Dance of Ghosts

21

It was dark when I woke up, and it took me a minute or two to work out where I was, what day it was, what time it was … why I was lying in bed, fully dressed, with an aching head and a bone-dry mouth and a familiarly sour taste in the back of my throat … and then I remembered.

‘Shit,’ I groaned, looking at the clock beside the bed.

The LED display read 19:32.

‘Fuck.’

I got out of bed, went to the bathroom, then into the kitchen for a glass of water and four paracetamols. I lit a cigarette and went into the front room. The lights were off, the curtains closed (did I do that?). I reached out for the light switch … and paused. I was beginning to remember everything now, and as I stumbled through the dimness over to the window, I could hear myself slurring drunkenly to Bridget about the press and the TV people — now that Bishop’s thrown them a bone they’re all going to be after me like dogs, I’d told her. I can keep the phones turned off, and I can keep away from my office, but sooner or later they’re going to start coming round here …

I stood to the side of the window, pulled back the edge of the curtain, and glanced outside. Across the street, a handful of reporters and a TV crew were hanging around by a streetlight at the far end of the factory wall. I watched them for a while, then closed the curtain and stepped back from the window.

‘Shit.’

I remained motionless for a minute, digesting what I’d just seen, then I inched open the curtain again and took another quick look. I got the impression that they’d been there for some time, which either meant that they were waiting for me to come out, or that they didn’t know I was in and they were waiting for me to come home. And from the way some of them kept glancing up and down the street, I guessed it was the latter. They’d probably arrived a few hours ago, and they’d probably rung the bell and been hammering on the door, and in my drunken stupor I simply hadn’t heard anything. And with the curtains closed, and no one answering, they must have assumed that I was out.

I wondered where Bridget was …

And what she thought of all this.

And me.

What did she think of me?

And did I care?

I went out into the hallway and stood at the bottom of the stairs, gazing up into the darkness. No lights, no sounds …

‘Bridget?’ I called out.

No reply.

‘Bridget?’ A little louder this time.

Still no reply. And no barking either. Which either meant that she was out somewhere with Walter, or that they were both up there pretending to be out. Either way, there was no point in me going up.

I went back into my flat, put on my shoes and coat, then went out into the backyard. It was a cold night, the air damp and sullen under a starless black sky, and as I headed down the pathway towards the back wall, I realised it must have been raining quite heavily while I was asleep. Bushes were dripping in the darkness, the path was scattered with the debris of a hard downpour — washed-up soil, slugs, worms, bits of stick — and the sodden earth was alive with the sound of tiny wet things clicking and popping.

At the end of the path, I clambered up onto an old metal bin, hoisted myself over the wall, and dropped down into my neighbour’s backyard. It was a yard that had evolved over the years into a flagstone shanty town of broken sheds and greenhouses all cobbled together with discarded wooden doors and acres of corrugated plastic sheeting. The sheds, I knew, were packed with crates and rusty tools and scraps of wood rescued from skips, and the greenhouses were piled high with empty seed trays and plant pots.

There was no one around. It was EastEnders time — or Coronation Street or Emmerdale — and the deaf old man who lived here would be stuck in front of his TV, just like everyone else, engrossed in a world of twisted love and daily disasters …

I made my way round the back of the house to a bin-cluttered alley that led me out into the street that runs parallel to mine. It looked almost identical to my street — the same terraced houses, the same frontyards, the same cracked pavements lined with too many parked cars … the only thing missing was a handful of reporters and a TV crew.

I lit a cigarette and headed for the nearest taxi rank.

