Kevin Brooks - Dance of Ghosts

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 noise 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 .

‘Stop,’ I tell him .

He stops .

I look around at the empty night — no traffic, no people, no nothing. There’s nothing here, just me and the man who killed my wife and baby. And both of us are less than nothing .

I put the gun to Viner’s head and pull the trigger .

‘Why?’ Bishop said.

‘What …?’

‘Why is it impossible?’

I looked at him. ‘Anton Viner …? You’re telling me that Anton Viner killed Anna Gerrish?’

‘No,’ Bishop said. ‘I’m telling you that Anton Viner’s hairs were found under her fingernails. Why do you find that so hard to believe?’

‘Because …’ I began, struggling to clear the chaos from my mind. ‘Because … well, I don’t know, it’s just …’

‘He’s a killer, John. A rapist. He’s not going to stop doing it. They never do.’

‘I know … but why would he come back here?’

‘Who says he ever went away? Just because we never found him, that doesn’t necessarily mean that he wasn’t here … and even if he wasn’t, even if he did leave Hey after he killed your wife … well, that was seventeen years ago. What’s to stop him coming back now? This is his home, John. This is his territory. He knows Hey. He probably feels safe here. Safe enough to start killing again.’

I looked at Bishop. ‘Are you sure it’s Viner’s DNA?’

‘Positive.’