Dance of Ghosts

3

While Ada was sorting out the paperwork for Helen Gerrish in the main office, I opened up my laptop, logged on to the Internet, and Googled ‘Anna Gerrish’. There weren’t that many results: three entries from the Hey Gazette, one from the Guardian, and one from the Daily Mail. The first article in the Hey Gazette was dated Wednesday 8 September, two days after Anna was last seen. It was the lead story on the front page, accompanied by the same photograph that her mother had just given to me. The other two articles appeared on the following days — Thursday’s was on page three, Friday’s was relegated to page seven. After that, there was nothing. The stories in the Guardian and the Daily Mail were both no more than a paragraph or two, and neither of them added anything to the reports in the Gazette.

According to the report, Anna had been a barmaid at The Wyvern for about eighteen months. On the night of Monday 6 September she’d worked a late shift, finishing at one o’clock in the morning, and that was the last time anyone had seen her. No one knew where she’d gone after work, whether she was planning to meet someone, or go somewhere, or simply go home. And if she was planning to go home, no one seemed to know how she usually got back after a late shift, whether she walked, or took a taxi, or if anyone ever picked her up. No one, it seemed, knew very much about Anna at all. There were even conflicting reports as to what she’d been wearing when she left. Most of the staff at The Wyvern were fairly sure that she hadn’t got changed out of the jeans and white vest she’d been wearing all night, she’d just thrown on a black leather coat and left. But a barmaid called Genna Raven was convinced that she’d seen Anna getting changed in the toilets. ‘She was definitely wearing heels and a skirt when she left,’ Genna was quoted as saying. ‘And I think she might have put on a black top too.’

In terms of what actually happened that night, that was about all the newspaper reports had to offer. The rest of it was all padding: speculation, quotes from Mrs Gerrish and DCI Bishop, biographical information about Anna — where she’d gone to school, her modelling hopes, that kind of thing.

Reading between the lines, and judging by the way the newspapers had quickly lost interest in the story, I got the impression that apart from Helen Gerrish, who I guessed was the driving force behind getting the story printed in the first place, no one really believed that Anna had come to any harm.

And they were probably right.

But, unlike the media, I don’t get paid to speculate.

So I went through the newspaper reports again, noting down any relevant information, and I put all that together with the photograph and the details that Helen Gerrish had given me, and I was just about to start making a few preliminary phone calls when I heard the outer office door open and close, followed by Helen Gerrish’s tiny footsteps shuffling down the stairs, and a few moments later my door swung open and Ada came in.

‘Phew,’ she said, blowing out her cheeks and shaking her head. ‘She’s hard work, that one.’

‘Yeah, I know. Any problems with the contract or anything?’

Ada shrugged. ‘I don’t think she even read it, to be honest. Just signed it and gave me the cheque.’ Ada took a packet of cigarettes from her pocket and threw one over to me, and we both went over to the battered old settee beneath the window. I opened the window, and we sat down and lit our cigarettes.

Ada looked at me. ‘You know Mick Bishop is the SIO on the Anna Gerrish case, don’t you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Are you going to be all right with that?’

‘I don’t see why not.’

She held my gaze for a moment or two, giving me her ‘are you sure about that?’ look, then she just nodded slowly and took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘So,’ she said, blowing out smoke. ‘What’s next?’

‘I don’t know … I’m going to look round Anna’s flat this evening, and then I’ll just take it from there, I suppose. Go and see Bishop, talk to Anna’s work colleagues … see if anything turns up.’

‘Do you think it will?’

I shrugged. ‘Probably not.’

Ada tapped ash from her cigarette. ‘If I had a mother like Helen Gerrish, I think I’d have run away years ago.’

I smiled. ‘Me too.’

She took another puff on her cigarette. ‘Do you want me to call Bishop and set up a meeting?’

‘Yeah, please. Tomorrow if possible.’

‘OK. Anything else?’

‘Did you get a chance to try that memory card yet?’

‘Yeah, but I couldn’t get anything from it. It might be worth asking Cal to have a look.’

I nodded. Callum Franks was Stacy’s nephew. Over the years he’d often helped me out whenever I needed an extra pair of eyes or legs. He was a quick learner, and very reliable, and when it came to anything technical — computers, phones, recording equipment — Cal was in a league of his own. He could do virtually anything with a laptop … and when I say anything, I mean anything. Legal or otherwise.

‘OK,’ I said, putting out my cigarette. ‘Remind me to pick up the memory card before I go. I’ll give it to Cal the next time I see him.’

Ada stood up. ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘I don’t know. Did you get through to the garage about the car window?’

She nodded. ‘They said they’d send someone out straight away.’

‘Straight away garage time?’

‘I’d imagine so.’

‘What’s that in real time?’

‘Probably about two hours.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, stifling a yawn.

‘Why don’t you go home for a bit?’ Ada said gently. ‘Take a bath, change your clothes … get some rest. I don’t mind staying on for the rest of the day.’

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded. ‘I’ll call you a taxi.’

‘You’re an angel, Ada.’

‘I know.’ She looked at me, suddenly quite serious. ‘Are you all right, John? I mean, you know … in yourself, generally. Are you OK?’

