by Kevin Brooks
‘You loved her.’
‘Yeah … yeah, I did. I never even thought about going back to university, I just forgot all about it and moved in with Stace, and while she carried on teaching, I just took on any old jobs that were going, just to bring in some extra money. I worked on a building site, I was a postman, I worked in a call centre … I even had a job at the crematorium for a while.’
‘Very nice,’ Bridget said, raising her eyebrows.
‘Yeah, well … I didn’t care what I did. As long as I was with Stacy — ’
‘That’s all that mattered.’
I smiled. ‘Yeah.’
‘So then what?’ Bridget said. ‘You got married …?’
‘Yeah, then about eighteen months later we found out that Stacy was pregnant — ’
I stopped at the sound of the doorbell ringing. As Walter started barking upstairs, I looked at Bridget. ‘Are you expecting anyone?’
‘It could be Melanie,’ she said. ‘A friend of mine. She said she might come over.’ Bridget looked at me, and I felt her hand on my knee. ‘I can tell her to go if you want.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s all right … I’d better get back to work anyway.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah …’
‘Maybe we can talk some more later on tonight?’
‘Yeah, that’d be good.’
The doorbell sounded again.
Bridget smiled, getting to her feet. ‘I’d better let her in. See you later, OK?’
I nodded, watching as she went back into the house and started yelling at Walter to be quiet. I lit a cigarette and sat there in the misty haze, trying to work out how I felt. I was slightly confused with myself for feeling OK about talking to Bridget about Stacy, but I did feel OK about it, and I guessed that was all right. I was only talking to her, after all. It wasn’t as if I was betraying anything, was it? We were only talking …
‘Yeah, I know, Stace,’ I muttered. ‘That’s what they all say, isn’t it? We were only fucking talking …’
It’s all right, it’s fine. I like her.
‘John?’ I heard Bridget say.
I looked up and saw her standing at the back door.
‘There’s a man here to see you,’ she said. ‘He says his name’s Bishop.’
18
When I went inside the house, Bishop was standing outside my door, doing his best to ignore Walter, who was sitting at the foot of the stairs snarling quietly at him.
‘I hope you don’t mind, John,’ Bishop said to me, glancing at Bridget as she followed me along the hallway. ‘But I let myself in. It’s a bit cold out there.’
Walter barked at him.
He glared at Bridget. ‘Is that yours?’
‘Sorry,’ she said, taking Walter by the collar and leading him up the stairs. ‘Come on, Wally, let’s go.’ She glanced over her shoulder at me, silently asking me if everything was OK.
I nodded at her. She nodded back and carried on up the stairs.
Bishop watched them go, waited until they’d gone, then turned back to me with the hint of a smirk on his face. ‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’
‘What do you want?’ I said.
The smirk disappeared. ‘I need to talk to you, John. And I’d rather not do it in the hallway, if that’s all right with you.’
I opened the door and showed him inside, and without so much as a word he made his way into the front room and positioned himself at the window, standing with his hands in his pockets, peering out at the street. I followed him in, sat down on the settee, and lit a cigarette. He didn’t say anything for a while, he just stood there with his back to me, which I guessed was intended to make me feel anxious or offended or insignificant or something … but I didn’t care what it made me feel. I just smoked my cigarette and waited for him to say something.
Eventually, with a casual stretch of his neck and a better-get-on-with-it sigh, he reluctantly gave in to the silence.
‘So,’ he said, turning from the window. ‘Who’s the girl?’
‘Bridget Moran,’ I told him. ‘She’s my tenant.’
‘You own this place then?’
I nodded.
He looked at me for a moment, knowingly nodding his head, then he adjusted his tie and wandered over to a ramshackle shelf that spans the width of an alcove next to the double doors. The shelf is dotted with all kinds of bits and pieces: glass jars, a painted wooden spoon, a framed photograph of Stacy, a mouth organ, a clockwork crab, a stuffed bird, a candlestick … Bishop picked up the clockwork crab, wiped it free of dust, and turned it over to examine the workings. The clockwork shell looked wrong in his hands, like a child’s bauble in the hands of a giant. He poked at the crab’s feet, pronging a broken claw with his thumb, then he put the toy back on the shelf and looked disdainfully around my room.
