Dance of Ghosts

16

She was lying on her back in the shallows of the pool, completely naked, her body draped limply over a large sack of rubble. Her bone-white skin was streaked with grainy black mud and silt. One arm was twisted back under her body, and both her legs were bent at unnatural angles. I guessed she’d been thrown down the bank, or just dropped, probably when she was already dead, and the fall had broken her legs. There were dark gashes all over her body, possibly stab wounds, and a larger opening in the right side of her abdomen. I focused the torch beam on her neck, looking for the half-moon necklace that her mother had told me she always wore, but there was nothing there.

‘John?’ Cal said. ‘Are you there?’

‘Yeah …’

‘Are you sure it’s her?’

‘As sure as I can be.’

‘Where is she?’

I told him.

‘And where are you?’ he said.

‘At the top of the bank, about ten feet above her.’

‘Stay there,’ he said firmly. ‘Don’t go anywhere near her, OK?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you going to call the police?’

‘I have to.’

‘Bishop?’

‘No … I’ll just call 999. Bishop’s going to find out eventually, but I don’t want to have to deal with him straight away.’

‘All right, but we have to get our story straight first, before you call anyone — ’

‘What story?’

‘Shit, John,’ he said. ‘Think about it … they’re going to want to know how you found her, aren’t they? And you can’t tell them what we’ve been doing all day, all this shit with the CCTV cameras — ’

‘They won’t care about that.’

‘Maybe not, but if they start sniffing around me, which they would … well, I’d be fucked, John. Well and truly fucked.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘How about if I just tell them that I was following up on what Tasha told me? Bishop already knows that I talked to her, so if I just tell them what she told me about Anna getting picked up that night … all I’d have to say then was that I followed up on that information by driving around looking for places where her body might have been dumped … what do you think?’

‘It’s not very believable.’

‘I know … but it’s pretty much what actually happened, isn’t it? Believable or not, it’s not too far from the truth. The only thing I’d be keeping from them is how we narrowed down the search area.’

‘Yeah, I suppose …’ Cal said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe you should keep the Nissan out of it too? Bishop’s going to be running the murder investigation, isn’t he? And if he has got some kind of link with the Nissan … well, maybe it’s just best to tell him as little as possible.’

‘Yeah, but I texted him the registration number, remember? He already knows that I know about the Nissan. Although …’

‘What?’

‘Well, there’s going to be a full-scale murder investigation, isn’t there? And, yeah, Bishop’s going to be in charge of it. But if he’s got something to hide, he won’t just have to hide it from me any more, he’ll have to keep it from everyone else who’s involved in the investigation.’

‘Yeah, everyone who’s not in his pocket.’

‘They’re not all bent, Cal.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘Shit …’ he sighed. ‘This is a right fucking mess.’

‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’ll call the police now, and when they get here I’ll tell them as much of the truth as I can without mentioning you, OK?’

‘And what about Bishop? What are you going to tell him?’

‘I don’t know … I’ll see what happens.’

‘That’s it? You’ll just “see what happens”?’

‘Yeah.’

‘It’s not much of a plan, John.’

‘Yeah, well,’ I said, ‘the best-laid schemes of mice and men …’

‘What?’

‘They gang aft agley.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ I muttered, looking down at Anna’s pale body … naked, butchered, bled white …

Dead.

For ever …

‘John?’ Cal said. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Not really …’

‘Do you want me to — ?’

‘Listen, Cal. I’ll call you later, OK?’

‘I can come out there if you want.’

‘No … it’s OK. I’ll just … I’ll call you later.’

The first police car turned up about fifteen minutes later — two uniformed constables in a patrol car — but even as I was showing them where the body was, more vehicles began to arrive, and within about an hour or so the once-gloomy isolation of the lay-by had been transformed into a brightly lit hive of activity. A crime-scene tent had been erected, floodlights blazed, there were uniformed officers all over the place, CID detectives, scenes-of-crime officers, a doctor, pathologist, photographer … all of them bustling around, doing what they had to do, which included asking me lots of questions. By the time Mick Bishop finally arrived, I must have told my story at least three or four times already. But as Bishop got out of his Vectra and immediately began taking control of the scene, I knew that it was going to be the story I told him, and how I told it, that really mattered.

