Dance of Ghosts, Page 2

‘It didn’t sound like nothing.’

  I picked up my cigarette and took a long drag. ‘Really,’ I said. ‘Everything’s fine. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.’

  ‘Are you coming back now?’

  ‘Yeah … is the client still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. Tell her I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. And Ada?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Be nice to her, all right? Talk to her. Make her a cup of tea or something … are you listening?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she drawled. ‘I’m listening. Be nice, talk to her, cup of tea … anything else?’

  ‘Try not to fart too much.’

  She laughed.

  I ended the call, dropped my cigarette out of the window, and drove off into the rain.

  2

  The town of Hey is pretty much the same as any other medium-sized town in the south-east of England. It’s got a town centre, housing estates, supermarkets, a bypass, outlying villages, a river, a park, pubs, clubs, fights, drugs … it’s got 200,000 people living 200,000 lives, and it’s got no more goodness and no less shit than any other place I’ve ever been to.

  It’s Any Town, Anywhere.

  It’s Hey, Essex, England.

  It’s where I live.

  It’s where I come from.

  My office is situated on the second floor of a three-storey building at the lower end of Wyre Street in the middle of the town centre. Wyre Street is a narrow pedestrianised lane that runs parallel to the High Street. It’s mainly populated with small businesses, like mine, and independent shops that can’t afford to be located in the High Street: hippy shops, comic-books shops, skateboard shops, candle shops … the kind of shops that don’t make much money and never last more than a year or two.

  It’s OK.

  It’s a street.

  It’s where I work from.

  *

  It was getting on for midday by the time I got back to town. I left my car in the usual place – a council car park in the old market square – and walked up the steep stone steps that link the car park to Wyre Street. The streets were as quiet as you’d expect on a rainy Wednesday lunchtime, and most of the people I passed were too busy keeping themselves out of the rain to pay any attention to me, but I still got a few wary looks as I made my way back to the office. It was only to be expected. I’d been driving in the rain with no side window, so I was soaking wet and dishevelled. My face was still bleeding, the welt from the hammer blow had swollen up and was starting to turn blue, and I was carrying a manky old carrier bag filled with smashed-up bits of camcorder.

  If I’d seen myself in the street, I probably would have been a bit wary too.

  When I reached the office building, the front door was open and George Salvini was lounging against the porch wall smoking a cigarette. A middle-aged man, and always impeccably dressed, George runs an accountancy business from an office on the ground floor.

  ‘Hello, John,’ he said, grinning at my appearance. ‘You’re looking very gorgeous today.’

  ‘Thanks, George,’ I said, nodding at him as I went past into the corridor and started climbing the stairs.

  The second floor of the building is all mine. It has a corridor with a cinnamon-coloured carpet, a toilet with a sink and hot water, and a window that looks out onto the alley at the back of the building. The door to the office has a pebbled glass panel lettered in faded black paint – John Craine Investigations – and I can still remember the childish kick of pride and excitement I used to get whenever I saw those three simple words: John Craine Investigations. But that’s all it is now – a memory, as faded as the paintwork on the glass. And as I opened the door and went in that day, I didn’t feel anything at all. No kick, no pride, no excitement. I was a private investigator. It was a job, that’s all. It paid the bills.

  I shut the door behind me and looked over at Ada. She was sitting at her desk across the room, almost hidden behind a wall of papers and box files and computer stuff – monitor, printer, scanner. Ada was over sixty now, but she still looked the same as she’d always looked: overweight, tired, dressed like a bag lady. Today she was wearing a scratty old cardigan over an XXL Nirvana T-shirt, and although I couldn’t see her feet, I knew that she’d be wearing her foul-smelling old furry slippers.

  I smiled at her.

  ‘Jesus Christ, John!’ she said, getting up from her desk. ‘What the fuck happened to you?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I told her. ‘Honestly, it looks a lot worse than it is …’

  ‘I knew something had happened,’ she said, coming over to me and peering closely at my face. ‘I just knew it.’ She took out a tissue, spat on it, and started dabbing at my wounds.

  ‘Please, Ada,’ I said, gently easing her away. ‘It’s OK … really.’

  ‘Who did it?’ she asked.

  ‘Preston Elliot. You know, the StayBright insurance case?’

  She frowned. ‘I thought that was just routine surveillance.’

  ‘Yeah, it was. It just got a bit out of hand, that’s all.’

  She stared at me. ‘A bit out of hand?’

  I held up the carrier bag and shook it. ‘We need a new camcorder.’

  ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Do you know how much that cost?’

  I took the damaged memory card from my pocket and passed it to her. ‘Can you see if this still works?’

  ‘I doubt if it will,’ she said, taking it from me and studying it. ‘But I’ll give it a go.’ She looked at me again. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? That lump on your face doesn’t look too good.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I said, gazing round the office. It looked the same as ever: Ada’s desk, a window, a couple of easy chairs against the wall, a fridge, filing cabinet, stationery cupboard. And over to the right, the connecting door to my private office.

