Authors: Kevin Brooks
Bridget’s dog, Walter, was waiting in the hallway when I opened the front door. A big old greyhound, he was sitting at the foot of the stairs with a chewed rubber bone in his mouth. I reached down and scratched his head.
‘Hey, Walter,’ I said. ‘How’s it going?’
His tail thumped, his mouth fell open in a lazy dog smile, and the rubber bone dropped to the floor. I bent down, picked it up, and gave it back to him.
‘There you go.’
He looked at me, took the bone in his mouth, and dropped it again. He was nearly fourteen now. His muzzle was slack and pale, and the brindley grey hair on his back was streaked with white. He was nearing the end of his life.
But, for Walter, that wasn’t so bad. Getting old isn’t the same for dogs as it is for us, because – unlike us – dogs don’t know they’re going to die.
I left him where he was and went into my flat.
The familiarity of my living space greeted me, as usual, with its dusty and settled silence. It’s a place that’s always felt lived in: a front room, spacious and high, with plain wooden furniture and solid old walls; heavy double doors leading through into the bedroom; and then a stepped stone archway that takes you down into a cramped little kitchen area at the back. A narrow door at the far end of the kitchen opens through to the bathroom, and twin glazed doors lead out into the brick-walled garden at the rear.
It’s how it is, how it’s meant to be, and that’s how I like it.
And it holds no memories for me.
And I like that, too.
I went over to the old armchair beneath the high window in the front room, and I sat down and lit a cigarette. My eyes were stiff and heavy, and deep inside me I could feel a distant weight of tiredness that at some point, I knew, was going to creep up behind me and drape a blanket over my head – a cold, black, greasy old blanket. And when that happened, I wouldn’t be capable of anything. I’d be in the black place, the place where I can’t move, where I’ve never been able to move … the place where there
is
nothing else … nothing at all. And when I’m there, I’ve been there all my life, and I’ll remain there for the rest of my life, draped in the darkness. I can’t do anything. I don’t want anything. What’s the point? Fifty years from now, we’ll all be dead
anyway. We’ll all be floating back to the stars or buried in the dark underground, caked in clay, riddled with worms and insects, centipedes, chafers, slugs … and nothing that happens now will mean a fucking thing.
That’s how the black place makes me feel.
But I wasn’t there yet.
I finished my cigarette, went into the kitchen and swallowed a handful of painkillers, then came back to the armchair and poured myself a glass of Scotch. I lit another cigarette, took a long slow drink, and breathed out slowly as the heat of the whisky soaked down into my gut and then rose up into my heart like a warm balloon.
I poured myself another, and then I just sat there, drinking and smoking in the rainy-grey light of the afternoon, until I fell asleep.
I woke up to the sound of my mobile ringing. The daylight was beginning to fade now, and as I fumbled the mobile out of my pocket and put it to my ear, a car rolled down the street outside and the dimness of the room was briefly illuminated by a slow sweep of headlights.
‘Yeah?’ I said into the phone.
‘Hi, John,’ a familiar voice replied. ‘It’s Imogen …’
Imogen Rand was a good friend of mine who’d once been more than just a good friend. Her father, Leon Mercer, was the owner and managing director of Mercer Associates.
‘Hey, Immy,’ I said. ‘I was going to call you later –’
‘Yeah, right. Of course you were.’
‘No, really …’
‘Are you all right, John?’ she interrupted. ‘You sound a bit –’
‘Yeah, sorry. I just woke up.’
‘Late night?’
‘Well, kind of …’
‘I can call back if you want.’
‘No, it’s all right.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah,’ I said, glancing at the clock. It was 4.55. ‘I needed to wake up anyway.’
‘OK … well, it’s just a quick call. Has a woman called Gerrish been in touch with you yet?’
‘Yeah, I saw her this afternoon. She told me that you’d recommended me.’
‘Well, you know it’s not the kind of thing that we’d take on, and I thought you might find it interesting … are you going to do it?’
I lit a cigarette. ‘I told her I’d give it three days.’
