Dance of Ghosts

4

Helen Gerrish lived with her husband in a small red-brick house on a modern commuter estate called Stangate Rise about two miles out of town. It was one of those estates with hundreds of houses that all look the same and dozens of streets that all look the same, so it’s really easy to get lost. Which I did. And that was one of the reasons I didn’t get there until just gone quarter to seven. Another reason was that the garage still hadn’t been round to fix the broken window in my car, and the rain was still pouring down, so I’d had to spend twenty minutes or so patching up the window with a couple of old Sainsbury’s carrier bags and about a mile of grey duct tape before I left. And one more reason for being late was that I’d had to stop on the way to answer a phone call from DCI Bishop.

It was strange to hear his voice again. The last time I’d seen him was eighteen years ago at my father’s funeral, and although he’d only spoken to me briefly then — a very curt offer of condolences — I recognised his gruff Essex accent immediately.

‘John Craine?’ he’d said when I answered the phone.

‘Yeah?’

‘DCI Bishop. Your secretary called me this afternoon.’

‘Yes, thanks for — ’

‘What’s your interest in Anna Gerrish?’

‘Didn’t my secretary tell you?’

‘I’m asking you.’

I sighed. ‘I’ve been hired to look into her disappearance — ’

‘By who?’

‘Whom.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing …’

‘Who hired you?’

‘I’m sorry, but I’d have to get my client’s permission before — ’

‘What does your client want you to do?’

‘Find Anna.’

‘And how do you expect to do that?’

I lit a cigarette. ‘Look, all I want is — ’

‘You’re Jim Craine’s son, aren’t you?’

‘Yes …’

‘You probably don’t remember me, but I used to work with your father — ’

‘Yeah, I remember you.’

He paused for a moment then, and although it was only a very slight hesitation, it was enough to give me an equally slight sense of satisfaction.

‘So,’ Bishop said, sniffing self-consciously. ‘You’re working this case then, are you?’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘Not as long as you keep me informed of what you’re doing.’

I didn’t say anything to that.

Bishop sniffed again. ‘Are you working on it right now?’

I could have lied to him, I suppose. Or told him to fuck off. But I thought it best not to antagonise him unnecessarily. ‘I’m just on my way round to Anna’s flat,’ I told him.

‘What for?’

‘Nothing in particular … I just thought I’d take a quick look round. Is that all right with you? I mean, it’s not off limits or anything, is it?’

‘No … but you won’t find anything there. We’ve already looked.’

‘I don’t mind wasting my time.’

‘Yeah, well … as long as you don’t waste any of mine.’

‘I’ll do my best not to.’

‘Good. So what about this meeting?’

‘What meeting?’

‘Your secretary said you wanted a meeting.’

‘Oh, right, yeah — ’

‘What do you want from me?’

‘Anything, really. Whatever you’re willing to share with me about the Anna Gerrish case. Of course, I understand that you can’t reveal any details of your investigation …’

I let my voice trail off, slightly surprised that Bishop hadn’t interrupted already to tell me that he had neither the time nor the inclination to share anything with me, and as the silence on the phone stretched out to a relatively eternal three or four seconds, I wondered what the hell was taking him so long. You either meet me or you don’t, I thought. You don’t have to spend ages thinking about it.

And then, quite suddenly, his voice came back on the line. ‘11.30 tomorrow morning,’ he said brusquely. ‘The CID offices at Eastway. I’ve only got ten minutes to spare, so don’t be late.’

And that was it. No goodbyes, no see you tomorrows, no nothing. He just said what he had to say, then hung up. I sat there for a while, smoking my cigarette and going over the conversation in my mind, trying to work out if it meant anything or not … but the only conclusion I came to was that my father hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told me, many years ago, that Mick Bishop was the most odious man he’d ever known.

I looked at my watch, saw that it was 6.30, and got going.

The streets of Stangate Rise were fairly quiet as I walked from my car to the Gerrishes’ house, and I guessed that it was still too early for the commuters to be arriving back from London. They’d be here soon enough, though — driving home from the station in their?30,000 cars, tired and wet, stressed and bored, burdened with the knowledge that tomorrow morning they’d have to get up early, put on their suits, and start all over again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Poor fuckers.

