Dance of Ghosts

by Kevin Brooks

  I looked at her, not sure what to think or say … and my uncertainty clearly showed in my face, because after a few moments Imogen smiled sadly and said, ‘Some other time, maybe?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sorry … it’s just –’

  ‘I understand, John. Really, it’s OK.’ Her smile brightened, and she leaned across and kissed me. ‘And you never know,’ she added, brushing my cheek with her hand. ‘A mysterious woman in a hat and scarf might just turn up one night, looking for some company …’

  ‘I’ll look out for her.’

  ‘You do that.’

  I couldn’t see any reporters or TV people as I walked down the street towards my house, and I wondered briefly if perhaps they had all gone home and gone to bed early, but then – just as I was approaching my house – the door of a parked car opened and a sharp-eyed young woman clutching a digital voice recorder jumped out.

  ‘Mr Craine?’ she called out to me. ‘Could I have a quick word about –’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly.

  She took no notice, scuttling up to me, then scrambling along beside me, sticking the recorder into my face. ‘How did you feel when you heard the news about Anton Viner, Mr Craine?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I said. ‘It really made my day.’

  She was taken aback for a second, long enough for me to get to the house and get my key in the door.

  ‘How did you find Anna’s body, John?’ she said. ‘How did you know where it was?’

  I didn’t say anything, just opened the door.

  ‘Did you know Anna, John?’

  I went inside and shut the door, but before I’d got halfway along the corridor, the doorbell rang. I turned round and walked back along the hallway, reached up to the bell, and yanked out the wires. Then I just stood there for a while, in the silent darkness, waiting to see if she knocked on the door … and I was really hoping that she didn’t, because I didn’t want to do anything stupid, but I had a feeling that I might.

  But she didn’t.

  I waited a couple of minutes, then a few minutes more – and while I waited I was listening hard for any sign of life from upstairs … but there was nothing. No sounds, no faint vibrations, no sense of any presence at all. And as I moved quietly back down the hallway and unlocked the door to my flat, I wondered where Bridget had gone. Was she out with friends somewhere? Dancing, drinking … enjoying the night? Or maybe she’d decided to give Dave another chance. Maybe she was with him right now … in a fancy restaurant, a pub, a club, at his place … in bed together …

  I didn’t put the lights on when I went inside. I moved through the familiar darkness into the front room, sat down in the armchair, and lit a cigarette. The curtains were all still closed. The house was silent. I poured myself a tumbler of whisky, raised it to my lips, and drank deeply.

  23

  Around 8.30 the next morning I was smoking my second cigarette of the day with my third cup of coffee when I heard a commotion outside – hurried footsteps, raised voices, the sound of a dog barking. I got up and looked out through a gap in the curtains and saw Bridget and Walter struggling their way across the road, pursued by a gaggle of reporters and TV people. Bridget was saying nothing, keeping her head bowed down and her eyes fixed firmly to the ground, and Walter was just barking chaotically at everything. As they reached the front door, I went out into the hallway and met them coming in.

  ‘Shit,’ said Bridget, slamming the door on the reporters. ‘They don’t give up, do they?’

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked her.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ she said, smiling at me. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I nodded. ‘I’m all right. Look, I’m really sorry about all this –’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said, shaking her head and waving away my apology. ‘It’s not your fault, is it?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ I shrugged. ‘But I’m sorry anyway.’

  ‘Me too,’ she said, touching my arm. ‘About last night, I mean …’

  I looked at her, not sure what she meant.

  ‘I meant to leave you a note,’ she explained. ‘To let you know where I’d gone … but I forgot. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK.’

  ‘I went to see Sarah,’ she said. ‘We had some pet-shop business to sort out, you know … tax and stuff. And then we had a few glasses of wine, and I didn’t want to drive home drunk … especially with all these reporters around –’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m just telling you, that’s all.’

  ‘Well … thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  We looked at each other for a moment then – Bridget still smiling at me – and I realised that her coat was damp and her hair was glistening darkly with a light sheen of rain … and I remembered how Stacy’s blonde hair used to darken in the rain, taking on the colour of rain-goldened straw …

  ‘I’d better get a move on,’ Bridget said.

  I looked at her. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Work,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘Saturday’s the busiest day of the week.’ She grinned at me. ‘Lots of fat kids wanting to buy mouses.’

  I nodded, smiling. ‘Are you going right now?’

  ‘Yeah, I just need to get a couple of things from upstairs.’

