Authors: Kevin Brooks
And now that I’d had a couple of stiff drinks, I wasn’t even sure why I was thinking about it anyway. Everything seemed too
circular
, too mixed up, too complicated to think about – Stacy, Viner … Viner, me … Anna, Stacy, me, Viner, Anna, me …
And Bishop.
‘Shit,’ I muttered. ‘Fuck it.’
I picked up the phone and called the office.
Ada answered, ‘John Craine Investigations,’ sounding as grumpy as ever.
‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Listen, something’s come up …’
I told her everything that Bishop had told me about Anna Gerrish and Anton Viner, and then I went on to explain that the police were going to announce all this in a televised press conference at two o’clock.
‘Which means,’ I said, glancing at the clock, ‘that in about half an hour’s time, the media are going to start looking for me.’
‘Where are you now?’ Ada asked.
‘At home.’
‘Are you still working that insurance case?’
‘I was this morning, yeah, but I think it’s best if I leave it for now. Could you call Mercer and let them know?’
‘Yeah, OK. But what are you going to do? The media are bound to find out where you live, so if you don’t
want
to talk to them –’
‘I’ll see how I feel. I might stay here, I might not. They’ll probably try the office first though, so the easiest thing for you to do is unplug the phone, lock up the office, and go home. If anyone from the media gets in touch with you, don’t say anything. And if I need to speak to you, I’ll use your mobile. OK?’
‘Yeah … how long do you think this is going to last, John?’
‘I don’t know. Hopefully it’ll all be over by the start of next week and we can get back to normality again. But let’s just see how it goes over the weekend, all right?’
Ada sighed. ‘I don’t understand any of this, John. If Viner’s a serial killer, what’s he been doing for the last seventeen years? And why’s he suddenly come back here and started killing again?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘I know.’
‘And it’s not fair either … for you, I mean.’
‘Nothing’s
fair
, Ada,’ I said. ‘It’s just the way it is.’
I poured myself another drink, turned on the television, and tuned in to Sky News. Adverts were showing. I muted
the TV and went to the bathroom. When I came back, just as I was sitting down again, there was a knock at the door.
‘John?’ I heard Bridget saying. ‘Are you there?’
I got up, went over to the door, and opened it. She’d put on a coat and was holding Walter’s lead in her hand. Walter was sitting beside her.
‘I’m just taking him out for a walk,’ she said. ‘I wondered if you wanted to come with us …’
‘I can’t at the moment –’
‘That’s all right,’ Bridget said quickly. ‘I just thought I’d ask –’
‘Can you come in for a minute?’ I said.
She looked at me for a second or two, then nodded. ‘I’ll just put Walter back –’
‘No, he’s all right,’ I said, stepping back to let them both in.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
As I showed Bridget into the front room, Walter padded across the floor, making a beeline for the settee.
‘No, Walter –’ Bridget started to say.
‘It’s all right,’ I told her. ‘I don’t mind.’
Walter clambered onto the settee, sighed, and sank down comfortably with his head on his feet. Bridget went over and sat down beside him.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked me, glancing at the whisky bottle as she took off her coat and hat.
‘Yeah …’ I said, checking the TV as I sat down in the armchair. The weather was on. I looked back at Bridget. ‘Sorry … I’m waiting for something … on the news. It might affect you.’
She frowned. ‘What are you talking about, John?’
‘Sorry,’ I said, smiling at her. ‘I’m not being very clear, am I?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘OK, what it is … the man who was here earlier, Mick Bishop, he’s a police officer. And the reason –’
‘There he is,’ Bridget said suddenly, pointing at the TV. ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’
On the screen, Bishop and two other men were shuffling their way onto a small wooden stage where a table and three chairs had been set up. There were microphones on the table. A jug of water, three glasses. On a hastily erected screen behind the table it said:
Essex Police: Working for OUR Community
.
‘What’s going on?’ Bridget said.
‘Sorry,’ I told her, turning up the volume. ‘I need to listen to this.’