  ‘Is she in there?’ I said to Ada.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The client,’ I sighed. ‘The woman who’s been waiting to see me. Remember? The one I asked you to be nice to?’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Ada said. ‘Yeah, I thought she’d be more comfortable in there.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  Ada shook her head. ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘Did you ask her?’

  ‘I’m not your receptionist.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  She frowned at me again. ‘I thought we agreed that my job title was administration manager?’

  ‘Yeah, and the administration manager’s responsibilities include secretarial work and receptionist duties.’

  She grinned. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, really,’ I said, smiling back at her. ‘It’s a good job we don’t get many face-to-face clients, isn’t it?’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, you’re not exactly in the ideal state for face-to-face meetings yourself at the moment, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘I’m a private investigator,’ I said. ‘I’m supposed to look rough and mean.’

  She snorted. ‘You don’t look rough and mean. You just look as if you’ve been beaten up, that’s all. There’s nothing remotely rough or mean about that. In fact, if anything –’

  ‘Yeah, all right,’ I said, looking at my watch. ‘Do you want to go and tell our nameless client that I’ll be with her in a minute, please?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’m just going to clean up a bit first. Would you mind making us some coffee?’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I gave her a look. ‘Is that all right?’

  She shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And could you call the garage too? My side window got smashed. I need someone to come round and fix it. The car’s in the car park.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Anything else?’

  I smiled at her again, glancing down at the furry slippers on her feet. They were purple. And today she was wearing a matching purple crushed velvet miniskirt that was equally as old and threadbare as her slippers
.

  ‘Very nice,’ I told her.

  She smiled. ‘You’re too kind.’

  ‘I know.’

  I cleaned myself up as well as I could in the toilet along the corridor, then I towel-dried my hair, slicked it back with my fingers, and took a final look in the mirror. I wasn’t exactly presentable, but I didn’t look quite so much like a beaten-up wino in a cheap black suit any more.

  The face in the mirror looked back at me for a moment, asking me why I was bothering with my appearance. What’s the point? it said. What do you care what you look like, or what anyone thinks of you? You don’t really care if this woman in your office gives you a job or not, do you? So why are you even bothering?

  I didn’t have an answer to that.

  I sniffed, slicked back my hair again, and went back to the office.

  She was sitting in the chair across from my desk, staring vacantly at a mobile phone in her lap. She had a thin and angular face, no make-up, and shortish silvery-grey hair. Her clothes were prim and cheap – a brown tweed coat over a pale blouse and a long shapeless skirt – and she wore the kind of glasses that teachers and librarians usually favour – unnecessarily large, with a coloured plastic frame. I guessed she was about forty-five.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ I said as I came in and shut the door. ‘I got held up with something.’

  She looked across at me, flashing a quick nervous smile, and I saw her take in the state of my face, but she didn’t say anything. She just tightened her smile for a moment, then leaned down and put the mobile away in her handbag.

  I went over to my desk. ‘I’m afraid my secretary didn’t get your name.’

  ‘It’s Mrs Gerrish,’ she said. ‘Helen Gerrish.’

  ‘John Craine,’ I said, offering my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Gerrish.’

  She gave me that tight little smile again and shook my hand. Well, I say she shook my hand – it was actually no more than the briefest brush of her fingertips. It felt like the frightened touch of a very frail and very cold child.

  As I sat down at my desk, I was trying to remember where I’d heard her name before. Gerrish … Gerrish … it definitely rang a bell, but for the moment it just wouldn’t come to me.

  ‘So, Mrs Gerrish,’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  She hesitated for a moment, looking down at her hands in her lap, and then – without looking up – she said, ‘It’s my daughter … Anna. She’s missing.’

  ‘Anna?’

  She nodded.

  And now I remembered the name. It had been on the front page of all the local newspapers about a month ago, and maybe in one or two of the nationals too. Anna Gerrish, a woman in her early twenties, had gone missing after leaving work one night. She’d simply put on her coat, walked out of the door, and no one had seen or heard from her since.

  ‘Anna Gerrish …’ I heard myself mutter.

  ‘I expect you read about it,’ Mrs Gerrish said.

  ‘Yes … yes, I did.’ I looked at her. ‘How long has it been now?’

  ‘Four weeks and two days.’

  ‘Have the police made any progress?’

  She let out a bitter little laugh. ‘Progress? No, the police haven’t made any progress. As far as I’m concerned, they haven’t done anything at all.’

  ‘I’m sure they’re doing their best –’

  ‘No, Mr Craine,’ she said firmly. ‘I don’t believe they are.’

  ‘Really? What makes you say that?’

  She shrugged. ‘They haven’t found her, have they? They haven’t found anything. And they don’t even seem to be trying. They haven’t made a televised appeal or a reconstruction of her last known movements … they haven’t done anything like that. And they keep telling me that this kind of thing happens all the time … that if someone over eighteen wants to disappear without telling anyone, there’s very little they can do about it.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘It is quite common for young people to simply –’

  ‘No, Mr Craine. Not my Anna.’ Mrs Gerrish’s eyes were fixed firmly on mine now. ‘She wouldn’t do that to me. She just wouldn’t. She’s not that kind of girl.’