‘Yeah … I’m fine.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

She looked at me for a long moment, seeking the truth in my eyes, and then — with a far from convincing nod of her head — she reached up and gently took hold of my chin, angling it to get a better look at the swelling on my face.

‘You need to put some ice on that when you get home,’ she said. ‘Have you got any ice in that hovel of yours?’

‘It’s not a hovel — ’

‘Put a few ice cubes in a towel or a flannel, crush them up, and hold it against your face. It should help the swelling to go down. All right?’

‘Yeah, thanks.’

She looked at me again, genuine concern showing in her eyes, then she said, ‘I’ll go and call you that taxi.’

My house — or my hovel, as Ada likes to call it — is in an old terraced street on the south side of town. It was originally a factory house, as were all the homes in Paxman Street, built over a century ago by the owners of the neighbouring engineering plant to accommodate the company’s workers. For a hundred years or more, the mist and steam from the factory across the road has been breathed in by the bricks of the house, and on a hot day, or when a thunderstorm is coming, the walls give out a faint scent of oil. Sometimes, too, in the middle of the night, I think I can smell the tired skin of the factory hands who once lived here. I imagine them as short, dark, melancholy people, with sooted faces and small bitter eyes … and as I lie in bed, listening to their illusive whispers, I wonder if they’re happier now, in their dreams of death, than they were in the toil of their lives.

It’s not much, my house — upstairs, downstairs, two separate flats, a small back garden and an even smaller front yard — but it’s mine, for what it’s worth, and I feel safe and comfortable within the sanctuary of its stained old walls.

I live alone.

But I’m not alone.

When my mother died in 1997, she left me both the family home — the house where I was born and brought up — and the house in Paxman Street, which she’d bought with my father some years ago as a buy-to-let investment. At the time she died, there was only the one tenant in the house, a young woman called Bridget Moran, who lived in the upstairs flat, and as I’d already decided to sell the family home and use the money to set up my own investigation business, it just seemed sensible, and convenient, to move into the downstairs flat.

So that’s what I did.

And I’m still here.

And so is Bridget Moran.

As the taxi dropped me off outside the house, Bridget was just coming out, and I was momentarily stunned to see that she’d had most of her chestnut-brown shoulder-length hair cut off and was now sporting a boyishly short peroxide-blonde crop. My sense of shock was only partly caused by how different — and how amazing — she looked with her new haircut. The main reason, the thing that just for a second had stopped my heart and turned me inside out, was that Stacy used to wear her hair in exactly the same style — short, blonde, spikily cute — and just for a moment, when I’d seen Bridget coming out of the house …

The moment soon passed.

Bridget was with her boyfriend, a vapid piece of meat called Dave. I’d never liked Dave. He had a confident smile, nice teeth, sideburns, an expensive suit and an equally expensive watch. He was the kind of man who keeps a golf umbrella in the back of his company car, the kind of man who wears shoes that squeak. I didn’t know his surname, but I liked to think that it was Dave. ‘Hi,’ I could imagine him saying. ‘Dave Dave, pleased to meet you. Yeah, right, absolutely …’

No, I didn’t like Dave at all.

Not that it mattered …

‘Hey, John,’ Bridget said breezily as we met at the front gate. Then, ‘Shit! What happened to your face?’

‘Oh, nothing … just a stupid accident,’ I muttered, trying not to stare too obviously at her hair. ‘I fell over … down some steps.’

‘You need to put some ice on that,’ she said, looking closer.

‘So I’ve been told.’ I looked at her. ‘I like what you’ve done to your hair.’

She smiled broadly, running her fingers through her hair. ‘Really? You don’t think it’s too much, do you?’

‘No … it really suits you.’

Dave Dave, who’d been gazing idly around the front yard as we talked, feigning indifference, suddenly butted in. ‘Come on, Bridge,’ he grunted, taking her by the arm. ‘We’d better get going.’

‘Yeah, OK.’ She flashed a smile at me. ‘See you later, John. And don’t forget the ice.’

I smiled at her, nodding perfunctorily at Dave, and stepped aside to let them pass. I paused for a moment, wondering if I should turn round and wave goodbye … but after I’d thought about it for a while, I decided not to bother, and I just went on into the house instead.

Bridget’s dog, Walter, was waiting in the hallway when I opened the front door. A big old greyhound, he was sitting at the foot of the stairs with a chewed rubber bone in his mouth. I reached down and scratched his head.

‘Hey, Walter,’ I said. ‘How’s it going?’

His tail thumped, his mouth fell open in a lazy dog smile, and the rubber bone dropped to the floor. I bent down, picked it up, and gave it back to him.

‘There you go.’

He looked at me, took the bone in his mouth, and dropped it again. He was nearly fourteen now. His muzzle was slack and pale, and the brindley grey hair on his back was streaked with white. He was nearing the end of his life. But, for Walter, that wasn’t so bad. Getting old isn’t the same for dogs as it is for us, because — unlike us — dogs don’t know they’re going to die.

I left him where he was and went into my flat.