Leon Mercer lived with his wife, Claudia, in a grey-walled four-storey house in a secluded avenue at the edge of town. It was a pleasant area, the gardens well-tended and the broad pavements planted with lime trees, and as I got out of the taxi and headed up a block-paved driveway towards Leon’s house, I remembered the first time I’d ever been here. It was about a month or so after I’d started going out with Imogen. I was seventeen years old then, anxiously visiting my girlfriend’s home for the first time, scared to death that I’d do something wrong, or say something stupid, or that her parents just wouldn’t like me. And I remember feeling quite intimidated by the size and relative splendour of the house. I didn’t know much about Leon Mercer then, but I knew that he was a police officer, like my father, and I was pretty sure that they were both the same rank, and so I couldn’t understand why we lived in a modest semi-detached house in a very average street while the Mercers had a four-storey detached place in one of the wealthiest parts of town. I found out later that the house actually belonged to Claudia Mercer, a gift from her father, who’d made a pile of money from a string of retail sports shops …

I’d reached the front door now — a huge oak thing, set in an old stone porchway. I rang the bell and waited. A cold rain had begun to fall, and in the bright-white glare of security lights blazing from houses along the avenue, I could see the twist of yellowed leaves fluttering in the wind. There was a hint — perhaps imagined — of bonfire smoke and fireworks in the air, and as I stood there in the autumn night, the distant memories of childhood Guy Fawkes’ nights drifted into my mind. Black horizons arced with rocket lights and starburst blooms … jumping jacks, roman candles, catherine wheels … a roaring bonfire, snapping and popping and crackling, the glowing red embers drifting up into the night …

‘John!’ a surprised voice said, bringing me back to the here and now, and I turned round to see Imogen standing at the open door.

‘Hey, Immy,’ I said.

She gave me an enthusiastic hug, kissing me on both cheeks, then led me inside and closed the door.

‘God, John,’ she said, taking me by the arm. ‘I just saw the press conference about Anna Gerrish on the news … Why didn’t you tell me you’d found her?’

I shrugged. ‘Well, it’s kind of complicated — ’

‘I tried ringing you, but I couldn’t get through.’

‘Yeah, sorry. The press started calling me so I turned all the phones off.’

‘Are you OK?’ she asked, gently squeezing my arm. ‘I mean, this must be really hard for you …’

‘I’m fine — ’

‘Christ,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Anton fucking Viner … I still can’t believe it.’ She looked at me. ‘Is Bishop keeping you up to speed on everything?’

I shrugged. ‘He’s told me what he thinks I need to know.’

‘Yeah,’ she muttered, shaking her head again. ‘I bet he has, the piece of shit.’

I looked up then as I heard Claudia Mercer coming down the stairs.

‘Hello, John,’ she said, smiling. ‘How are you, dear?’

‘Not bad, thanks, Mrs M.’

‘I’ve told Leon that you’re here. He’s in his study.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’

‘No, thanks — ’

‘Something to eat?’

I shook my head.

She smiled again. ‘Well, let me know if you change your mind.’ And with that she wandered off down the hallway.

‘She’s never that nice to me, you know,’ Imogen said, smiling.

‘I heard that,’ her mother called back.

Imogen looked at me. ‘Don’t spend too long with Dad, OK? He tries to hide it, but he gets tired really easily these days.’

I nodded. ‘I just want a quick chat with him.’

‘Will I see you later?’

I smiled. ‘You can give me a lift home, if you want.’

‘It’s a date.’

Leon’s study was a small but cosy room at the far end of the landing on the third floor. It was fairly cramped, filled to the brim with too much furniture and too many bookshelves and all kinds of clutter all over the place — files, papers, magazines, newspapers. He had a desk against one wall, a writing table against another wall; a plush leather armchair in one corner, a cushioned wicker chair in another. There were cupboards and filing cabinets, framed photographs and certificates on the wall, a small flat-screen TV on a black glass table, with stacks of DVDs piled up next to it. Half a dozen lead-crystal decanters were lined up on a narrow mantelpiece above the blackened grate of a small open fire, and the black of night was showing through a small square window in the far wall. Leon was sitting at his desk when I went in, a laptop open in front of him. ‘John,’ he said warmly, closing the laptop and getting to his feet. ‘Come on in, sit down …’

I went over and shook his hand, then sat down in the armchair.