I was sitting in the back of a car with a female officer called DC Roberts when Bishop first arrived. Roberts was asking me some more questions — and also, I think, just keeping an eye on me — and as she carried on talking, I watched Mick Bishop striding around the lay-by, doing his thing — barking out orders, demanding answers, telling people where to go and what to do. He never once looked over at me. He spent very little time at the actual crime scene either. I saw him go through the gap between the end of the bank and the hawthorn trees, and in the bright white light of the floodlights I saw him gazing down at the pool below, but he didn’t go any further. He just stared down at Anna’s body for a while, asked a few questions, then turned round and came back.

And now, I could see, he was heading towards me.

He looked tired, his skin even paler than usual in the blaze of sterile white light, and there was a depth of cold determination to his eyes that I hadn’t seen before. I didn’t like the look of it at all. As he came round the back of the car, DC Roberts opened the door for him.

‘We’re going to need lifting equipment to get the body out,’ he said to her. ‘Sort it out, OK?’

‘Sir,’ she said, closing her notebook and getting out of the car.

Bishop waited for her to leave, then got in, sat down beside me, and closed the door.

‘Why didn’t you call me?’ he said calmly.

‘I called the police — ’

‘Why didn’t you call me?’

‘I didn’t have your number.’

‘I gave you my card.’

‘Yeah, I lost it — ’

‘Bollocks.’ He stared angrily at me. ‘I told you, didn’t I? I fucking told you not to do anything without telling me first.’

‘I was just driving around — ’

‘Yeah, so I’ve heard. You were just driving around and you just happened to find her. Is that the best you can do?’

‘It’s the truth.’

‘Like fuck it is.’ He stared at me. ‘How did you know, John? How did you know where she was?’

‘I didn’t — ’

‘Come on, John,’ he said, smiling thinly. ‘You can tell me. Look, there’s no one else here, just you and me … whatever you say to me now, I can’t use it. So come on, humour me, how did you find her?’

‘I looked.’

‘That’s it? You looked.’

‘Yeah. It wasn’t that difficult, really. I just asked a few questions and went where the answers took me. Anyone could have done it if they’d made the effort.’

‘What are you trying to say?’

I shrugged. ‘Nothing … I’m just answering your question.’

We looked at each other in silence for a few moments, Bishop tapping his ring finger on his knee, his mouth tight, his eyes focused … and I could imagine the hum of his brain, the busy grey flesh behind his eyes, trying to work things out — assessing the options, running things through, considering this, considering that …

I was so tired — and drained by the speed — that my own grey flesh was dancing like a brain-damaged boxer.

Eventually, Bishop sighed and said, ‘You know what your trouble is, don’t you?’

‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

He smiled. ‘You’re just like your father. He was a fucking pain in the arse too. And look where it got him.’

About an hour later, I was driven away to Eastway police station where I spent another hour or so sitting around, waiting to have my fingerprints and DNA taken again, for elimination purposes. I was then escorted to an interview room for further questioning.

‘DCI Bishop’s still at the crime scene,’ a uniformed PC told me. ‘But he shouldn’t be long. So if you’d just like to wait in here until he’s available …’

‘Can’t someone else do it?’ I said.

‘Sorry … DCI’s orders.’

He closed the door, and I sat down and waited.

I just have to wait. And wait …

And I wait.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday … long days and eternal nights of oblivion, living for nothing, waiting for nothing … what is there to wait for? DI Delaney will call me soon about the DNA results from the piece of flesh retrieved from Stacy’s stomach, and then I will either know or not know the identity of the man who raped and butchered the love of my life. But even if the killer is identified, even if he is arrested, charged, tried and convicted … what difference will it make?

What happened cannot be unhappened.

Stacy will always be dead.

And for ever is a long long time.

So why do I wait?

What am I waiting for?

It’s Friday 27 August, about 10.30 at night, and I’m sitting in the front room, drinking whisky, trying to drink myself to sleep. This is where I sleep now. I haven’t been in the bedroom since the day it happened. I can’t go in there any more. I spend my nights sitting on the settee, staring at the television, drinking whisky — and taking whatever drugs I have — until I pass out. And then I wake up and start all over again.