Or stupid fuckers.

It depends how you look at it, I suppose.

It was fully dark now, the estate glowing orange in the sodium gleam of the streetlights, and as I rang the bell of the Gerrishes’ house I was vaguely aware of countless unseen TV screens strobing away behind the curtains of the houses all around me. There was something almost Christmassy about it, in a tacky kind of way.

Helen Gerrish seemed anxious when she opened the door, which was only to be expected. She was a nervous woman, caught up in a highly stressful situation. It would have been strange if she hadn’t been anxious. But as she stood there in the doorway, smiling her tight little smile at me, I got the feeling that she wasn’t just worried about Anna, she was worried about something else. Something that belonged to now. Right here, right now.

‘Sorry I’m late again, Mrs Gerrish,’ I said. ‘I got a bit lost.’

She shook her head. ‘No, no … that’s fine, Mr Craine. No trouble at all.’ She opened the door wider and stepped to one side. ‘Please, come in.’

I followed her along a narrow little hallway into a boxlike front room. It was very neat, very ordered, very suburban. Three-piece suite, widescreen TV, dull ornaments, blackwood coffee table, fake log fire. Over by the window, a man in a grey cardigan and green corduroy trousers was sitting in an armchair watching TV. He had a grim face, greying skin, and one of those wide upper lips that look as if they ought to have a moustache, but don’t. He was older than his wife, in his mid-fifties at least, and his short black hair was greying at the edges.

‘This is Graham, my husband,’ Helen Gerrish said.

‘Evening, Mr Gerrish,’ I said. ‘Good to meet you.’

He looked at me for a moment, nodded without smiling, then went back to watching the TV. I stared at him for a second or two, trying to see the man who his wife had assured me was ‘as desperate to find Anna as I am’, but either she’d been lying to me, or he was incredibly good at hiding his emotions. I turned back to Helen, remembering also that her husband was supposed to be working this evening, but I didn’t say anything to her about that or his distinctly ill-mannered welcome. She looked embarrassed enough as it was.

‘Here’s Anna’s keys,’ she mumbled, passing me a key ring. ‘The Yale one is for her flat, the other one’s for the main door.’

‘Thanks. Did you manage to find another photograph?’

‘Oh, yes … I knew there was something else. I think there might be some in her room.’ She looked over at her husband. ‘Do you know if there are any photographs of Anna in her room, dear?’

He didn’t answer, just carried on staring at the TV.

‘Graham?’ Helen said.

He looked up grudgingly. ‘What?’

‘Mr Craine needs another photograph of Anna. Are there any in her room?’

He shrugged. ‘How should I know?’

‘I just thought — ’

‘Why don’t we both go and have a look?’ I suggested.

She glanced at me, then looked back at her husband again. ‘Is that all right with you, dear?’

‘Is what all right?’

‘If Mr Craine has a look in Anna’s room.’

‘What are you asking me for?’

As Helen stood there, obviously upset, her lips fluttering nervously in search of a reply, I saw the faintest hint of a sneer flash across her husband’s face. It was an ugly little moment, a small horror from a small man in a small house, and just then I really didn’t want to be in the same room as him any more.

‘Is it this way?’ I asked Helen, stepping towards the door.

‘Uh, yes … yes,’ she muttered, still quite shaken, but trying her best to hide it. ‘Just up the stairs … uh … first door on the right.’

‘After you,’ I said.

Graham Gerrish was still staring blankly at the TV screen as we left the room and I followed his wife up the stairs.

‘We haven’t changed anything since Anna left home,’ she told me. ‘In her room, I mean. We’ve kept it just the way it was, you know … in case she wanted to stay over when she visited.’

‘How old was she when she left?’ I asked.

‘Seventeen. She’s a very independent-minded girl.’

‘Did she visit very often?’

‘This is it,’ Mrs Gerrish said, ignoring my question as she opened a door, turned on the light, and ushered me inside.

