate situations with a seventeen-year-old boy. Unfortunately for Cliff, he’d made the mistake of taking some of these photographs home with him one night, and even more unfortunately, it just happened to be the night when his estranged son, Richey, had let himself into his parents’ home in the early hours of the morning, looking for anything he could steal and sell in order to fund his drug habit. This wasn’t the first time Richey had made such a visit, and although Cliff and his wife were devastated every time it happened, they’d learned to simply swallow their despair, keep quiet about it, and accept it. And they would have been quite happy to do the same this time if it wasn’t for the fact that Richey, it seemed, had stolen the surveillance photographs of Meredith Chase.

‘So,’ Cliff had said to me, ‘you can see the situation I’m in. Once Richey realises who the man in the photographs is, the first thing he’s going to think of is blackmail. Or he might just sell the pictures to the tabloids if the price is right. Either way, my career would be over.’

He didn’t say it, but I think Cliff knew that if the worst came to the worst, it wouldn’t only be his career that was over, but his marriage too. The shame and embarrassment of their son’s criminal lifestyle coming to light would have been too much for Mrs Duffy to bear, and although I’d never met her, I got the impression that she blamed Cliff for all their son’s problems.

The reason Cliff had brought his problem to me was that, firstly, he knew me fairly well having worked with, and respected, my father over the years, and he believed that he could rely on me to be discreet. And secondly, his son Richey was always on the move — living in squats here and there, staying with friends, sometimes sleeping rough — and Cliff simply didn’t have time to go looking for him because he was still involved in the Meredith Chase investigation. Also, while Cliff didn’t actually admit it, he’d never been particularly good at detective work, which was why he’d remained a DC for most of his career.

So, anyway, I told Cliff that I’d see what I could do, and within a couple of days I’d traced Richey to a squat in North London, and after making sure that he hadn’t made any copies of the photographs, I simply stole them back and returned them to Cliff.

He was so incredibly relieved and grateful that not only did he give me a very generous cash bonus, he also promised me, hand on heart, that if he could ever do anything for me, anything at all, all I had to do was ask. And although I think he probably regretted this offer when I asked him, there and then, if he could find out what had happened to the gun that my father had used to shoot himself, and if possible return it to me, he didn’t renege on his promise. It took him a while, and I’m still not exactly sure where he got it from, or how, but he did.

To this day, Cliff has never asked me why I wanted the gun. And I wouldn’t have known how to answer him if he had.

It was close to two o’clock when Cliff finally showed up at the Blue Boar, and by then most of the lunchtime trade had finished and the pub was beginning to empty out. It was a smallish place in a quiet side street in the Dutch Quarter, an old part of town that’s known for its steep cobbled lanes and narrow houses.

I was sitting at a table near the far end of the bar when Cliff came in. I raised my hand to let him know where I was, and watched him as he made his way over. He was a beaten-down man, a man who’d long since given up caring about anything. He had a mournful face, with a down-turned mouth and sagging cheeks, and he walked with a slouching air of resignation. He looked pretty much like what he was: a just-about-functional drunk.

I had a large Scotch waiting for him on the table, and as soon as he’d shaken my hand and sat down, he picked up the glass, took a drink, put the glass back down, then immediately picked it up again and took another drink, this time finishing it off.

‘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.