‘Right, well …’ she said hesitantly. ‘The thing is, John, I saw Dad last night, and I mentioned it to him, and he told me that Mick Bishop is the SIO on the Anna Gerrish case. Of course, if I’d known that at the time, I wouldn’t have put Helen Gerrish in touch with you, at least not without asking you first. Sorry, John, it just didn’t occur to me to find out –’
‘It’s all right,’ I assured her. ‘It’s not a problem. I knew about Bishop before I made up my mind anyway.’
‘Really? So you’re still going to do it?’
‘Yeah, why not? History is history.’
‘I suppose …’
‘What did you think of her anyway?’ I asked.
‘Helen Gerrish?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Not much. I mean, yeah, I feel
sorry
for her and everything, but …’
I laughed.
‘What?’ she said. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘You, feeling sorry for someone.’
‘Hey,’ she said, pretending to take offence. ‘Just because I don’t give a shit about people, that doesn’t mean I’m not sympathetic.’
‘Right, so you felt really sorry for her,
but
…?’
‘Well, she was lying, for a start.’
‘About what?’
‘I don’t know, but she was definitely lying about something. At least, she was when she talked to me.’
‘Yeah, I got the same feeling too. What else didn’t you like about her?’
‘It’s not a question of not
liking
her, John … well, actually, come to think of it, it is. I
really
didn’t like her one bit. And I’m sure that if I met her husband, I wouldn’t like him either.’
‘What about Anna? Do you think you’d like her if you met her?’
‘Probably not.’
‘You’re all heart, Imogen.’
‘Fucking right, I am.’
We talked on for a little while longer about nothing much in particular – the StayBright/Preston Elliot case (which I told her was coming along nicely), her father’s
ailing health, and the possibility of her taking over as MD of Mercer Associates – and then I realised how late it was getting, and that I had to be at Helen Gerrish’s at six, so we said our goodbyes, and I called for a taxi to take me back into town, and by the time the taxi arrived I’d taken a quick shower and changed my bloodied clothes, and was ready to face the world again.
Helen Gerrish lived with her husband in a small red-brick house on a modern commuter estate called Stangate Rise about two miles out of town. It was one of those estates with hundreds of houses that all look the same and dozens of streets that all look the same, so it’s really easy to get lost. Which I did. And that was one of the reasons I didn’t get there until just gone quarter to seven. Another reason was that the garage still hadn’t been round to fix the broken window in my car, and the rain was still pouring down, so I’d had to spend twenty minutes or so patching up the window with a couple of old Sainsbury’s carrier bags and about a mile of grey duct tape before I left. And one more reason for being late was that I’d had to stop on the way to answer a phone call from DCI Bishop.
It was strange to hear his voice again. The last time I’d seen him was eighteen years ago at my father’s funeral, and although he’d only spoken to me briefly then – a very curt offer of condolences – I recognised his gruff Essex accent immediately.
‘John Craine?’ he’d said when I answered the phone.
‘Yeah?’
‘DCI Bishop. Your secretary called me this afternoon.’
‘Yes, thanks for –’
‘What’s your interest in Anna Gerrish?’
‘Didn’t my secretary tell you?’
‘I’m asking you.’
I sighed. ‘I’ve been hired to look into her disappearance –’
‘By who?’
‘Whom.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing …’
‘Who hired you?’
‘I’m sorry, but I’d have to get my client’s permission before –’
‘What does your
client
want you to do?’
‘Find Anna.’
‘And how do you expect to do that?’
I lit a cigarette. ‘Look, all I want is –’
‘You’re Jim Craine’s son, aren’t you?’
‘Yes …’
‘You probably don’t remember me, but I used to work with your father –’
‘Yeah, I remember you.’
He paused for a moment then, and although it was only a very slight hesitation, it was enough to give me an equally slight sense of satisfaction.
‘So,’ Bishop said, sniffing self-consciously. ‘You’re working this case then, are you?’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Not as long as you keep me informed of what you’re doing.’
I didn’t say anything to that.
Bishop sniffed again. ‘Are you working on it right now?’
I could have lied to him, I suppose. Or told him to fuck off. But I thought it best not to antagonise him unnecessarily. ‘I’m just on my way round to Anna’s flat,’ I told him.
‘What for?’
‘Nothing in particular … I just thought I’d take a quick look round. Is that all right with you? I mean, it’s not off limits or anything, is it?’