‘Is she your only tenant?’ he said idly.
‘Sorry?’
‘Miss Moran … is she your only tenant?’
‘Yes.’
He grinned at me. ‘What’s the rent like?’
I didn’t say anything, I just looked at him.
‘Anyway,’ he said, sniffing again. ‘The reason I’m here … well, it’s about the Anna Gerrish case.’ He paused for a moment, put his hands in his pockets, and looked at me. ‘You know the body’s been identified, don’t you?’
I nodded. ‘It was in the papers last week.’
‘DNA results confirmed it was Anna. The forensic team are still working on evidence from the site, but because of the length of time the body had been out there, and the fact that it was half-submerged for most of the time, it’s been difficult to come up with any definitive conclusions. We know that she was stabbed to death, and we’re almost certain that she was killed at the lay-by, or very close by, but we can’t tell if she was sexually assaulted or not, and so far we haven’t been able to ascertain an accurate time of death. And it’s very unlikely that we will. But we’re working on the theory that she was killed on the night she disappeared.’
I nodded again, keeping my eyes on Bishop, my head full of questions I wanted to ask but couldn’t: have you seen the CCTV footage? have you identified the car or the driver? have you talked to Genna Raven or Tasha? do you know how much I know? do you know that I know that you’ve got something to do with it?
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ I said, putting out my cigarette and lighting another. ‘You told me yourself, it’s nothing to do with me any more. It’s a police investigation. I’m not police. I’m not involved in any way, shape, or fucking form — ’
‘I know what I told you,’ Bishop said coldly. ‘But things change, John. Things have changed.’
‘What kind of things?’
He paused for a second before answering, briefly looking away from me, and I wondered if this was the moment that I’d been half-expecting for the last two weeks — the moment when Bishop made his play and tried to implicate me in the death of Anna Gerrish. I hoped that it wasn’t, but I’d had plenty of time to prepare myself for it, so I wasn’t all that worried. I felt that I was ready.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Bishop took a breath and spoke calmly. ‘A number of human hairs were retrieved from under Anna’s fingernails,’ he said. ‘And some of these hairs still had the roots attached, which means that the forensic team were able to extract DNA samples from the cells. Of course, we can’t say for sure that the hairs came from Anna’s killer …’ He shrugged lightly. ‘But it’s fairly damning evidence.’
‘Have you matched the DNA?’ I said, my mouth suddenly dry.
Bishop nodded. ‘Forensics confirmed it this morning.’ He looked at me. ‘The DNA profile of the hairs found under Anna Gerrish’s fingernails is a one-in-a-billion match with the DNA profile of Anton Viner.’
‘Viner?’ I whispered.
‘It’s been checked and double-checked.’
‘That’s impossible.’
He’s mine …
/> At approximately 01.45, at the heart of a shabby grey council estate on the east side of town, I pull up at the far end of School Lane, park the car and turn off the engine. The street is empty. I shut the window, get out of the car, and lock it. Somewhere nearby, perhaps at the other end of the street, a party is going on. I can hear music, bass beats thumping. Shouts and laughter cracking the night. I walk along the pavement, swaying slightly, counting the house numbers until I get to 27. It’s the same as all the other houses in the street: breezeblock grey, semi-detached, with curtained windows and a neglected patch of front garden. A warm wind drifts in the night as I stand at the front gate gazing up at the lightless windows, thinking of nothing …
There’s nothing to think.
My father’s pistol weighs heavily in my pocket as I open the gate and walk up the path. Apart from the distant sound of revelry, there’s no sign of life anywhere — no twitching curtains, no barking dogs — just the empty night and the empty street and the empty purpose in my soul. I step up to the front door and ring the bell.
I’m as fucked as I’m ever going to be.