When I stepped into that room, I really thought that she’d made a mistake and shown me into the wrong daughter’s room, a daughter that she hadn’t told me about … a daughter who was twelve years old. Because that’s what it looked like — the bedroom of a twelve-year-old girl. Pink wallpaper, Mickey Mouse curtains, furniture that belonged in a doll’s house. There was a little wooden chair with flowers painted on it, a minuscule dressing table, a single bed made up with crisp white sheets and embroidered blankets. There were frilly things all over the place, velvety cushions, brightly coloured ribbons. And there were teddy bears and stuffed animals everywhere — lined up on the bed, sitting on chairs, perched on top of a wardrobe. The only non-sugary-sweet thing in the room was a sleek black laptop on a table beside the bed.

‘This is Anna’s old room?’ I said, trying to keep the disbelief from my voice.

‘Yes … she liked to keep it neat.’

‘And she slept in here until she was seventeen?’

‘That’s right,’ Helen said, crossing the room towards a rack of plastic shelves standing against the wall. ‘Yes, here they are … Anna’s photographs.’ She started looking through a collection of framed photographs positioned neatly on the shelves. All of the pictures were of Anna: Anna when she was a child, Anna when she was six or seven, Anna when she was twelve, thirteen, fourteen. I could hear Helen muttering to herself as she searched through the photos. ‘I think we’ve got some recent ones here … I’m sure Graham framed some and brought them up …’

I wandered slowly towards her, looking around as I went, still unable to believe my eyes. ‘Did she decorate the room herself?’ I asked.

‘Who, Anna? Goodness me, no. Graham would never have allowed that. He does all the DIY in this house. He’s very good with his hands, is Graham.’

I bet he fucking is, I thought.

‘I thought you said he was working this evening?’ I said casually.

‘Oh, yes … well, he thought he was, but there was some kind of mix up with the shifts or something.’

‘Right … so what does he actually do, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘He used to work for the Inland Revenue, but he was made redundant a few years ago. He has a security position now.’

‘Security?’

‘Yes, he works mostly in the big shopping precinct in town.’

I nodded. It wasn’t hard to imagine Graham Gerrish patrolling the shopping mall, proudly wearing his security guard uniform … bullying children, ordering kids to get off their skateboards, telling people to put out their cigarettes …

‘Is that Anna’s laptop over there?’ I asked Mrs Gerrish.

‘No … that’s Graham’s. He keeps it in here because apparently it’s the only place in the house where he can get a decent Internet connection.’

‘Really?’ I gazed round the room, looking for a router, but I couldn’t see one anywhere. ‘I would have thought with a wi-fi connection he’d have access all over the house.’

‘I’m sorry … I don’t know anything about computers … ah, here we are.’ She turned from the shelves with a framed picture in her hand. ‘I think this should do the job.’ She passed me the picture with a satisfied smile. ‘It was taken the year before last when Anna was on holiday.’

The photograph was mounted in a cheap white plastic frame. It showed Anna sitting on a wooden bench against an old stone wall, dressed in cut-off jeans and a bikini top. She was smiling dopily, and her eyes looked like tiny black marbles. There were grubby thumb marks around the edge of the frame.

‘Very nice,’ I said. ‘Was this a holiday with friends? Work colleagues?’

Helen shook her head. ‘Anna didn’t say.’

‘Do you know where she went?’

‘I think it was Ibiza … or maybe Greece. Somewhere like that. Is it important? I could probably find out — ’

‘No, don’t worry about it. It doesn’t matter. Is it OK if I keep the picture for a while?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Thanks. Well, I’d better get going now, if that’s all right.’

As Helen led me out and shut the door, I couldn’t help feeling that I’d left part of myself behind in that strangely chilling room. I could sense the darkness, the silence. The dull black shine of the toy animals’ eyes. I could feel the air, empty and still. And although it was too dark to see anything, I could still see those pictures of Anna. Her face, her eyes, her years, her life …

And, just for a moment, I thought I could hear her crying.

In the hallway at the bottom of the stairs, I surprised myself by turning to Helen and saying, ‘You’re more than welcome to come with me to Anna’s flat … if you’d like to, that is.’