The familiarity of my living space greeted me, as usual, with its dusty and settled silence. It’s a place that’s always felt lived in: a front room, spacious and high, with plain wooden furniture and solid old walls; heavy double doors leading through into the bedroom; and then a stepped stone archway that takes you down into a cramped little kitchen area at the back. A narrow door at the far end of the kitchen opens through to the bathroom, and twin glazed doors lead out into the brick-walled garden at the rear.

It’s how it is, how it’s meant to be, and that’s how I like it.

And it holds no memories for me.

And I like that, too.

I went over to the old armchair beneath the high window in the front room, and I sat down and lit a cigarette. My eyes were stiff and heavy, and deep inside me I could feel a distant weight of tiredness that at some point, I knew, was going to creep up behind me and drape a blanket over my head — a cold, black, greasy old blanket. And when that happened, I wouldn’t be capable of anything. I’d be in the black place, the place where I can’t move, where I’ve never been able to move … the place where there is nothing else … nothing at all. And when I’m there, I’ve been there all my life, and I’ll remain there for the rest of my life, draped in the darkness. I can’t do anything. I don’t want anything. What’s the point? Fifty years from now, we’ll all be dead anyway. We’ll all be floating back to the stars or buried in the dark underground, caked in clay, riddled with worms and insects, centipedes, chafers, slugs … and nothing that happens now will mean a fucking thing.

That’s how the black place makes me feel.

But I wasn’t there yet.

I finished my cigarette, went into the kitchen and swallowed a handful of painkillers, then came back to the armchair and poured myself a glass of Scotch. I lit another cigarette, took a long slow drink, and breathed out slowly as the heat of the whisky soaked down into my gut and then rose up into my heart like a warm balloon.

I poured myself another, and then I just sat there, drinking and smoking in the rainy-grey light of the afternoon, until I fell asleep.

I woke up to the sound of my mobile ringing. The daylight was beginning to fade now, and as I fumbled the mobile out of my pocket and put it to my ear, a car rolled down the street outside and the dimness of the room was briefly illuminated by a slow sweep of headlights.

‘Yeah?’ I said into the phone.

‘Hi, John,’ a familiar voice replied. ‘It’s Imogen …’

Imogen Rand was a good friend of mine who’d once been more than just a good friend. Her father, Leon Mercer, was the owner and managing director of Mercer Associates.

‘Hey, Immy,’ I said. ‘I was going to call you later — ’

‘Yeah, right. Of course you were.’

‘No, really …’

‘Are you all right, John?’ she interrupted. ‘You sound a bit — ’

‘Yeah, sorry. I just woke up.’

‘Late night?’

‘Well, kind of …’

‘I can call back if you want.’

‘No, it’s all right.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah,’ I said, glancing at the clock. It was 4.55. ‘I needed to wake up anyway.’

‘OK … well, it’s just a quick call. Has a woman called Gerrish been in touch with you yet?’

‘Yeah, I saw her this afternoon. She told me that you’d recommended me.’

‘Well, you know it’s not the kind of thing that we’d take on, and I thought you might find it interesting … are you going to do it?’

I lit a cigarette. ‘I told her I’d give it three days.’

‘Right, well …’ she said hesitantly. ‘The thing is, John, I saw Dad last night, and I mentioned it to him, and he told me that Mick Bishop is the SIO on the Anna Gerrish case. Of course, if I’d known that at the time, I wouldn’t have put Helen Gerrish in touch with you, at least not without asking you first. Sorry, John, it just didn’t occur to me to find out — ’

‘It’s all right,’ I assured her. ‘It’s not a problem. I knew about Bishop before I made up my mind anyway.’

‘Really? So you’re still going to do it?’

‘Yeah, why not? History is history.’

‘I suppose …’

‘What did you think of her anyway?’ I asked.

‘Helen Gerrish?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Not much. I mean, yeah, I feel sorry for her and everything, but …’

I laughed.

‘What?’ she said. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘You, feeling sorry for someone.’

‘Hey,’ she said, pretending to take offence. ‘Just because I don’t give a shit about people, that doesn’t mean I’m not sympathetic.’

‘Right, so you felt really sorry for her, but …?’

‘Well, she was lying, for a start.’

‘About what?’

‘I don’t know, but she was definitely lying about something. At least, she was when she talked to me.’

‘Yeah, I got the same feeling too. What else didn’t you like about her?’

‘It’s not a question of not liking her, John … well, actually, come to think of it, it is. I really didn’t like her one bit. And I’m sure that if I met her husband, I wouldn’t like him either.’

‘What about Anna? Do you think you’d like her if you met her?’

‘Probably not.’

‘You’re all heart, Imogen.’

‘Fucking right, I am.’

We talked on for a little while longer about nothing much in particular — the StayBright/Preston Elliot case (which I told her was coming along nicely), her father’s ailing health, and the possibility of her taking over as MD of Mercer Associates — and then I realised how late it was getting, and that I had to be at Helen Gerrish’s at six, so we said our goodbyes, and I called for a taxi to take me back into town, and by the time the taxi arrived I’d taken a quick shower and changed my bloodied clothes, and was ready to face the world again.