Nothing happens for a while, but I’m too intoxicated and too determined to wonder if Viner isn’t home. He’s here. He was always going to be here. I know it more than I’ve ever known anything. I ring the bell again, and this time, almost immediately, a light comes on upstairs. I put my hand in my pocket and take out a pair of gloves. As the upstairs window opens above me, I pull on the gloves, remove the pistol from my pocket, and move closer to the door.
‘Who is it?’ a voice calls down. ‘Hello? Who’s there?’
He can’t see me. There’s a narrow porchway roof above the door, just wide enough to keep me out of sight. I ring the doorbell again.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ the voice from above says. ‘Hey … I’m up here … HEY! Who the fuck — ?’
I press the doorbell again, and this time I keep it held down. The voice at the window curses and snarls for a little while longer, then eventually I hear the window slam shut and I know he’s coming down.
I release the bell.
Through mottled glass at either side of the door, I see the landing light come on. I hear the muffled thump of angry footsteps coming down the stairs, and then the hallway light comes on. The patterned glass distorts the shape of the figure approaching the door, and for a moment I’m seeing a monster, a dark beast with an oversized head, but then the misformed monster yanks open the door, and all I’m looking at is a man. He’s middle-aged, with long lank hair, a flabby face, sallow skin. His eyes are small. He’s wearing a stained blue T-shirt and nylon track pants. A single strip of grubby white bandage is inexpertly tied round his head.
‘What the fuck — ?’ he starts to say, his animal eyes glaring violently at me.
I raise the pistol and point it at his head.
His eyes widen.
I step closer, placing the barrel of the pistol between his eyes. ‘If you say another word,’ I tell him, ‘I’ll kill you. Nod your head if you understand.’
Trembling now, he nods his head.
‘Move back inside,’ I tell him.
He steps back into the hallway, his eyes fixed fearfully on the gun. I walk him inside and close the front door behind me.
‘Turn round,’ I tell him.
‘Whu — ?’ he starts to say.
I flick my wrist, rapping the pistol barrel against his skull. It’s not a hard blow, but it’s hard enough to hurt him.
‘Turn round,’ I repeat.
He turns round.
I put the gun to the back of his head.
‘What’s your name?’ I say. ‘If you lie to me, I’ll pull the trigger.’
‘Viner…’ he mutters. ‘Anton Viner.’
‘Is there anyone else in the house?’
‘No.’
Keeping the gun pressed to his head, I reach up and tug at the bandage on his head. It comes off easily. On the left side of his head, about three inches above his ear, there’s a freshly scabbed wound. It’s ragged and raw, the blood-brown crust edged with the pink of new flesh … and there’s no doubt that it was caused by a bite. I can see toothmarks, the shape of a mouth … the shape of Stacy’s mouth.
My head goes black for a moment … and I’m nothing. A speck of nothing floating in a void. My legs buckle … I’m falling, floating, drowning …
No.
I open my eyes, steady myself.
I wipe a tear from my eye.
And when I speak, my voice doesn’t belong to me. It’s the voice of a man with no life, no emotion. A voice of death.
‘Sit down,’ it says.
Viner hesitates for a moment, then clumsily lowers himself to the floor. I stand above him, looking down … down … down …
‘Listen to me, Anton Viner,’ the dead voice says. ‘And don’t make a fucking sound until I tell you to speak. Nod your head if you understand.’
He nods.
I wipe another tear from my face and carry on. ‘Two weeks ago, a young woman was raped and murdered in the bedroom of her own home. One week ago, an anonymous businessman offered a?50,000 reward for information leading to the killer’s arrest. And that’s why I’m here, Anton Viner. Because I believe that you’re the killer, and I want that?50,000.’ I pause for a moment, hating myself for doing this, but knowing that I have to do it to completely satisfy myself. ‘The only problem is …’ I continue, ‘I’m not supposed to do it like this. I’m not supposed to force my way into your house and point a gun at your head, and if the police were to find out, I’d be in a shitload of trouble. Especially if it turned out that you weren’t the murderer after all. That would cause me all kinds of problems. So, you see, what I need from you is proof that you did kill her. Because then I can just take you in and collect my money, and no one has to know that I forced my way in and pointed a gun at your head. And even if you tell the police that’s what I did, they’re not going to give a fuck. But if you’re not the killer, if you can’t prove to me that you killed her … well, as I said, that would leave me with the problem of knowing what to do with you. And I’m afraid, if that was the case, my only answer would be to shoot you in the head. Now, do you understand what I’ve just told you? Speak.’