Tonight, I’m purely drunk. I have a couple of grams of cocaine somewhere, but I don’t want cocaine now. I don’t want to be awake. I don’t want to think about anything. I just want to drink and drink and stare at the pictures on the television screen until I can’t see anything any more …

And that’s what I’m doing when I hear a faint sound from the hallway, a soft metallic clack. It sounds like the letterbox flapping shut, the familiar sound of post being delivered … but it can’t be. Not at this time of night. I almost ignore it, too drunk to care if I’m hearing things or not, but for some reason I find myself stumbling to my feet and shuffling out into the hallway … and there, on the floor by the front door, is an envelope. A plain white envelope. I stare at it for a moment, then lean down and pick it up. My name is typed on the front — JOHN CRAINE — but nothing else. No address, no stamp.

I open the front door.

There’s no one there.

I walk up the garden path, open the gate, and look up and down the street.

There’s no one there.

I go back into the house, into the front room, and open the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of plain white writing paper. I take it out, unfold it, and read the typed message:

The DNA retrieved from the hair and flesh sample in Stacy Craine’s stomach is a 100 % match with the DNA profile of ANTON VINER. Viner was convicted in 1977 for aggravated rape and sentenced to 15 years. He was released in 1985. He was arrested again for sexual assault in 1989, but the charges were dropped. Viner’s current address is: 27 School Lane, Hey, Essex, HE15 9ES. This information will NOT be forwarded to DI Delaney until 09.00 tomorrow morning (Sat 28 August).

I read it again, and again … and again. There’s no signature, no name, no indication who it’s from. But it has to be from someone who either works in the crime lab or who has access to someone who works in the crime lab. I think about it … dredging through the sludge of my memory for anyone I know who could possibly fit the bill, and the only two names I come up with are Leon Mercer and Cliff Duffy …

Could either of them have sent it?

Does it matter?

I read the message again …

And again.

And, drunk as I am, I know what I have. I have an anonymous message giving me the name and address of the man who killed Stacy. A man called Anton Viner. A convicted rapist. I have his address … I know where he is. And in roughly ten hours’ time, I know that he’ll be arrested and taken into custody.

But until then …

Until then …

He’s mine.

It was almost 10.30 when the door to the interview room opened and Mick Bishop came in. He was accompanied by a haggard-looking man in a shitty brown suit, who he didn’t bother introducing. The two of them just sat down opposite me, and the man in the brown suit unwrapped two cassette tapes, loaded them into a tape-recorder, and turned it on.

‘Right,’ Bishop said wearily, his voice on automatic. ‘This interview is being tape-recorded. My name is DCI Michael Bishop, Hey CID. Also present is …’

‘DS Alan Coleman, Hey CID.’

‘And …’ Bishop looked at me. ‘State your full name, please.’

‘John Craine.’

‘The date is 8 October 2010, 10.31pm. This interview is being conducted at Eastway police station in Hey …’

As he carried on going through the procedure, advising me of my rights, explaining this and explaining that, I very nearly fell asleep. It was too hot in there. Stuffy. The air felt used up, as if it had been breathed too many times. I wanted a cigarette. I wanted a drink. I wanted to go home and go to bed and close my eyes and forget about everything.

‘Mr Craine?’ Bishop said.

‘What?’

‘Do you understand what I’ve just told you?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Good. OK … let’s get on with it.’ He looked at me. ‘At 18.37 this evening you called the police to report the discovery of a body in a lay-by on Great Hey Road. Is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’d like you to tell me what you were doing there.’

‘I’m a private investigator. I was recently hired to look into the disappearance of a young woman called Anna Gerrish. After making some enquiries, I came to the conclusion that she’d been abducted from London Road in the early hours of the morning and that her abductor had driven off along Great Hey Road in the direction of Hale Island. So I followed that route, keeping my eyes open for places where a body might possibly be dumped, and the lay-by was just one of those places.’

Bishop just stared at me. ‘Did you search anywhere else?’

‘Not really …’

‘Did you search anywhere else?’ he repeated. ‘Yes or no?’

