Kevin Brooks - Dance of Ghosts

‘What would you have done, John? If someone you loved, if the only person you’d ever cared about …’ He sighed, rubbing his eyes. ‘I mean, imagine if Stacy had killed people, and you’d found out about it. What would you have done?’

‘She didn’t — ’

‘But if she did. Would you have given her up? Would you have had her locked away in Broadmoor for the rest of her life? Would you?’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t know …’

‘I did what I had to do, John. I traded a few dozen worthless lives for the life of my brother. Right or wrong, that’s all I did. You can judge me if you want — ’

‘It’s not up to me to judge you. It’s up to a court.’

He sniffed. ‘If I go to court, so do you, for killing Anton Viner. That’s why nothing’s going to happen to either of us. You know what Ray did, you know what I did — and what I’ve just done — and I know what you did. We’re all in the same boat, John. We can either sink in it together, or we can survive together. And the way I see it, if we both go down … well, what purpose will it serve? What good will it do anyone?’

‘What good will it do if we both survive? What good will that do to anyone?’

He smiled. ‘You’re a cheerful fucker, aren’t you?’

I didn’t smile back. ‘What about Cal?’

‘Cal Franks?’ Bishop shrugged. ‘He does the same as us — keeps his mouth shut about everything.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘I’ll just make a couple of phone calls to some very spooky people who don’t take kindly to cyber-terrorists. By the time they’ve finished with him, he’ll be lucky if he knows what a computer is, let alone how to use one.’ Bishop smiled at me again. ‘Any more concerns?’

‘What are you going to do about the Anna Gerrish investigation?’

‘Nothing … I’ll keep it alive for a while, go through the motions of looking for Viner, and then gradually wind it down. No one’s going to care. It’s just another murder … the media will soon forget about it.’

‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’

He nodded. ‘It’s what I do.’

‘Do you enjoy it?’

He just shrugged again. ‘It’s what I do.’

I looked at him, sick of talking now. I just wanted this to be over. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to be at home, sitting in my armchair beneath the high window, drinking whisky in the darkness, listening to the whisper of ghosts …

A bell sounded downstairs.

‘That’ll be them,’ Bishop said, getting to his feet and heading for the door.

‘I want the gun back,’ I told him.

He stopped. ‘The gun?’

‘I want it back.’

‘Why?’

‘Does it matter?’

He took the pistol from his pocket, studied it for a moment, then looked at me. ‘It was your father’s, wasn’t it? It was the gun he used to kill himself.’

‘How do you know that?’

He carried on looking at me for a second or two, then he took the magazine out of the pistol, emptied the bullets into his hand, put the magazine back, and passed the gun to me.

‘How do you know it was my father’s?’ I asked him again.

He dropped the bullets into his pocket, turned round, and left the room without saying anything.

Bridget was finally beginning to come round as I went over and sat down beside her. Her eyelids were twitching, her lips were fluttering, and she was making faint little whimpering sounds.

I took hold of her hand.

It was cold.

‘It’s OK, Bridget,’ I said softly. ‘You’re going to be fine now. Everything’s going to be all right …’

But I knew I was probably lying.