  I didn’t bother asking her what kind of girl she imagined would do that to her mother. Instead, I asked her what she thought might have happened to Anna.

  She shook her head, and I could see her eyes beginning to moisten. ‘I just … I really don’t know. All I know is that if Anna was safe and well, she would have let me know.’ She took a tissue from her handbag and wiped daintily at her eyes. ‘She would have let me know, Mr Craine … believe me. I know my daughter. She wouldn’t just … she wouldn’t …’

  There was a knock at the door then, and Ada came in carrying two cups of coffee on a tray. She came over and put the tray on the desk. The coffee was in proper cups and saucers, not the usual chipped old mugs, and Ada had also provided a bowl of sugar, teaspoons, a little jug of milk, and a plate of biscuits.

  ‘Will there be anything else, Mr Craine?’ she said, smiling obsequiously at me.

  I looked at her, shaking my head. ‘That’s all, thanks, Ada.’

  She gave me a little curtsey, then turned round and walked out, glancing over her shoulder and wiggling her fat arse in a sexy-secretary kind of way as she went.

  I waited for her to close the door, then I turned back to Mrs Gerrish. She’d stopped crying now and had gone back to staring at her hands. They were in her lap again, obsessively twisting and tearing at the tissue.

  ‘So, Mrs Gerrish,’ I said. ‘What is it you’d like me to do, exactly?’

  She looked up at me, frowning almost disdainfully, as if I’d just asked her the most unnecessary question in the world. ‘I want you to find my daughter, Mr Craine.’

  ‘Why me?’ I said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Why did you choose me? There are plenty of other investigation agencies, bigger companies with more resources …’

  ‘You were recommended,’ she said.

  ‘By whom?’

  She looked slightly uncomfortable for a moment. ‘Well, to be honest, Mr Craine … I did try some other agencies, but none of them were willing to help. The last one I went to, a company called Mercer Associates, they suggested that I contact you.’ She smiled thinly. ‘No offence meant, Mr Craine, but if you’re not able to help me, I really don’t know what else I can do.’

  I nodded, smiling. ‘No offence taken, Mrs Gerrish. None at all. Do you remember who you spoke to at Mercer?’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t remember her name … it was a young lady. She said they don’t handle domestic cases, only corporate work … whatever that is.’

  I nodded. ‘And do you mind me asking why you came here in person without making an appointment first?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘No, no … of course not. I’m just curious, that’s all. Most of my personal clients either contact me by telephone first or get in touch through my website.’

  She looked down at her lap again, and when she spoke again I knew she was lying. ‘Yes, well … I was going to call you, but I happened to be in town today getting some shopping, and when I passed your office …’ She shrugged. ‘Well, I just thought I’d call in.’ She looked up at me. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind.’

  I smiled. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘So will you help me?’

  I don’t know why I didn’t say no. I didn’t need the work, for a start. And even if I did, the prospect of working for this strangely unappetising woman didn’t exactly fill me with joy. There wasn’t even anything particularly interesting about the case. It would probably involve a lot of fairly tedious work without much hope of success. And if, as Helen Gerrish had claimed, the police really hadn’t made any progress, that either meant that there wasn’t anything to find, or that they were fairly sure Anna had simply gone away of her own accord.

  But, despite all that, I didn’t say no.

&nb
sp; And, even now, I still don’t know why.

  I just opened my mouth and found myself saying, ‘If I do decide to help you, Mrs Gerrish, you’d have to understand that there’s very little I can do that the police haven’t already done. No matter what you think of them, I can assure you that the police have far greater resources for finding people than I have.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that.’

  ‘And, unlike the police, my services aren’t free.’

  ‘Money isn’t a problem, Mr Craine. My husband and I have sufficient funds.’

  ‘Does your husband feel the same way as you? About hiring a private investigator, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, just a little too forcefully. ‘He’s as desperate to find Anna as I am.’

  Yeah? I thought. So how come he’s not here?

  ‘All right,’ I said, removing a writing pad from the desk drawer. ‘Let me take a few basic details first, and then we’ll see about getting a contract drawn up. Is that OK?’

  She smiled, the first genuine smile I’d seen from her, and reached into her handbag. ‘This is the most recent photograph I have of Anna,’ she said, passing me a 6" x 4" colour print. ‘It was taken about a year ago. You probably remember it from the newspaper reports.’

  I thought it slightly odd that she just happened to have a photo of Anna in her handbag, even though she claimed that she was only in town to do some shopping … but I let that pass and concentrated on studying the photograph.

  Helen was right, I did remember it from the newspaper reports. It was a posed picture, a head-and-shoulders shot, and it looked as if it’d been taken in a studio. Anna was trying to look sultry and mysterious – her head turned demurely over her shoulder, all pouting lips and come-to-bed eyes – and she seemed to be reclining on a red leather divan. There was nothing unprofessional or overly tacky about the photograph, it was simply that the intended effect just didn’t work. Anna was trying too hard, for a start, and although she was reasonably attractive – almond eyes, long black hair, a nice face, pretty mouth – there was something about her, something indefinable, that robbed her of any allure.

  She looked hollow to me.