As Leon lowered himself back into his chair and removed the reading glasses he was wearing, it was hard to keep the shock from my face. He was so much frailer than the last time I’d seen him, and that had only been two or three months ago. He’d looked like the same old Leon I’d always known then — big, strong, solid, bright-eyed. But now … well, he’d lost a lot of weight, for a start. But not in a good way. His yellowing skin hung loosely from his frame, giving his face a gaunt and haggard look, and the weight of it seemed to drag him down. His shoulders were stooped, his head bowed down. His eyes had dulled, too. And every movement he made was stiff and slow and obviously painful.

‘I know,’ he said, giving me a stoical smile. ‘I’m a fucking sight, aren’t I?’

‘You don’t look great,’ I admitted, unable to lie to him. ‘What is it — cancer?’

He nodded. ‘Pancreatic.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘No,’ he said, reaching for a brandy glass on his desk. He took a sip and swallowed slowly. ‘It tastes better than morphine,’ he explained.

I nodded.

‘Help yourself,’ he said, glancing up at the decanters.

‘I’m all right, thanks,’ I told him.

‘Sure?’

I nodded again.

He gazed into his glass for a moment, gently swirling the brandy, then he leaned forward and carefully put it down on the desk. ‘So,’ he said, looking over at me. ‘How’s it all going, John?’

I smiled. It was the same question he always asked me, and it always meant the same — are you drinking? not drinking? are you keeping away from the drugs?

‘I’m doing OK,’ I told him.

‘Yeah?’

‘A few lapses now and then.’

He nodded. ‘I can smell it on your breath.’

I looked at him. ‘I’m doing OK.’

He held my gaze for a few moments, looking for the truth, and all I could do was look back at him, not really knowing what my truth was … but, whatever it was, I was happy to let him see it. And if he’d wanted to say anything about it, that would have been perfectly fine with me too. But he didn’t. He just took another small sip of brandy, coughed quietly, and slowly leaned back in his chair.

‘I saw Bishop on the news,’ he said.

‘That’s why I’m here.’

‘I know. Tell me all about it.’

I told him everything then — from the moment Helen Gerrish had come into my office, to Bishop’s unexpected visit earlier that day … I told Leon everything. He listened in silence, his head bowed down, his eyes closed, not saying a word until I’d finished. And even then, when he slowly looked up at me and opened his eyes, he still didn’t say anything for a while. He just looked at me, deep in thought, digesting everything I’d told him … then he picked up his brandy glass, took another measured sip, licked his lips, put the glass down, and finally — after delicately clearing his throat — he let out a long sigh and began to talk.

‘Why didn’t you come to me earlier about this?’ he said.

I shrugged. ‘I didn’t have any evidence … there was no proof — ’

‘You don’t have any evidence now. All you’ve got is a dead girl, Viner’s DNA, and a bellyful of bad feelings about Bishop.’

‘I know Viner didn’t kill Anna,’ I said slowly, looking Leon in the eyes. ‘It’s simply not possible.’

Leon didn’t say anything for a moment, he just held my gaze, and as he sat there looking at me, I tried to let him see the unspoken question inside my head. Was it you, Leon? Did you send me that message about Viner all those years ago? Do you know what I did to him?

‘What we really need to know,’ he said quietly, neither answering nor not answering my unspoken question, ‘is why Bishop is lying to you. That’s the key to it all.’ He opened his laptop and started tapping keys. ‘The trouble is, Bishop’s nowhere near as one-dimensional as he likes people to think. Believe me, I’ve known him a long time, and it’s taken me years and years to realise that, in his own twisted way, he’s a very complicated man.’ Leon looked over the lid of his laptop at me. ‘You probably don’t think he’s particularly intelligent, do you?’

‘It depends what you mean by intelligent,’ I said. ‘I doubt if he’d be a stunning success on University Challenge — ’

‘Exactly,’ Leon said, smiling. ‘But for the last thirty-odd years he has been a stunning success as both a serving police officer and a highly efficient criminal, and that takes some doing.’

‘You think he’s a criminal?’

‘I know he is.’ Leon glanced at the laptop screen, then back at me. ‘Corruption is a crime, John. It’s not just a breach of trust, a bending of the rules, an abuse of power … it’s a crime. A corrupt police officer is a criminal, it’s as simple as that. And Bishop … well, come over here and look at this, see for yourself.’