The three men had sat down and the one in the middle was just beginning to speak. He introduced himself first, Chief Constable Stewart Wright, then he presented the man on his left, Detective Chief Superintendent Gerald James, and finally he introduced Detective Chief Inspector Bishop, described as being the officer in charge of the day-to-day investigation. DCS James then took over, stating simply that Anna Gerrish had been reported missing on 6 September and that her body had been discovered in a lay-by on Great Hey Road on Friday 8 October.
‘At this stage in our enquiries,’ DCS James explained, ‘the cause of death is believed to be multiple stab wounds.’
I could sense Bridget glancing over at me now and then as
the press conference went on, but I didn’t look back at her. I just kept my eyes on the screen and listened as James announced that following forensic analysis of crime-scene evidence, a comprehensive link had been established between the murder of Anna Gerrish and the murder of Stacy Craine in 1993.
‘As some of you may remember,’ James continued, ‘the prime suspect in Stacy Craine’s murder was Anton Viner, a convicted rapist who went missing shortly after the crime was committed. Despite an ongoing and exhaustive search by both national and international authorities, Anton Viner has still not been found.’ James looked up from his notes and stared directly into the camera. ‘However, we now have very strong evidence linking Anton Viner with the death of Ms Gerrish, and we’re making a fresh appeal to anyone with any knowledge of this man’s whereabouts to contact us immediately.’
As James held up an A4-sized mugshot of Viner and explained that photographs and further information would be made available to the media after the conference, I kept my eyes on Bishop. He wasn’t looking at the photo that James was holding up, nor was he looking around at the audience, or into the camera … in fact, he didn’t seem to be looking at anything at all. He was just sitting there, stone-faced, staring blindly straight ahead.
But then, as DCS James announced that DCI Bishop would be happy to answer any questions, Bishop suddenly came to life – raising his head slightly, looking around, taking control … a picture of calm efficiency.
The questions came thick and fast.
Are you treating Viner as a serial killer?
Has he killed more than twice?
Was Anna Gerrish sexually assaulted?
Is it true that she worked as a prostitute?
Bishop answered most of the questions quite briefly, refusing to comment on anything that might jeopardise the investigation in any way, which basically meant just about everything. However, when someone asked him how Anna’s body had been discovered, he suddenly became a lot more talkative.
‘Her body was found by a private investigator who’d been hired by Mr and Mrs Gerrish to investigate Anna’s disappearance. While we’d prefer not to release any further details at the moment, we realise that if we don’t, we may well be adding to the media pressure on Anna’s family.’ He paused for a second, glancing into the camera, and I felt that he was looking directly at me. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘in view of this, we’d like to announce at this point that the private investigator who found Anna’s body was John Craine.’
There was an audible silence from the audience for a moment, then cameras started flashing, an excited murmur filled the room, and everyone started shouting out questions.
‘Is that the same John Craine who was married to Stacy Craine?’
‘Yes,’ Bishop said calmly. ‘Mr Craine was Stacy’s husband.’
‘Did Anna know Stacy?’
‘Not as far as we know.’
‘What’s John Craine’s connection with Anna?’
‘There is no connection. As I’ve already said, Mr Craine
is a private investigator. He was investigating Anna’s disappearance –’
‘How did he find her? What did he know that the police didn’t?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that at this –’
‘Have you questioned him?’
‘Mr Craine has been questioned, yes.’
‘Is he a suspect?’
‘We have no reason to believe that Mr Craine’s discovery of Anna Gerrish’s body is anything more than a coincidence.’
‘But you have questioned him?’
‘I’ve already answered that question.’
‘Does Craine know Viner?’
‘Not as far as we know.’
‘How did he know –?’
‘That’s it for now, ladies and gentlemen, thank you,’ Chief Constable Wright broke in suddenly. ‘Press packs are available on your way out, and we will be updating you if and when any more information comes to light.’
More questions rang out as the three men got to their feet and shuffled off the stage – mostly questions about me – but the press conference was over now, the microphones turned off, and Sky News was returning to the studio presenters. As they started telling us what we’d just seen and heard, I turned off the television, took a long drink, and lit a cigarette.
‘Well …’ Bridget murmured, looking over at me.
I smiled at her. ‘Confusing, isn’t it?’
She nodded. ‘A bit.’
I picked up the whisky bottle. ‘Would you like a drink?’
