Authors: Kevin Brooks
Stupid …
The blue-eyed animal.
Stupid and pure.
I wasn’t pure. I was faithless and stupid and weak.
‘I’m sorry, Stace,’ I muttered. ‘I’m
really
sorry …’
It’s OK
.
‘No, it’s not.’
You can’t be sad all the time, John. Not for ever. It’ll kill you. You have to be happy sometimes
.
‘I can’t –’
Yes, you can. You were happy with Bridget just now, weren’t you?
‘Please don’t –’
She’s nice
.
‘Yeah, but she’s not you.’
It’s all right, John. Really, it’s all right. Don’t cry any more
.
I sniffed hard, wiping snot and tears from my face.
I’m in your heart, John … always. No matter what
.
‘I know.’
I love you
.
I thought I might just sit there in the silent darkness and sink down into a drunken nowhere for the rest of the night, but after five minutes or so of not drinking, not thinking, just staring thoughtlessly at nothing, something made me put down the untouched whisky glass and get up off the settee.
It was almost six o’clock.
I looked over at the wall safe, imagining the 9mm pistol inside, and just for a moment I thought of my father. I thought of him alone in his room, putting the gun to his head … and I remembered Leon’s question:
If you’re going to kill yourself, why make a point of locking the door first? What purpose does it serve?
And I wondered if there
was
a meaningful answer, or if – like almost everything else in this
life – it was just one of those things, as purposeless as life itself.
I guessed I’d never know.
Cal was waiting for me outside his house when the taxi dropped me off. Dressed in a long black overcoat and a battered old trilby, and with his tousled hair sticking out wildly from beneath the hat, he looked like some kind of mutant Sam Spade.
‘You’re late,’ he said.
‘Yeah, sorry –’
‘It’s quarter-past six already.’
‘I know –’
‘And why don’t you answer your fucking mobile? I’ve been trying to call you for hours.’
I pulled out my phone and checked it. ‘Sorry,’ I said, switching it on. ‘I must have turned it off by mistake.’
‘Fuck’s sake, John …’
‘What were you trying to call me about?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll tell you in the car.’
It was fully dark as we left Cal’s house and headed north out of town. The Turk’s Head, the pub where Bishop was supposedly meeting the man called Ray, was about two miles west of Stangate Rise, the estate where the Gerrishes lived. It was a large, family-friendly pub, with a restaurant and a beer garden and a children’s play area, and although it was a fair way from town, it was usually pretty busy.
Traffic was sparse at this time of night – too late for going home, too early for going out – and Cal was making the
most of the open roads, gunning the Mondeo along at well over 60 mph. His hands were tight on the steering wheel, his eyes were alight, and he was talking as fast as he was driving.
‘Listen, what I was trying to tell you about, the search … it came up with something about Bishop, something really weird … well, it might not be anything, and it might not be really weird, but the thing is, it found this archive someone’s set up on a private site, like a local newspaper thing, a local history site or something –’
‘Hold on,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘First of all, I can’t understand a word you’re saying. And second of all, you’re driving too fast.’
‘We’re late –’
‘It doesn’t matter. Just slow down.’
‘But if we don’t get there –’
‘If you carry on driving like this, we won’t get there at all.’
He nodded, licking his lips, and eased off the accelerator.
‘OK,’ I said calmly. ‘How much speed have you taken?’
‘Not much. I was just –’
‘You need to get on top of it, Cal. Right now. OK? If you can’t control yourself, we’re not going anywhere.’
‘I can control myself.’
‘Yeah, well, do it then.’ I looked at him. ‘I don’t want to hear another word from you until you’ve got your head sorted out. All right?’
He nodded.
I lit a cigarette and gazed out of the window. The moon was full, hanging low and pale in the sky, its cold light
greying the night. We’d left the town behind now and were driving steadily along an unlit dual carriageway through a dying landscape of small villages and farmland. Ash trees lined the roadside, their branches almost bare, and beyond them lay the remains of an old forest. There wasn’t much left of the forest now, and most of it was scarred with litter-filled ditches and the mindless rut of motorcycle tracks, but it was still just possible to imagine the primitive heart of the forest as it once must have been. Colourless in the cold of night, a tableau of dark earth and grasses and shallow black waters melting in the starless sky. Bones, scraps of beasts, like bleached jewels of winter scattered on the slopes of black hills. It would have been a desolate place, proud and savage and out of time …
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.