by Kevin Brooks
‘Yep,’ I said. ‘He’s a classy guy, all right.’
She laughed.
I drank some more.
The telephone rang.
I leaned down, picked it up off the floor, dropped it, and picked it up again. ‘Hello?’
‘Is that Mr Craine?’ a female voice said.
‘Who’s this?’
‘John Craine?’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Eileen Banner, I’m from the Sun. I was wondering if — ’
‘Shit,’ I muttered, putting the phone down and disconnecting it.
‘Is something the matter?’ Bridget asked.
‘That was a reporter from the Sun,’ I told her, pulling my mobile from my pocket as it started to ring. The screen read UNKNOWN SENDER. I cut off the call and turned off the phone. ‘This is what I meant earlier on,’ I said to Bridget. ‘You know … about this affecting you.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘The press, TV people … now that Bishop’s thrown them a bone they’re all going to be after me like dogs. 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. And if I don’t talk to them, which I won’t, they’ll just go looking for someone else … you, for example.’
‘Me?’ Bridget frowned. ‘But I don’t know anything — ’
‘You don’t have to know anything. The media don’t give a shit about knowing anything. All they ever want is something to talk about, something to write about … it doesn’t matter what it is.’ I looked at Bridget. ‘If they come round here, and you open the door, they’re going to link you with me whatever you say, or don’t say … and the next thing you know you’ll be “the mysterious blonde now living with the husband of the serial killer’s first victim”, and everyone’s going to want to know all about you.’
Bridget just shrugged. ‘So I won’t open the door.’
I looked at her, struggling to focus now, and I wondered if I should warn her about the possibility of the media picking up on her resemblance to Stacy. And as I thought about that, I suddenly realised that not only was she roughly the same height and shape as Stacy, with the same short blonde hair and blue eyes, but she was also about the same age that Stacy would have been …
‘Are you OK, John?’ she said to me.
‘What?’
‘You don’t look so good …’
‘Uh, yeah …’ I mumbled. ‘I think I’m a bit …’
‘Drunk?’
I smiled. ‘Yeah … sorry. I didn’t mean to … I was just …’
‘Looking for shadows?’
‘Probably, yeah … something like that. But look — ’
‘It’s all right,’ she said, getting to her feet and coming over to me. ‘I won’t answer the door to anyone I don’t know, I won’t talk to anyone, and I’ll try not to let anyone take any pictures of me. But I’m not going to move out or anything, OK?’
‘Yeah, no … I didn’t mean that — ’
‘Whatever happens, I’ll deal with it.’
‘Keep your curtains closed.’
‘Stop worrying, I’ve got it all in hand.’ She was leaning over me now, helping me out of the chair. ‘You need to go to bed.’
‘Yeah, sorry …’
‘And stop saying sorry.’
‘Sorry,’ I grinned.
‘Come on, up you get.’
I don’t really remember the rest of it. I have a vague recollection of being slightly embarrassed as Bridget took me into the bedroom and helped me into bed, but I’m not quite sure what I was embarrassed about. I assume that part of it was simply that I felt so stupid about being so drunk, but I’ve got a feeling that there was more to it than just that. There was the touch of Bridget’s hand on my arm as she helped me into the bedroom, and then the dimly dawning realisation that I was in my bedroom with Bridget, and that she was putting me to bed … and that I didn’t know what was going to happen next. What did she want to happen? What did I want? What did she expect? Something? Anything? Nothing?
It was an embarrassing train of thought.
But nothing happened.
Almost nothing.
I remember her whispering, ‘Go to sleep … I’ll see you later.’
And then I felt her lips on mine — a brief but gentle kiss.
And it moved me. It made me want to be with her, to hold her, to have her hold me. And with the touch of her lips still sweet on mine, I reached out for her …
But she’d already gone.
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 s
heeting. 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.’