‘No … but you won’t find anything there. We’ve already looked.’
‘I don’t mind wasting my time.’
‘Yeah, well … as long as you don’t waste any of mine.’
‘I’ll do my best not to.’
‘Good. So what about this meeting?’
‘What meeting?’
‘Your secretary said you wanted a meeting.’
‘Oh, right, yeah –’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Anything, really. Whatever you’re willing to share with me about the Anna Gerrish case. Of course, I understand that you can’t reveal any details of your investigation …’
I let my voice trail off, slightly surprised that Bishop hadn’t interrupted already to tell me that he had neither the time nor the inclination to share
any
thing with me, and as the silence on the phone stretched out to a relatively eternal three or four seconds, I wondered what the hell was taking him so long.
You either meet me or you don’t
, I thought.
You don’t have to spend ages thinking about it
.
And then, quite suddenly, his voice came back on the line. ‘11.30 tomorrow morning,’ he said brusquely. ‘The
CID offices at Eastway. I’ve only got ten minutes to spare, so don’t be late.’
And that was it. No goodbyes, no see you tomorrows, no nothing. He just said what he had to say, then hung up. I sat there for a while, smoking my cigarette and going over the conversation in my mind, trying to work out if it meant anything or not … but the only conclusion I came to was that my father hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told me, many years ago, that Mick Bishop was the most odious man he’d ever known.
I looked at my watch, saw that it was 6.30, and got going.
The streets of Stangate Rise were fairly quiet as I walked from my car to the Gerrishes’ house, and I guessed that it was still too early for the commuters to be arriving back from London. They’d be here soon enough, though – driving home from the station in their £30,000 cars, tired and wet, stressed and bored, burdened with the knowledge that tomorrow morning they’d have to get up early, put on their suits, and start all over again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Poor fuckers.
Or stupid fuckers.
It depends how you look at it, I suppose.
It was fully dark now, the estate glowing orange in the sodium gleam of the streetlights, and as I rang the bell of the Gerrishes’ house I was vaguely aware of countless unseen TV screens strobing away behind the curtains of
the houses all around me. There was something almost Christmassy about it, in a tacky kind of way.
Helen Gerrish seemed anxious when she opened the door, which was only to be expected. She was a nervous woman, caught up in a highly stressful situation. It would have been strange if she
hadn’t
been anxious. But as she stood there in the doorway, smiling her tight little smile at me, I got the feeling that she wasn’t just worried about Anna, she was worried about something else. Something that belonged to now. Right here, right now.
‘Sorry I’m late again, Mrs Gerrish,’ I said. ‘I got a bit lost.’
She shook her head. ‘No, no … that’s fine, Mr Craine. No trouble at all.’ She opened the door wider and stepped to one side. ‘Please, come in.’
I followed her along a narrow little hallway into a boxlike front room. It was very neat, very ordered, very suburban. Three-piece suite, widescreen TV, dull ornaments, blackwood coffee table, fake log fire. Over by the window, a man in a grey cardigan and green corduroy trousers was sitting in an armchair watching TV. He had a grim face, greying skin, and one of those wide upper lips that look as if they ought to have a moustache, but don’t. He was older than his wife, in his mid-fifties at least, and his short black hair was greying at the edges.
‘This is Graham, my husband,’ Helen Gerrish said.
‘Evening, Mr Gerrish,’ I said. ‘Good to meet you.’
He looked at me for a moment, nodded without smiling, then went back to watching the TV. I stared at him for a second or two, trying to see the man who his wife had
assured me was ‘as desperate to find Anna as I am’, but either she’d been lying to me, or he was incredibly good at hiding his emotions. I turned back to Helen, remembering also that her husband was supposed to be working this evening, but I didn’t say anything to her about that or his distinctly ill-mannered welcome. She looked embarrassed enough as it was.
‘Here’s Anna’s keys,’ she mumbled, passing me a key ring. ‘The Yale one is for her flat, the other one’s for the main door.’
‘Thanks. Did you manage to find another photograph?’
‘Oh, yes … I knew there was something else. I think there might be some in her room.’ She looked over at her husband. ‘Do you know if there are any photographs of Anna in her room, dear?’
He didn’t answer, just carried on staring at the TV.