‘I stopped at a few other places, but I didn’t actually get out of the car — ’

‘So,’ he said. ‘Let me get this straight — you were driving along Great Hey Road, looking for Ms Gerrish’s body, and the first place you stopped at … or rather, the first place you stopped at and got out of the car, was the lay-by. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how did you know exactly where to find the body?’

‘I didn’t … I just looked around — ’

‘You just looked around?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you found it?’

‘That’s right.’

‘He didn’t say anything for a moment, just carried on looking at me, then he said, ‘All right, let me ask you something else. How did you know that Anna Gerrish was dead?’

‘I didn’t — ’

‘But you went looking for her body anyway?’

‘She was missing,’ I said. ‘No one had heard from her for a month. I thought there was a fairly good chance that she was dead.’

‘But you didn’t know for sure?’

‘No.’

He paused again for a moment, slowly nodding his head, as if he was digesting what I’d just told him and carefully considering what to ask me next — but I knew it was all a show. He knew exactly what he was doing. And I was pretty sure that I knew exactly what he was doing too: not asking me anything about Tasha, or what she’d told me; not asking me anything about the Nissan, or the driver; not mentioning anything about the registration number I’d texted him. He didn’t want any of that on tape.

He looked down, sniffed, ‘then looked up at me again. ‘Where were you on the night that Anna Gerrish disappeared, Mr Craine?’

‘Where was I?’

He nodded. ‘On the night of Monday 6 September, the early hours of Tuesday morning — where were you?’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Think about it.’

I thought about it, then shook my head again. ‘It was over a month ago, I can’t remember. I was probably in bed — ’

‘Probably?’

‘Yeah, probably.’

‘But you can’t remember?’

‘No …’ I looked at him. ‘Can you remember where you were that night?’

He stared back at me. ‘I was here, in this very room, from midnight until three in the morning. I was interviewing a witness about an alleged assault.’

I smiled at him. ‘You’ve got a good memory.’

‘You think this is amusing, Mr Craine? A young woman, stabbed to death … her body dumped in a lay-by … you think that’s funny?’

There was no point answering that, so I didn’t.

Bishop just looked at me for a few moments, then he turned to DS Coleman beside him and said, ‘All right?’

Coleman nodded.

Bishop glanced at his watch. ‘Interview terminated at 22.41.’

Coleman turned off the tape-recorder.

‘Is that it?’ I said.

Bishop nodded.

‘What about — ?’

‘The interview’s over,’ he said, turning to DS Coleman. ‘Give us a few minutes, will you, Alan?’

With another silent nod of his head, Coleman got to his feet, removed the two tapes from the recorder, and left the room.

Bishop waited for him to close the door, then he sat back in his chair, crossed his legs, and smiled at me. You look tired, John.’

‘You too.’

He sniffed. ‘All right, listen to me … this is over for you now, OK? You’re going to go home, go to bed, get some sleep, and then tomorrow morning you’re going to go back to your shitty little office and get back to doing your shitty little job. Do you understand me?’

I said nothing.

‘This is now an official murder investigation,’ he went on. ‘If you get in touch with anyone — and I mean anyone — who has anything to do with this case, and that includes the Gerrishes, I’ll have you arrested for obstruction, wasting police time, perverting the course of justice … whatever the fuck I can think of. Have you got that?’

I nodded. ‘Do they know yet?’

‘Who?’

‘Mr and Mrs Gerrish … have you told them?’

He sighed. ‘They’ve been informed that a woman’s body has been found, that’s all. We can’t tell them anything else until the identity’s been confirmed.’

‘But you know it’s her, don’t you? You know it’s Anna?’

‘What did I just tell you?’ he said, beginning to lose his temper. ‘This has got nothing to do with you any more. This is a police investigation. You are not police, you are not involved in any way, shape, or fucking form.’ He leaned forward and spoke slowly, looking me in the eye. ‘Now … do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ I said calmly. ‘I understand.’

‘You’d fucking better.’

I looked at him. ‘Can I go now?’

He sniffed again, pausing for a moment just to make me wait, then he jerked his head at the door. ‘Yeah, go on, fuck off.’