As I got up and went over to his desk, Leon angled the laptop so we could both see the screen. At first, I couldn’t quite make out what I was seeing, but when I looked closer I realised it was a stilled image from a poor-quality video. The resolution was terrible, the definition non-existent, and the colour was more grey-and-grey than black-and-white. But despite all that, I could still just about make out the four figures on the screen: a man tied to a chair, another two men standing behind him, one of them with a baseball bat in his hand, and Bishop …

I looked at Leon. ‘Is this what I think it is?’

He nodded. ‘It’s a copy of the CCTV video that your father gave to DCI Curtis, the one that shows Bishop and the others torturing the man in the chair.’

‘Shit,’ I said quietly, looking back at the screen.

‘You don’t need to see all of it,’ Leon said. ‘And I’m sure you know what happens anyway, but I just wanted to let you see what Bishop is capable of … are you ready?’

I nodded.

Leon tapped the keyboard and the video started up. Bishop was standing in front of the man in the chair, and as the video began, I saw him leaning down and yelling violently in the man’s face. There was no sound, so the yelling was silent, but there was no mistaking the fury in his voice. The man in the chair was screwing his eyes shut and stretching his head back in a vain attempt to get away from Bishop, but Bishop just kept on screaming at him. And then, suddenly, he stopped. And with no hesitation at all, he drew back his arm and punched the man viciously in the face. The blow was so hard that the man — still tied to the chair — tumbled sideways to the floor. The two other men immediately picked him up again, and while they were doing that, I saw Bishop lighting a cigarette. He took a few hard puffs on it, said something to the man, now upright in his chair again, and as the man began shaking his head in wild-eyed fear, Bishop calmly stepped forward and speared the burning cigarette into his right eye.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I whispered as Leon stopped the video.

‘And that was only the beginning of it,’ he said, pressing more keys.

‘He’s a fucking madman.’

‘No,’ Leon said. ‘That’s the thing, I don’t think he is … I think he just does whatever he has to do to get what he wants … whatever that may be. But I don’t think he enjoys it. He just does it.’

‘Do you think he’s capable of killing someone?’

‘Everyone’s capable of killing someone,’ Leon said, and for a fleeting moment I thought I saw a knowing look in his eye. ‘But if you’re asking me whether Bishop could have killed Anna Gerrish …?’ He paused for a few seconds, thinking about it. ‘Well, yes … I’m sure that he could. If he had what he thought was a good enough reason to kill her, he’d do it just like that.’ Leon snapped his fingers. ‘But I can’t see him killing just for the thrill of it … and even if he did, he would have made absolutely sure that no one found out.’ Leon turned his attention back to the laptop screen for a moment, fiddled with the touchpad, then looked up at me. ‘The men who beat you up outside The Wyvern … you said you didn’t get a look at them?’

I shook my head. ‘It all happened too quickly.’

‘But you mentioned that the man who hit you first had rings on his fingers.’

‘Yeah …’ I said, my mind suddenly flashing back to that night — leaving The Wyvern, walking down Miller’s Row in the cold night air, the distant doomp-doomp, doomp-doomp from the nightclubs, the drunkenness whirling in my head … and then a voice calling out to me from the shadows of an alley, Got a light, mate?, and almost immediately the heavily-ringed fist hammering into the side of my head …

‘Yeah,’ I told Leon. ‘He had rings on his fingers. One of them had a skull on it.’

Leon angled the laptop towards me. ‘Is that him?’

The figure on the screen was a close-up still from the video. It was the man with the baseball bat, and Leon had frozen the picture just as he was raising the bat, so not only could I see the man’s hard-bitten face, but also his hands. The picture was blurred and grainy, and it was hard to make out any details … but when I leaned in closer to the screen and squinted at the big silver ring on the man’s right index finger, I knew that I was looking at a skull.

‘His face doesn’t mean anything to me,’ I told Leon. ‘But I’m pretty sure that’s him. Who is he?’

‘His name’s Les Gillard, he’s been working for Bishop for years.’ Leon nodded at the screen. ‘When that happened he was just a PC, only been on the job a few years.’