‘Yeah … yes …’ he mumbles. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. So, have I got the right man, or do I have to kill you?’ I lean down and hold the pistol to the top of his head. ‘You’ve got three seconds to answer me. One … two …’
‘Yes!’ he sobs, his shoulders heaving. ‘Fuck don’t … please don’t kill me … yes, fuck, yes … it was me, I did her — ’
I push the gun barrel into his skull. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Please! It’s true … I can prove it — ’
‘How?’
‘Clothes … her clothes, I’ve still got them …’
‘Where?’
‘Upstairs …’
‘Get up,’ I say, kicking him viciously in the small of his back.
He clambers awkwardly to his feet. ‘Please don’t — ’
‘Shut up. Just show me the clothes.’
I follow him up the stairs and watch as he opens an airing cupboard on the landing. As he leans inside, I don’t take my eyes off him for a second, keeping the gun on him all the time, just in case he’s up to something … but he’s too far gone to even think of trying anything. Sobbing, shaking, gasping for breath … he fumbles around inside the cupboard and pulls out a carrier bag, and I know before I look what I’m going to see.
‘There,’ he says, opening the bag and showing me what’s inside. ‘See … they’re hers.’
Of course they’re hers … they’re Stacy’s clothes. All scrunched up and browned with blood. They’re the clothes she wore that day — a pale-pink vest, a white blouse, jeans, her underwear. Ripped, torn, bloodied … savaged.
A rage wells up inside me now, and I’m jamming the pistol into Viner’s head, pushing him down to the floor, and there’s some kind of animal nois
e coming out of me, a noise that wants for blood and bone and pain and despair, and all I want to do is kill him right now …
Right now …
My arm tenses, my finger moves on the trigger …
And I stop.
Not now.
I kick him in the ribs … once, twice … again … kicking so hard that his ribs crack audibly and his body jerks across the floor. He moans.
‘Get up,’ I tell him.
‘I can’t — ’
I kick him again. He struggles to his knees, moaning and sobbing and holding his chest, and I’m just about to kick him again when he grits his teeth and straightens up and finally gets to his feet.
‘Put the carrier bag back where you got it from,’ I tell him.
He does what he’s told.
I walk him at gunpoint down the stairs.
I walk him out of the house and down the street — not caring any more if there’s anyone around — and when we get to my car I give him my gloves and tell him to put them on. He puts them on. I tell him to get in the driving seat. He gets in. I get in the passenger seat and tell him to drive.
‘Where to?’ he says.
‘Just start the car and drive.’
Twenty minutes later we’re driving through the outskirts of a quiet suburb called Hey’s Weir, three miles east of town. It’s a sterile terrain of anonymous low buildings, industrial wasteland, and — somewhat incongruously — an 18-hole golf course. Beyond the golf course lie the rolling lawns and well-tended gardens of the crematorium.
‘Pull in over there,’ I tell Viner as we approach a darkened pub. ‘There’s a car park at the back.’
‘Why?’ he says. ‘What are we doing — ?’
‘I need a piss.’
I don’t think he believes me, but as long as he pulls into the car park, I really don’t care. And he does, of course. What else is he going to do? He slows down, turns off the road into the car park, and rolls to a halt.
‘Get out,’ I tell him.
‘But I thought — ’
‘Get out.’
He hesitates for a moment, then gets out of the car. I get out too. The night is dark, no stars, no moon. It’s three o’clock in the morning. I point the gun at Viner’s head and walk him across to the edge of the car park.
