Kevin Brooks - Dance of Ghosts

Cliff thought about that for a moment, his drunk-steady eyes roaming blindly around the room, and then eventually he said, ‘I don’t know … I mean, I suppose so, but …’

‘But what?’

He looked at me. ‘Is that what this is about? Mick Bishop?’

‘I just want to know why he took the case, that’s all.’

‘Why shouldn’t he?’

‘Come on , Cliff … you know what I mean. He’s a DCI, for Christ’s sake. He’s Mick fucking Bishop. What the hell is he doing taking charge of a shitty little missing-persons case?’

Cliff shrugged. ‘Well, maybe he only took it on after the press got hold of it. You know what he’s like …’

‘No, you see, that’s the thing, Cliff,’ I said, staring intently at him. ‘I don’t really know what he’s like.’

Cliff stared back at me for a moment, digesting what I’d just said, and then suddenly he became quite animated — holding up his hands, vigorously shaking his head. ‘No … no way,’ he said, as firmly as his drunkenness would allow. ‘Absolutely not … I’m sorry, but I’m not getting into that.’

‘Into what?’

‘Mick Bishop. No fucking way …’

‘Look,’ I said softly, trying to calm him down. ‘I’m not asking you to grass him up or anything. I don’t want to know any details of what he’s done in the past, or what he gets up to now … I just want to know what kind of man he is.’

‘What kind of man he is?’ Cliff said with a bitter snort of laughter. ‘I’ll tell you what kind of man he is — he’s the kind of man who can fuck up my already fucked-up career just like that …’ Cliff tried to click his fingers, but failed. ‘He’s the kind of man,’ he went on undaunted, ‘who, if he knew I was in here talking to you about him, wouldn’t think twice about squashing me into the ground. That’s the kind of fucking man he is.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘But he’s not going to know, is he?’

Cliff shook his head. ‘I’ve got eighteen months left, John. Eighteen months, and then I’m out on a thirty-year pension. And I’ve already got a cushy little security job lined up.’ He looked at me. ‘I’m not risking that … I just can’t. I’m sorry …’

‘OK,’ I said, smiling at him. ‘I understand …’

‘You know that I would if I could — ’

‘It’s all right, Cliff,’ I assured him. ‘Honestly, it’s not a problem.’

He nodded at me, then busied himself draining his drink for a few moments, and before he had a chance to tell me that he had to get back to the station, I asked him if he’d like another quick one before he went. He made a show of glancing at his watch, but that’s all it was, and I was already on my feet with his glass in my hand when he looked back at me and slurred, ‘All right, go on then. Just one more.’

It took another couple of rounds before Cliff forgot his reticence and started opening up to me about Bishop, and after he’d rambled on about the old days for a while, I gently brought him back to the present.

‘Can you think of anything about Anna Gerrish that Bishop might want to keep quiet?’ I asked.

Cliff, quite drunk now, gave me a one-eyed frown. ‘Keep what quiet?’

‘The Anna Gerrish case,’ I said slowly. ‘Is there anything about it that Bishop might want to keep quiet? I mean, why would he not want her disappearance investigated?’

‘Right … right, yeah … I see what you mean. You think he’s trying to bury it?’

‘Maybe …’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘I don’t know … what do you think?’

Cliff took a drink and thought about it. After a while, he looked at me, his head wavering slightly, and said, ‘It was the same with your father … with Bishop, I mean. It’s always been the same with him.’

‘In what way?’

‘There’s only two things that Bishop cares about — money, and looking after himself. That’s why Jim … your father … well, as soon as he went after Bishop … he was as good as dead already.’

‘Dead?’ I said, too surprised to say anything else.

Cliff’s eyes widened and he waved his hands around. ‘No, no … no, sorry, I didn’t mean that … not literally dead. Shit, I’m sorry, John … I just meant, you know, that Jim never had a chance of bringing Bishop down, he never had a fucking chance. Bishop’s been doing it too long …’

‘Doing what?’

‘Making money … pay-offs, bribes, drugs … whatever. He’s made a lot of money over the years, a fuck of a lot … although God knows what he spends it on. The bastard never goes anywhere, never takes a holiday … drives a fucking Honda … lives on his own in the same semi he’s always lived in — ’

‘What about family, friends …?’

‘He’s got no family, as far as I know. No friends, no wife, no girlfriend … nothing. Whatever he does with his money though, he’s fucking good at making it. Good at covering his tracks, good at sniffing out anyone or anything that might bring him down …’ Cliff shook his head. ‘Jim was never bent , for fuck’s sake. He was the cleanest cop I’ve ever known. I mean, all right, the thing with the girl was pretty stupid, and there’s plenty who’d say that whatever your colleagues get up to, you keep your mouth shut about it … but the rest of it, the idea that Jim was on the take …’ Cliff looked up at me. ‘Your father was framed, John. Bishop set him up.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

Cliff didn’t say anything to me for a few moments, he just sat there looking at me, doing his best to keep his head steady. His eyes were getting heavier by the second now, and for a moment or two I thought he was falling asleep, but just as his head started sinking down to his chest, a glass broke behind the bar. The sound elicited the usual momentary hush, followed by muted cheers and laughter, and when I looked back at Cliff, he was sitting bolt upright in his chair.

‘Yeah, so anyway …’ he said. ‘This thing with what’s-her-name … the missing girl …’

‘Anna Gerrish.’

‘Yeah, that’s it …’ He blinked slowly. ‘What was I saying?’

‘I’m not sure — ’

‘Oh, yeah … about Bishop. I mean, yeah, if you’re right about him trying to bury the case, he’s either doing it for money or to protect himself.’

‘How can there be money in it?’

‘Shit, John, I don’t know … I’m just …’ His voice trailed off as his head began dropping again and he wearily rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m fucked,’ he said. ‘I’ve had it …’ He looked at me. ‘Sorry …’

Ten minutes later we were both in the back of a taxi — Cliff fast asleep, snoring drunkenly, while I just sat there gazing out of the window, almost too drunk to despise myself.

But not quite.

It didn’t take long to get to Cliff’s house. I asked the driver to wait while I helped Cliff inside and got him settled down on the settee in his sitting room. He didn’t say very much as I loosened his tie and helped him off with his shoes — at least, he didn’t say much that I understood — but then, just as I was going, I heard him call my name, and when I turned back to him, he said, ‘Don’t worry about it, all right? This … you know … all this, everything … don’t worry about it … it’s OK.’ He smiled crookedly at me. ‘Life’s too shitty to worry about.’

I got the taxi driver to drop me back at my office. When I got there, George Salvini was taking another of his many cigarette breaks, leaning against the wall in another of his many expensive three-piece suits, and as I walked up to the door, and I saw him taking in my appearance, I wondered what he must think of me — half drunk, bruised and battered, dressed as ever in a dull black suit …