by Kevin Brooks
I flipped my cigarette out of the window and turned back to Cal. ‘All right?’ I said.
He nodded. ‘Yeah …’
‘Are we OK?’
He grinned at me. ‘Yeah, we’re OK.’
‘Good. So what was it you were trying to tell me?’
‘Bishop’s got a brother,’ he said. ‘And guess what his name is.’
Raymond Bishop, Cal explained, was a year younger than Mick. The two brothers had lived with their parents, Stanley and Gale, on a council estate in Ilford until the night of 18 March 1965, when — according to a report in the local newspaper — their house had caught fire and burned to the ground. Both parents had died in the fire, but Raymond and Mick had survived.
‘Mick was eleven at the time,’ Cal told me. ‘And Raymond was ten. A follow-up report in the same newspaper three days later stated that the fire was caused by faulty wiring.’
‘Did it say anything about how the two boys managed to survive?’
Cal shook his head. ‘All it said was that they’d both been released from hospital and taken to a children’s home in Brentwood, a place called Pin Hall.’
I looked at Cal. ‘And …?’
He sighed. ‘Pin Hall was destroyed in a fire in 1969. Nine people died, seventeen were badly injured. All the files, all the records … everything was lost in the fire.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Faulty wiring again?’
‘That’s what it was put down to at the time, but a few years ago there was a cold-case investigation into allegations of abuse at Pin Hall, and they’re fairly sure now that the fire was started deliberately.’
I lit another cigarette. ‘So what happened to Raymond and Mick after the fire?’
‘Well, the search program found plenty of stuff about Mick Bishop’s history — when he joined the police, when he got promoted, various cases he’s been involved in … that kind of thing. And if you read between the lines, it’s pretty obvious that he’s not the cleanest cop in the world … but there’s no solid proof of anything. No big purchases, no second homes, no vices, no extravagances … I mean, his personal life is virtually non-existent. He doesn’t seem to do anything.’
‘What about Raymond?’ I said. ‘What happened to him?’
Cal shrugged. ‘After the fire at Pin Hall … there’s nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing at all … no trace of Raymond Bishop anywhere. It’s as if he just disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘Maybe he died in the fire?’
Cal shook his head. ‘His name would have come up at the inquest, and the search would have found his death certificate.’
‘But it didn’t?’
‘No.’
‘So he’s still alive?’
‘Not necessarily …’
‘But you think he is?’
‘Maybe …’
‘Do you think he’s Charles Raymond Kemper?’
‘He could be …’
I looked out through the windscreen and saw that we were halfway along Roman Road now. Up ahead, just off to our left, I could see the black-timbered outline of The Turk’s Head silhouetted against the clouded moon. I looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was almost seven o’clock.
‘What do you think, John?’ Cal asked me.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and find out, shall we?’
The car park was at the back of the pub, adjacent to the beer garden. There were floodlights at the back of the building that illuminated most of the garden, but the car park itself was unlit.
‘Where do you want me to park?’ Cal asked.
‘Just drive round for a bit first,’ I told him. ‘I want to see if the Nissan’s here.’
We circled the car park once, twice, and there was no sign of the Nissan, but as we approached the rear of the pub again, Cal slowed down and nodded his head towards a red Honda Prelude.
‘That’s Bishop’s car,’ he said. ‘The Prelude.’
‘Are you sure?’
He nodded. ‘It was one of the first things that came up on the search.’
‘OK,’ I said. ‘So Bishop’s here …’
‘Do you want me to park now?’
I nodded. ‘Reverse into that space over there.’
As Cal backed the car into a parking space that wasn’t too close to the pub, but gave us a reasonably good view of both the back door and the beer garden, I kept my eyes fixed on a broad window at the back of the building that looked through into the main bar. It was busy inside — families dining, drinkers drinking, fruit machines beeping and winking … it wasn’t quite Saturday night yet, but it was getting there. There was a smoking area just outside the back door, a covered patio area with a few wooden tables and benches, and beyond that lay the beer garden and the children’s play area. It was too cold and dark for any kids to be out playing, but the garden wasn’t completely deserted. A young couple were sitting together on a bench, braving the cold for the sake of a few moments’ privacy, and a handful of teenagers were messing about by the swings, drinking from bottles of beer and passing round a joint.
‘What now?’ Cal said.
I lit a cigarette. ‘We wait.’
‘For how long?’
‘As long as it takes. If they’re in there, they’ll have to come out eventually.’
‘Then what?’
‘We see who Bishop’s with, and we follow him.’
‘What if Bishop comes out alone?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What if Bishop’s in there with Ray, and when they’ve finished talking about whatever they’re talking about, Bishop decides to leave, but Ray wants to stay for a few more drinks. So Bishop leaves him there, and he comes out on his own — ’
‘And we’ve got no way of knowing what Ray looks like.’
‘Exactly.’
I smiled at Cal. ‘So what do you think we should do, Sherlock?’
He grinned. ‘One of us needs to go inside. And it can’t be you, because Bishop knows you … so, by process of elimination — ’
‘Look,’ I said suddenly, staring over at the back door. ‘That’s him.’