She hesitated for a moment, glancing instinctively at the door to the front room, as if she couldn’t make any decision without asking her husband first. ‘Well, yes …’ she said, ‘I think I would like to … I haven’t been there since Anna disappeared. I’ll just have to check with Graham — ’

‘Why don’t you just go and get ready, get your coat and whatever else you need? I’ll let Graham know that you’re coming with me.’

‘Well … he’d probably prefer it — ’

‘Go on,’ I said, giving her a friendly nudge. ‘Live dangerously for once.’

She smiled anxiously at me, still not sure about it, but I was blocking her way to the front room now, and she didn’t want to offend me by pushing past, so in the end she didn’t have a choice.

‘I’ll just be a moment, then,’ she said, shuffling back up the stairs, where I assumed she kept her coat.

I waited until she’d gone, then I opened the door and went into the front room. The TV was still on, and Graham Gerrish was still slumped in his armchair in front of it, with the remote control still glued to his hand and his eyes still glued to the screen.

‘Do you want to turn that off for a minute?’ I said to him.

He looked at me with studied contempt. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘The TV … turn it off.’

‘I don’t see why — ’

‘I know what you do in your daughter’s bedroom,’ I said bluntly. ‘I know that you sit up there watching porn on your laptop.’

I was half-expecting him to start ranting and raving at me then — how dare you, that’s disgusting … that kind of thing. But he didn’t say anything at all, he just sat there, perfectly still, staring dumbly at me. And I knew then that I’d guessed right about the laptop.

‘Look,’ I sighed, ‘I really don’t care what you do, but I imagine your wife wouldn’t be too pleased if she knew what you get up to. So unless you want me to tell her, I suggest you turn off the TV and just listen to me for a minute, OK?’

He nodded, and turned off the TV.

‘Right,’ I said, sitting down. ‘So tell me … what’s the matter with you?’

He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your daughter’s missing, Mr Gerrish. Now I don’t know if you love her or not, but your wife obviously does, and although this whole thing is totally fucking her up, she’s still doing everything she possibly can to find Anna. But you …? All you seem to be doing is acting like a fucking arsehole and treating your wife like she’s a piece of shit. That’s what I mean.’

‘I love Anna very much, Mr Craine,’ he said matter of factly. ‘I always have, and I always will. She means everything to me. She’s my little girl.’

‘So what’s your problem? What have you got against me trying to find her? Is it the money?’

‘Of course it’s not the money,’ he said, disgusted that I’d even consider such an idea.

‘So what is it then?’

He closed his mouth tightly for a moment and made a strange little grinding motion with his teeth. Then, as if he’d finally made a decision to tell me the truth, he raised his eyes and looked at me. ‘It’s just … well, it’s just …’ He sighed. ‘I don’t want Helen getting her hopes up, that’s all. I don’t think it’s good for her, you know … the way she is. It’ll just make things all that much harder for her in the end.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘Well, you see it all the time on the television, don’t you? On the news. These girls … the ones who go missing … it always ends up badly, doesn’t it?’

‘On the news it does, yes,’ I said. ‘But that’s only because if it ends up badly it is news. There are thousands who go missing who don’t end up on the news, simply because nothing happens to them.’

He looked at me. ‘So you think Anna might be all right?’

‘I’ve really got no idea, Mr Gerrish. But what harm can it do for me to try and find out? Even if it does end up badly — and I’m not saying that it won’t — Helen’s not going to feel any worse just because her hopes have been raised, is she? And, in the meantime, she might just feel a little bit better.’

‘Well,’ Graham said thoughtfully, ‘I suppose if you look at it like that — ’

He broke off suddenly as Helen came into the room.

‘Is everything all right?’ she asked, instinctively aware of the change in her husband’s demeanour.

‘Everything’s fine,’ I said, standing up. ‘We were just having a little chat.’ I looked at her. ‘Are you ready to go?’

She glanced at her husband. He tried smiling at her, but he obviously wasn’t used to it, and all he really achieved was a strained look of constipated embarrassment.

‘All right?’ I said to Helen.

She nodded, frowning briefly to herself, and then we left.