‘And now?’

‘It’s hard to tell. He moved up through the ranks pretty quickly, and for the last ten years or so he’s been making a name for himself in various Special Ops forces — SO12, SO13, 15 … you know, the kind of units who like to keep themselves to themselves. But whatever Gillard is now, I know that Bishop’s still got some kind of hold on him.’ Leon closed the laptop and looked at me. ‘That’s how it works with Bishop. He gets something on you, something he can use against you … and once he’s got it, you’re his for life, whether you like it or not. You’d be amazed at how many people he’s got in his pocket — police officers, criminals, politicians, businessmen … he’s a very powerful, and very dangerous, man.’

I nodded. ‘So do you think it’s possible …’ I paused as Leon suddenly closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and groaned. ‘What’s the matter?’ I said, quickly getting to my feet as he doubled over, holding his abdomen. ‘Leon? Leon!’ As I moved round the desk towards him, he painfully straightened up and opened his eyes.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, breathing hard. ‘Honestly, I’m all right …’

‘You don’t look all right — ’

‘It was just …’ He looked at me. ‘Please, John … sit down. It’s OK, really. It happens sometimes, that’s all …’ As he reached for the brandy glass and took a drink, I moved back round the desk. He looked up at me again. ‘Will you please sit down, John?’

I sat.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Maybe I’d better go,’ I suggested.

‘In a minute … there’s a few more things I want to go over with you first.’

‘I can come back — ’

‘This name you got from the registration of the Nissan … Kemper, was it?’

‘Charles Raymond Kemper.’

‘Have you got any further with that?’

I shook my head. ‘I’m seeing Cal again tomorrow, but so far he hasn’t come up with anything.’

‘OK … and you haven’t found anything at all that links Bishop with the Nissan or Anna Gerrish?’

‘No.’

He looked at me, his mind seeming to wander for a moment. Then his eyes regained their focus and he said, ‘Do you need any help with the drink-driving charge?’

I smiled. ‘My solicitor got it thrown out last week. Procedural errors.’

‘Good.’

‘You’re tired, Leon,’ I said, getting to my feet again. ‘You need to rest.’

He nodded. ‘I know, I know … but before you go, John …’

‘What?’

‘Leave Bishop to me for now, OK? I’ve still got a lot of close contacts in the job. I’ll make some enquiries, see what I can find out, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. But in the meantime … well, just don’t go fucking around with him, that’s all.’

‘OK.’

He smiled at me, a sad and weary smile that seemed to take an awful lot out of him. ‘And listen,’ he muttered. ‘Listen …’

His eyes were closing even as he spoke to me.

I turned quietly and started to leave. But just as I got to the door, I heard him speak to me again.

‘You see this picture, John?’ he said.

I turned round and saw him looking up at a framed photograph on the wall. It was a picture of Leon and my father, taken shortly before Dad died. They were together at a barbecue somewhere — red-faced in the sun, drinks in their hands, both of them smiling broadly at the camera.

‘If ever you have any questions, John,’ Leon said, ‘and I’m not here to answer them … just remember that picture.’

I looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

He smiled again. ‘You’re a detective … you’ll work it out when the time comes.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand — ’

‘You know, John,’ he said vaguely. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for a long time … something I’ve been thinking about …’

‘Leon,’ I said. ‘I really think you should get some rest now — ’

‘You see, what I can’t understand, what I’ve never been able to figure out …’ He looked at me, his entire body quite still. ‘When your father killed himself in his room … why did he lock the door?’

‘What?’

‘It doesn’t make sense, does it? If you’re going to kill yourself, why make a point of locking the door first? What purpose does it serve?’

‘I don’t know …’ I said, confused. ‘I’ve never really thought about it …’

He smiled distantly. ‘Perhaps you should.’

‘Are you trying to say — ?’

‘I’m sorry, John,’ he muttered, his eyes beginning to close again. ‘Would you mind asking Claudia to come up here? I think … I think I’m …’ He sighed hard. ‘God, I’m so fucking tired.’