As Cal gazed intently through the windscreen, Bishop and another man came out of the pub, turned right, and walked down to the far end of the smoking area. They seemed to be arguing about something as they went, with Bishop doing most of the talking. The man he was arguing with was about the same size and height as Bishop, perhaps a little heavier. He had close-cropped dark hair, pale skin, a thin-lipped mouth …
‘Shit,’ I whispered. ‘That’s got to be his brother, hasn’t it? That’s got to be Ray Bishop.’
‘No doubt about it,’ Cal said. ‘What do you think they’re arguing about?’
‘I don’t know … but, whatever it is, I don’t think Ray gives a shit.’
Ray was lighting a cigarette now, and as his lighter flared, momentarily illuminating his features, I could see quite clearly the look on his face as his brother continued berating him. It was a look of almost vacuous disdain; empty, mocking, unknowing, uncaring.
But then, as I carried on watching them, and I saw Mick throwing up his hands in despair, as if he’d finally had enough of his brother, Ray suddenly confounded my impressions of him by stepping forward and giving Mick what looked like a genuinely heartfelt hug. And although Mick held off for a moment, it was only for a moment, and then he was returning his brother’s embrace, holding him tightly, patting his back, whispering words in his ear …
‘Very touching,’ Cal murmured.
‘Do you think that’s him?’ I said, staring at Ray. ‘I mean, do you think he’s the one we saw in the Nissan … the one who picked up Anna?’
Cal thought about it, keeping his eyes fixed on Ray. It could be him, yeah … but I wouldn’t swear to it.’
I nodded, watching as the two brothers finally let go of each other and resumed talking. Bishop was still far from happy, but
he seemed a lot calmer now. After a moment or two, I saw him gesture towards his car. Ray said something, then nodded, and they both started walking towards the car park.
‘They’re leaving,’ Cal said, reaching for the ignition.
‘Just a second,’ I told him. ‘Don’t start the car yet.’
I watched as they approached the Honda Prelude. Bishop unlocked it, Ray got in the passenger side, and after a quick look round the car park, Bishop got in and started the car.
‘Now?’ Cal asked, his hand poised on the ignition.
I shook my head. ‘I’ll tell you when.’
I waited until the Prelude had backed out of the parking space and was heading for the car-park exit, and then I told Cal to get going.
‘Just keep it nice and steady,’ I said, as he pulled away. ‘And don’t get too close.’
Cal did a surprisingly good job of following the Prelude — in fact, he probably did a lot better job than I would have done — and after about half an hour, when the Honda slowed, indicated left, and pulled in at the side of a residential road just out of town, I was pretty sure we hadn’t been spotted.
‘Keep going,’ I told Cal. ‘And keep your eyes straight ahead.’
As we drove past the parked Prelude, I turned my head away so that even if Bishop did happen to look at us, he wouldn’t see my face.
‘Pull in over there,’ I said a few moments later. ‘Don’t indicate.’
Cal did as I told him, parking between two other cars at the side of the road about thirty yards further on from the Prelude. I wound down the window and adjusted the side mirror just in time to see Ray getting out of the car, turning up his coat collar, then leaning back in to say something to his brother. He smiled, reached in and patted Mick’s shoulder, then stood back and watched as the Prelude pulled away and drove off. As it passed us by, I again turned my head away. When I turned back, I saw Ray opening a gate and heading up the front path of a small, semi-detached house. He paused at the front door, looked around, then unlocked it and went inside. After a few moments, lights came on downstairs.
‘Now what?’ Cal asked me.
I lit a cigarette. ‘This is Long Road, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Can you see the house number?’
Cal adjusted the rear-view mirror and gazed over at the house. ‘One seven four, I think … yeah, one seven four.’
‘Is your iPhone connected to all those databases you use?’
He smiled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. ‘Just give me a few minutes.’
As he began doing whatever it was he was doing — thumbing and scrolling, jumping from screen to screen — I glanced admiringly at the battered old trilby hat on his head. He wore it well — tipped to one side, at just the right angle — and while it could easily have looked quite lame on somebody else, it looked just perfect on Cal.
‘Nice hat,’ I said.
‘It’s my detecting hat,’ he grinned, without looking up from his iPhone.
I smiled. ‘Thanks for all your help with this, Cal.’
He shrugged. ‘No problem.’
‘And I’m sorry if I was a bit pissy with you earlier on.’
‘Pissy?’ he said, smiling at me.
‘Yeah, you know, when I was telling you to sort yourself out — ’
‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘You were right, anyway. I was a bit over-excited.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry — ’
‘Shit,’ he sighed, shaking his head as he looked down at the iPhone screen.
‘What is it?’
‘Another dead end.’ He studied the screen for a moment. ‘174 Long Road is one of a number of properties owned by a man called Syed Naveed. He rents them out through a letting agency called HRL Ltd, and their records show that 174 Long Road is currently leased to a tenant by the name of Joel R Pickton. But the references they’ve got are fake. Fake driving licence, fake passport, fake letter from Mr Pickton’s fake previous landlord.’
‘Do the records say how long the lease is for?’
