Kevin Brooks - Dance of Ghosts

I flipped my cigarette out of the window and turned back to Cal. ‘All right?’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Yeah …’

‘Are we OK?’

He grinned at me. ‘Yeah, we’re OK.’

‘Good. So what was it you were trying to tell me?’

‘Bishop’s got a brother,’ he said. ‘And guess what his name is.’

Raymond Bishop, Cal explained, was a year younger than Mick. The two brothers had lived with their parents, Stanley and Gale, on a council estate in Ilford until the night of 18 March 1965, when — according to a report in the local newspaper — their house had caught fire and burned to the ground. Both parents had died in the fire, but Raymond and Mick had survived.

‘Mick was eleven at the time,’ Cal told me. ‘And Raymond was ten. A follow-up report in the same newspaper three days later stated that the fire was caused by faulty wiring.’

‘Did it say anything about how the two boys managed to survive?’

Cal shook his head. ‘All it said was that they’d both been released from hospital and taken to a children’s home in Brentwood, a place called Pin Hall.’

I looked at Cal. ‘And …?’

He sighed. ‘Pin Hall was destroyed in a fire in 1969. Nine people died, seventeen were badly injured. All the files, all the records … everything was lost in the fire.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Faulty wiring again?’

‘That’s what it was put down to at the time, but a few years ago there was a cold-case investigation into allegations of abuse at Pin Hall, and they’re fairly sure now that the fire was started deliberately.’

I lit another cigarette. ‘So what happened to Raymond and Mick after the fire?’

‘Well, the search program found plenty of stuff about Mick Bishop’s history — when he joined the police, when he got promoted, various cases he’s been involved in … that kind of thing. And if you read between the lines, it’s pretty obvious that he’s not the cleanest cop in the world … but there’s no solid proof of anything. No big purchases, no second homes, no vices, no extravagances … I mean, his personal life is virtually non-existent. He doesn’t seem to do anything.’

‘What about Raymond?’ I said. ‘What happened to him?’

Cal shrugged. ‘After the fire at Pin Hall … there’s nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘Nothing at all … no trace of Raymond Bishop anywhere. It’s as if he just disappeared off the face of the earth.’

‘Maybe he died in the fire?’

Cal shook his head. ‘His name would have come up at the inquest, and the search would have found his death certificate.’

‘But it didn’t?’

‘No.’

‘So he’s still alive?’

‘Not necessarily …’

‘But you think he is?’

‘Maybe …’

‘Do you think he’s Charles Raymond Kemper?’

‘He could be …’

I looked out through the windscreen and saw that we were halfway along Roman Road now. Up ahead, just off to our left, I could see the black-timbered outline of The Turk’s Head silhouetted against the clouded moon. I looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was almost seven o’clock.

‘What do you think, John?’ Cal asked me.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Let’s go and find out, shall we?’

The car park was at the back of the pub, adjacent to the beer garden. There were floodlights at the back of the building that illuminated most of the garden, but the car park itself was unlit.

‘Where do you want me to park?’ Cal asked.

‘Just drive round for a bit first,’ I told him. ‘I want to see if the Nissan’s here.’

We circled the car park once, twice, and there was no sign of the Nissan, but as we approached the rear of the pub again, Cal slowed down and nodded his head towards a red Honda Prelude.

‘That’s Bishop’s car,’ he said. ‘The Prelude.’

‘Are you sure?’

He nodded. ‘It was one of the first things that came up on the search.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘So Bishop’s here …’

‘Do you want me to park now?’

I nodded. ‘Reverse into that space over there.’

As Cal backed the car into a parking space that wasn’t too close to the pub, but gave us a reasonably good view of both the back door and the beer garden, I kept my eyes fixed on a broad window at the back of the building that looked through into the main bar. It was busy inside — families dining, drinkers drinking, fruit machines beeping and winking … it wasn’t quite Saturday night yet, but it was getting there. There was a smoking area just outside the back door, a covered patio area with a few wooden tables and benches, and beyond that lay the beer garden and the children’s play area. It was too cold and dark for any kids to be out playing, but the garden wasn’t completely deserted. A young couple were sitting together on a bench, braving the cold for the sake of a few moments’ privacy, and a handful of teenagers were messing about by the swings, drinking from bottles of beer and passing round a joint.

‘What now?’ Cal said.

I lit a cigarette. ‘We wait.’

‘For how long?’

‘As long as it takes. If they’re in there, they’ll have to come out eventually.’

‘Then what?’

‘We see who Bishop’s with, and we follow him.’

‘What if Bishop comes out alone?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What if Bishop’s in there with Ray, and when they’ve finished talking about whatever they’re talking about, Bishop decides to leave, but Ray wants to stay for a few more drinks. So Bishop leaves him there, and he comes out on his own — ’

‘And we’ve got no way of knowing what Ray looks like.’

‘Exactly.’

I smiled at Cal. ‘So what do you think we should do, Sherlock?’

He grinned. ‘One of us needs to go inside. And it can’t be you, because Bishop knows you … so, by process of elimination — ’

‘Look,’ I said suddenly, staring over at the back door. ‘That’s him.’

As Cal gazed intently through the windscreen, Bishop and another man came out of the pub, turned right, and walked down to the far end of the smoking area. They seemed to be arguing about something as they went, with Bishop doing most of the talking. The man he was arguing with was about the same size and height as Bishop, perhaps a little heavier. He had close-cropped dark hair, pale skin, a thin-lipped mouth …

‘Shit,’ I whispered. ‘That’s got to be his brother, hasn’t it? That’s got to be Ray Bishop.’

‘No doubt about it,’ Cal said. ‘What do you think they’re arguing about?’

‘I don’t know … but, whatever it is, I don’t think Ray gives a shit.’

Ray was lighting a cigarette now, and as his lighter flared, momentarily illuminating his features, I could see quite clearly the look on his face as his brother continued berating him. It was a look of almost vacuous disdain; empty, mocking, unknowing, uncaring.

But then, as I carried on watching them, and I saw Mick throwing up his hands in despair, as if he’d finally had enough of his brother, Ray suddenly confounded my impressions of him by stepping forward and giving Mick what looked like a genuinely heartfelt hug. And although Mick held off for a moment, it was only for a moment, and then he was returning his brother’s embrace, holding him tightly, patting his back, whispering words in his ear …

‘Very touching,’ Cal murmured.

‘Do you think that’s him?’ I said, staring at Ray. ‘I mean, do you think he’s the one we saw in the Nissan … the one who picked up Anna?’

Cal thought about it, keeping his eyes fixed on Ray. It could be him, yeah … but I wouldn’t swear to it.’

I nodded, watching as the two brothers finally let go of each other and resumed talking. Bishop was still far from happy, but he seemed a lot calmer now. After a moment or two, I saw him gesture towards his car. Ray said something, then nodded, and they both started walking towards the car park.