  ‘I was just on my way into town, so if you want a lift …?’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, heading for the stairs. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

  *

  There were even more reporters waiting outside when we left the house, and as we headed across the street towards my car they swarmed all around us like maniacs – shoving microphones in our faces, shouting out questions, blocking our way, taking photographs. Walter started up with his chaotic barking again, while me and Bridget just kept our mouths shut and concentrated on walking in a straight line. I was doing my best to stay calm, to not let the pushing and jostling bother me … and I was doing a pretty good job of it until, just as we reached my car, a particularly annoying photographer rammed his camera so close to my face, trying to get a shot of me and Bridget together, that I just couldn’t help lashing out at him. As he shoved against me again, almost knocking me off my feet, I swung round and cracked my elbow into his camera, smashing it viciously into his face. He grunted in pain, stepping back and dropping the camera, and while he stood there clutching his bloodied nose, I leaned down, picked up his camera, and threw it over the factory wall. There was a momentary silence before I heard the satisfying sound of the camera splashing into the cooling pond beyond the wall, and then everything started up again – the scuffling, the jostling, the questioning, the digital whirr of cameras – and as we got into my car, I could just make out the bleating voice of the photographer I’d hit whining away in the background – you brode my vucking node, you bartard … I’ll vucking do you for dis … I’ll vucking ab you …

  ‘Sorry about that,’ I said to Bridget, making sure that Walter was safely in the back and locking the car doors. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt the guy –’

  ‘Fuck him,’ she said, fastening her seat belt. ‘He deserved it.’

  ‘You ready?’ I asked her, starting the car.

  She smiled. ‘Let’s go.’

  About five minutes later, as we approached the north end of the High Street, Bridget glanced over her shoulder and said, ‘I think we’re being followed.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘Are they reporters?’

  ‘In the BMW, yeah. There’s a TV crew in the Range Rover behind them.’

  Bridget looked at me. ‘Aren’t you going to try losing them?’

  I shook my head. ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m a shitty driver,’ I said. ‘And this is a shitty car. And, besides, they know where I’m going anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, but they don’t know where I’m going, do they? I
don’t want them following me to the shop, John.’

  ‘I’ll drop you off at the NatWest in the High Street,’ I said, pulling up at the lights. ‘You can cut through the bank and go out the back way into Wyre Street. It’s only about five minutes from there to your shop.’ I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw that the BMW and the Range Rover were about three or four cars behind us. The lights were still red.

  ‘But what if they follow me into the bank?’ Bridget said.

  ‘They won’t.’

  Before she could say anything else, I slammed the Fiesta into gear, put my foot down and shot through the red lights. Horns blared as I swung the Fiesta to the right, narrowly missing an oncoming bus, and sped down the High Street for about fifty yards before screeching to a halt outside the bank.

  ‘Go on,’ I told Bridget, glancing quickly in the rear-view mirror. ‘You’re all right, they’re still stuck at the lights.’

  ‘Will you call me later?’ she said, undoing her seat belt and opening the door.

  ‘Yeah, if I can. Now get going.’

  She jumped out, got Walter out of the back, and as they hurried off together into the bank, I drove off steadily down the High Street. Within twenty seconds or so, the BMW and the Range Rover were behind me again, only this time they were keeping a lot closer.

  They were still right behind me when I drove round the market square and turned left at a No Entry sign into Wyre Street. It was strictly pedestrianised here – no cars, no parking – and I got a lot of nasty looks and angry shouts as I drove slowly up the street, crawling through the crowds of Saturday shoppers, which wasn’t all that pleasant … but it was a lot better than having to park somewhere and walk to the office with a pack of reporters dogging my every step.

  I parked the Fiesta on the pavement outside the office. I knew that it’d be gone within the hour, clamped and towed away, and I’d have to pay God-knows-how-much to get it back, probably more than it was worth … but I didn’t really care. It was only a car. And it was about time I got a new one anyway.

  A reporter and a cameraman were waiting at the door to the office, and when they saw me coming they immediately started hustling towards me – the reporter fiddling with his earpiece, the cameraman adjusting something on his camera …

  ‘Sky News, Mr Craine,’ the reporter called out as he approached me, somehow making the statement sound like a question. Sky News, Mr Craine? I didn’t look at him, didn’t say anything, just kept on going towards the office door.

  ‘We’re live on Sky News, Mr Craine,’ I heard him saying. ‘Could you tell us how you feel about your wife being the victim of a serial killer?’

  I stopped and looked at him. His face was vaguely familiar from countless TV news reports, but I couldn’t put a name to it. He was holding a microphone towards me, his head tilted slightly to one side and his mouth turned down, showing me how serious and sympathetic he was.

  ‘This is live?’ I said quietly.

  ‘Yes, Mr Craine. You’re live on Sky News.’

  I smiled at him. ‘Why don’t you fuck off, you annoying cunt?’

  And as he stepped back, momentarily stunned, I walked past him, unlocked the office door, and went inside.

  I don’t often go into the office at the weekend, but on the odd occasion that I do, George Salvini is always there, quietly getting on with some work in his office. He’s usually on his own, but when I knocked on his door that morning and he let me in, he was with a neatly groomed young man called Fabian who worked part-time for him. Fabian was perched on the edge of a desk, staring at a small TV on a table in the corner.

  ‘Sorry about all this, George,’ I said, glancing at the TV. It was tuned to Sky News, and the studio presenter was in the middle of apologising for the inappropriate language that had just been heard during an interview with John Craine.

  ‘Not at all, John,’ George beamed at me. ‘It’s all rather exciting, really. We were just watching your interview outside.’