Cal looked at the iPhone screen. ‘Twelve months, paid in advance. He moved in at the end of July this year.’
I shook my head. ‘Where the fuck does he get all this fake ID from?’
‘I don’t know,’ Cal said. ‘But it won’t be cheap. Whoever he uses — ’
‘Hold on,’ I said, my attention suddenly drawn to the house. ‘The lights have just gone off.’
While I carried on watching the house in the side mirror, Cal turned in his seat and looked out through the rear windscreen. After about half a minute, the front door opened and Ray Bishop came out. He paused on the doorstep, looking up and down the street, then he shut the door behind him, went down the path, out the gate, and headed across the road towards a white Toyota Yaris.
‘Do we follow him?’ Cal said.
I watched Ray Bishop get into the Yaris.
‘John?’ Cal said.
I looked at him. ‘Are you OK following him on your own?’
‘Why? Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to take a quick look round his house.’
Cal frowned. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, John. What if he comes back? I mean, this guy might be a — ’
‘Ring me,’ I said, opening the car door as the Yaris started up. ‘Just keep him in sight, wherever he goes, and as soon as you think he’s coming back, ring me and let me know. All right?’
Cal hesitated.
The Yaris was pulling away now.
I looked at Cal. He still wasn’t happy, but as the headlights of the Yaris approached us from behind, he reluctantly nodded his head and reached for the ignition. ‘All right,’ he said, starting the car. ‘But as soon as I ring you — ’
‘I’ll be out like a shot,’ I assured him.
I waited for the Yaris to pass us, gave it a few seconds, then got out of the car and slapped the roof. As Cal pulled away and drove off after the Yaris, I checked that my mobile was switched on, waited another minute — just to be on the safe side — then headed for the house.
27
I learned how to pick locks from a semi-retired investigator who used to work part-time for Leon Mercer. It wasn’t actually a very useful skill to have in the world of corporate investigation and insurance fraud, which was lucky for me because I was never very good at it anyway. I wasn’t totally useless, but I knew that I probably wouldn’t be able to open the Yale lock on Ray Bishop’s front door, so I went through a rusty old gate at the side of the house and headed round the back instead. There was no back garden as such, just a high-walled concrete yard cluttered with bins and bin bags, carrier bags, bits of scrap metal, car doors, seats, hubcaps, broken deckchairs … all kinds of shit. The wall surrounding the yard was high enough to screen me from the neighbours’ downstairs windows, but I paused for a moment and looked around anyway, making sure that no one was watching me from any upstairs windows, then I went over to a glass-panelled door at the rear of the house and examined the lock. It was an old-fashioned mortice lock, loose and rattly, and I was fairly sure I could open it. I looked around all the crap on the ground, searching for something I could use to pick the lock, and almost immediately I spotted a carrier bag full of broken old tools. I went over and picked out a small handle-less screwdriver, and within a couple of minutes I had the door open and was stepping through into a small kitchen at the back of the house.
I shut the door behind me, took out a penlight, and looked around. The kitchen was very small and very cramped, neither overly clean nor excessively dirty. There was a stained porcelain sink with a warped wooden draining board, old cupboards, a rust-flecked boiler, a formica-topped table scattered with empty KFC boxes. I paused for a moment, listening to the silence, then I moved down a narrow hallway and went into the front room. The curtains were drawn, the lights off. As I swept the penlight around, I saw a room that didn’t belong to anyone. It was a room that had been furnished from Argos: bland pictures o
n the walls, a thin carpet, a cheap two-seater settee and matching cheap armchair. The dining table and shelves were flat-packed white plastic wood, and the ornaments were straight from the ornaments page of the catalogue: lamp, vase, clock, a porcelain figurine of a doe-eyed child. A cut-price music system was stacked against the wall and a widescreen television loomed large on the floor.
There was nothing of Ray Bishop in here.
It was no more than the simulation of a room.
I left the room and headed upstairs.
Halfway up, a samurai sword was hanging from a cord on the stairway wall. At first, I thought it was just another ornament from the Argos catalogue, but when I paused on the stairs and looked closer, I realised that it was all too real. The blade — 24 inches of slightly curved, razor-sharp steel — even showed some signs of use. It was nicked here and there, the cracked edges beginning to rust, and several parts of the blade were discoloured with dark-brown stains. I stood there for a few seconds, gazing at the sword, trying to ignore the simmering fear in my guts … then I went on up the stairs.
There was a small landing, a bathroom, an empty box room, and a surprisingly large main bedroom. And when I opened the bedroom door and stepped inside, I knew straight away that this was where Ray Bishop lived. Up here … this was his home. I didn’t even need to see it, I could sense it, feel it — a brutal vitality that sapped the air from my lungs.
I closed the door behind me and shone the penlight around. The walls were black, the paint seemingly applied with no care at all. It looked as if someone had simply rushed round the room, slapping on paint until the walls were more black than white. The only window, facing the street, was covered with a single heavy black curtain. There was no bed, just a blanket on the floor. The blanket was surrounded by a mess of scattered objects: syringes, phials, tissues, a spoon, a carton of milk, crackers, soda bread, yoghurt, cheese, nuts …