‘No, thanks.’
I poured whisky into my glass. ‘Anna Gerrish’s mother wasn’t happy with the way the police investigation was going. She thought they weren’t doing enough to look for her daughter. So a couple of weeks ago she hired me to see what I could find out.’ I shrugged. ‘It wasn’t too difficult. I poked around a bit, asked a few questions, and after a while … well, like I said, it wasn’t that difficult.’
Bridget looked at me, waiting for me to go on.
I drank some more. ‘I can’t tell you exactly how I found Anna’s body, but it didn’t have anything to do with Viner or Stacy. I didn’t even
know
about Viner’s connection with this until a few hours ago. That’s what Bishop came here to tell me about.’
Bridget nodded. ‘You don’t have to justify anything to me, John.’
‘Yeah, I know … it’s just … well, the way Bishop explained it, you could easily have assumed –’
‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘I didn’t assume anything. I still don’t really
understand
any of it –’
‘Neither do I.’
She nodded again. ‘Was he right about it just being a coincidence?’
‘I don’t know …’ I sipped my drink. ‘I really don’t know.’
We were both silent for a while then – Bridget just sitting there, idly preening Walter’s grey head, while I just sat there, drinking and smoking … not really thinking about anything any more, just letting things be, letting the alcohol
sink down inside me and soak up all the stuff that didn’t make sense …
‘It must have been terrible for you,’ Bridget said after a while.
‘What?’
‘Finding the body.’
‘Which one?’
She hesitated, taken aback for a moment, not sure what I meant, but then she suddenly realised. ‘Oh, shit … of course, your wife … God, I’m so
sorry
, I didn’t mean –’
‘No, it’s my fault,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have said it like that … sorry.’ I shook my head. ‘I’m such a fucking idiot sometimes …’
Bridget smiled. ‘Just sometimes?’
‘Most of the time, actually,’ I said, returning her smile.
We carried on smiling at each other for a few moments, then Bridget looked away and carried on stroking Walter’s head as she gazed casually around the room. As I sat there, half-watching her, I realised that the whisky was really getting to me now, weighing me down with its vaporous gravity, and I could almost hear a faint voice of sobriety castigating me for being so stupid, for drinking so much when I hadn’t eaten anything for God knows how long, for being so weak when I needed to be strong …
But the voice was too far away to have much effect.
And I was already too drunk to care anyway.
‘Is that Stacy?’ I heard Bridget say.
Just for a second, I thought that she meant the distant voice in my head –
is that Stacy reproaching you for drinking too much?
– but then I looked over and saw that
she was studying the framed photograph of Stacy on the shelf.
‘Yeah …’ I said, gazing at the picture as Bridget got up and went over to the shelf for a closer look. The photo was a head-and-shoulders shot of Stacy, taken on the day we’d got married. It wasn’t much of a wedding – a register office service, with no guests, no fuss, no reception … just a couple of friends as witnesses and a few drinks in the Double Locks afterwards – but it was a day I’ll never forget. Just the two of us, alone together in our own perfect world …
‘She’s beautiful,’ Bridget said.
I nodded, unable to speak. In the photograph, Stacy was laughing, her eyes beaming, her face alight with joy … and just for a moment I was back there again, I was
there
… on our wedding day, sitting in the sun-dappled beer garden of the Double Locks, taking her picture. I’d just made a daisy crown for her, and when I’d placed it on her head it had looked so pure and wonderful –
she’d
looked so pure and wonderful – that I’d just
had
to take a photograph …
‘How old was she then?’ Bridget asked.
‘Twenty-four,’ I said. ‘She was three years older than me.’
‘She looks very happy.’
‘Yeah …’
Bridget looked at me. ‘I don’t suppose it helps, does it?’
‘What?’
She shrugged. ‘Knowing that you loved each other … the memories … all the good things. I don’t expect they give you much comfort.’
‘Not really … in fact, sometimes I wonder if it might have been better if we
hadn’t
loved each other so much. Well, better for me, anyway.’
Bridget shook her head. ‘You don’t mean that.’
‘No … no, I don’t.’ I lit a cigarette. ‘It’s just … well, you know …’