  ‘Yeah, good one,’ Fabian added, grinning at me.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ George asked.

  ‘No, thanks. I’m not stopping … I just wanted to use your back door, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Of course, of course …’

  ‘There’s no one out there, is there? No reporters?’

  George looked at Fabian. ‘Would you mind?’

  Fabian nodded, smiling intimately at George, then he padded across the office towards a door in the far wall.

  ‘He’s a good boy,’ George said, watching him go through the door.

  I smiled.

  George turned back to me. ‘You look tired.’

  ‘I am.’

  He patted my shoulder. ‘If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know. OK?’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’

  We both looked over as Fabian came back in.

  ‘It’s clear,’ he said. ‘No one’s out there.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I told him, heading for the door.

  ‘Mind how you go, John,’ George called out.

  ‘Yeah, you too,’ I called back.

  The door led me out into a carpeted corridor, at the far end of which was a cluttered storage area with a barred window and a fire door. I went over to the door, pushed down on the bar, gave it a shove, and stepped out into a narrow alley at the back of the building. The alley was enclosed behind a high brick wall crowned with shards of broken glass. Piles of retail debris were stacked against the wall: flattened cardboard boxes, bin bags, pallets, rolls of plastic sheeting. A sparse rain was falling, and I could hear the drops tocking loudly on clamp-shaped blocks of polystyrene. Someone had taken the trouble to paint ALWAYS ON MY MIND on the wall, and beneath that, FUCK YOUR NOB.

  I pulled up my collar and headed off into the rain.

  24

  When I got to Cal’s place, the first thing I learned was that the photographer whose nose I’d broken had reported me to the police and that I was now wanted for questioning on suspicion of assault and criminal damage.

  ‘It was on Sky News just a minute ago,’ Cal told me. ‘And I heard it on the police scanner too.’ He smiled at me. ‘I think they might want to talk to you about calling someone a cunt on live TV as well.’

  ‘Is there a law against that?’

  ‘Fuck knows. Do you want some coffee?’

  While Cal made coffee, I went over and sat down on the settee, lit a cigarette, and stared at the mute TV. A picture of me was being shown, with a BREAKING NEWS banner scrolling underneath that said HUSBAND OF SERIAL KILLER VICTIM IN INTERVIEW OUTRAGE ACCUSED OF “ASSAULT” BY DAILY EXPRESS PHOTOGRAPHER. After a few moments, my picture was replaced by a photo of Stacy, and then a blurred mugshot of Anton Viner appeared on the screen …

  I picked up the remote and turned off the TV.

  ‘So what’s going on, John?’ said Cal, sitting down next to me and passing me a cup of coffee. ‘All this stuff about Anton Viner … is it true?’

  I looked at him. ‘Do you trust me?’

  ‘Yeah, of course.’

  ‘So if I were to tell you that I knew, without doubt, that Anton Viner didn’t kill Anna Gerrish, but that I couldn’t tell you how or why I knew … could you accept that?’

  He hesitated for a moment, thinking about it, then simply nodded. ‘Viner didn’t kill Anna?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you know that for a fact?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘That’s good enough for me.’ He smiled. ‘So does that mean we’re back on the case?’

  I looked at him. ‘I’ve got a funny feeling that you’ve never been off it.’

  Although I’d told Cal two weeks ago to leave the case alone, I’d known all along that he wouldn’t – he simply wasn’t capable of it. I knew he’d just have to keep digging, keep poking around, keep lifting up stones to see what was under them … and I was right, that was what he’d been doing.

  ‘The Charles Raymond Kemper that we’re lo
oking for doesn’t exist,’ he told me. ‘I’ve run him through my automated search program and I’ve manually been through every possible database, using every possible combination of names and initials, and I haven’t come up with anything that makes sense. The address in Leicester doesn’t exist. There’s no birth certificate for anyone called Kemper that matches the date of birth in the DVLA’s records.’ Cal looked at me. ‘There’s simply no trace of our Charlie Kemper anywhere.’

  ‘So it’s a fake driving licence?’

  ‘Yeah, but there’s more to it than that. Fake ID’s not difficult, and driving licences are a piece of piss, but even with the really good fakes I can usually get behind the false information and find little traces of the real stuff, but with this one …’ He shrugged. ‘There’s just nothing there. Nothing at all.’

  ‘OK, so it’s a false name and a false address … but the guy in the Nissan was real, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Well, yeah …’

  ‘We saw him on CCTV.’

  Cal gave me a look. ‘It’s gone now.’

  ‘What’s gone?’

  ‘The stored CCTV footage, the stuff we found on the council’s computer system. It’s been wiped.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘About ten days ago.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘It’s not really a problem … I’ve still got copies, and unless someone really knows what they’re doing, it’s almost impossible to completely delete anything.’

  ‘Who could have wiped the footage?’

  Cal shrugged. ‘Anyone with access to the system.’

  ‘Bishop?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘All right,’ I sighed, lighting another cigarette. ‘What else have you got?’