Dance of Ghosts (23 page)

‘That’s
impossible
.’

He’s mine …

At approximately 01.45, at the heart of a shabby grey
council estate on the east side of town, I pull up at the far end of School Lane, park the car and turn off the engine. The street is empty. I shut the window, get out of the car, and lock it. Somewhere nearby, perhaps at the other end of the street, a party is going on. I can hear music, bass beats thumping. Shouts and laughter cracking the night. I walk along the pavement, swaying slightly, counting the house numbers until I get to 27. It’s the same as all the other houses in the street: breezeblock grey, semi-detached, with curtained windows and a neglected patch of front garden. A warm wind drifts in the night as I stand at the front gate gazing up at the lightless windows, thinking of nothing
…

There’s nothing to think
.

My father’s pistol weighs heavily in my pocket as I open the gate and walk up the path. Apart from the distant sound of revelry, there’s no sign of life anywhere – no twitching curtains, no barking dogs – just the empty night and the empty street and the empty purpose in my soul. I step up to the front door and ring the bell
.

I’m as fucked as I’m ever going to be
.

Nothing happens for a while, but I’m too intoxicated and too determined to wonder if Viner isn’t home. He’s here. He was always going to be here. I know it more than I’ve ever known anything. I ring the bell again, and this time, almost immediately, a light comes on upstairs. I put my hand in my pocket and take out a pair of gloves. As the upstairs window opens above me, I pull on the gloves, remove the pistol from my pocket, and move closer to the door
.

‘Who is it?’ a voice calls down. ‘Hello? Who’s there?’

He can’t see me. There’s a narrow porchway roof above
the door, just wide enough to keep me out of sight. I ring the doorbell again
.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ the voice from above says. ‘Hey … I’m up here … HEY! Who the fuck –?’

I press the doorbell again, and this time I keep it held down. The voice at the window curses and snarls for a little while longer, then eventually I hear the window slam shut and I know he’s coming down
.

I release the bell
.

Through mottled glass at either side of the door, I see the landing light come on. I hear the muffled thump of angry footsteps coming down the stairs, and then the hallway light comes on. The patterned glass distorts the shape of the figure approaching the door, and for a moment I’m seeing a monster, a dark beast with an oversized head, but then the misformed monster yanks open the door, and all I’m looking at is a man. He’s middle-aged, with long lank hair, a flabby face, sallow skin. His eyes are small. He’s wearing a stained blue T-shirt and nylon track pants. A single strip of grubby white bandage is inexpertly tied round his head
.

‘What the fuck –?’ he starts to say, his animal eyes glaring violently at me
.

I raise the pistol and point it at his head
.

His eyes widen
.

I step closer, placing the barrel of the pistol between his eyes. ‘If you say another word,’ I tell him, ‘I’ll kill you. Nod your head if you understand.’

Trembling now, he nods his head
.

‘Move back inside,’ I tell him
.

He steps back into the hallway, his eyes fixed fearfully on
the gun. I walk him inside and close the front door behind me
.

‘Turn round,’ I tell him
.

‘Whu –?’ he starts to say
.

I flick my wrist, rapping the pistol barrel against his skull. It’s not a hard blow, but it’s hard enough to hurt him
.

‘Turn round,’ I repeat
.

He turns round
.

I put the gun to the back of his head
.

‘What’s your name?’ I say. ‘If you lie to me, I’ll pull the trigger.’

‘Viner…’ he mutters. ‘Anton Viner.’

‘Is there anyone else in the house?’

‘No.’

Keeping the gun pressed to his head, I reach up and tug at the bandage on his head. It comes off easily. On the left side of his head, about three inches above his ear, there’s a freshly scabbed wound. It’s ragged and raw, the blood-brown crust edged with the pink of new flesh … and there’s no doubt that it was caused by a bite. I can see toothmarks, the shape of a mouth … the shape of Stacy’s mouth
.

My head goes black for a moment … and I’m nothing. A speck of nothing floating in a void. My legs buckle … I’m falling, floating, drowning …

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.’

I kept on looking at him for a while, trying to read his eyes, trying to see what was inside his head … then I got up from the settee, went through into the bedroom, and started fussing around with the bed. I needed time to think, to understand … I just needed to do something. Bishop followed me as far as the double doors, stopping to lean against the doorway and watch me as I lifted the duvet, straightened it out, and threw it across the bed.

‘There’s a televised press conference planned for two o’clock this afternoon,’ he said. ‘We’ll be naming Viner as the main suspect in the murder of Anna Gerrish, and obviously that’s going to have repercussions. Which is why I’m here, really.’

‘Repercussions?’ I said, flapping the duvet again, trying to clear the fuggy cloud of body odour and stale sweat from the air.

He nodded. ‘There’s no point in trying to avoid the possible link between Anna’s murder and that of your wife, because the media are going to make the connection anyway. Two murders with the same suspect is more than enough for them to label Viner a serial killer, and no matter how much we try to play it down, we’re not going to be able to stop it. And I’m afraid that means that they’re going to start looking into your wife’s murder again, rehashing all the old stories, because – to them – she’ll no longer be
just
a murder victim, she’ll be the victim of a serial killer. And that alone would be sufficient for the media to come after you, John. But unfortunately … well, we’re not going to be able to hide the fact that it was you who found Anna’s body, and when the media get hold of
that
…’

‘Shit,’ I muttered.

Bishop nodded again. ‘So you can see why I wanted to warn you.’

I looked at him. ‘Can’t you cancel the press conference? I mean, what’s the point of it anyway?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s out of my hands, John.’