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‘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 …

‘Ada’s just left,’ George said to me, smiling.

‘Sorry?’

‘Your secretary, Ada, she left some minutes ago. She asked me, if I see you, to tell you that everything is up to date, there’s a note for you on her desk.’

‘Right …’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

He smiled again. ‘You’re very welcome.’

I left him to his cigarette and went up to my office.

Ada’s hours of work are pretty much up to her. She basically works for as long as she needs to, and then she goes home. Some days that might mean being in the office from nine till five, or later, other days she doesn’t even bother coming in at all. It suits her, and it’s fine with me. And it’s what we agreed on when I poached her from Mercer Associates shortly after setting up my own business.

Today, clearly, there hadn’t been all that much to do.

There were some cheques for me to sign on my desk, a list reminding me of the phone calls I had to make, and — in the note that George had mentioned — a summary of the calls that Ada had taken that morning.

All of it could wait.

I went into my office, closed the blinds, and poured myself a drink. I looked at the clock on the wall. Tick, tock …

It was 15.45.

I sat down on the settee and closed my eyes.

Ripped open on the bed.

Naked.

Butchered.

Bled white.

Dead.

I cradle Stacy’s ruined body in my arms, howling and sobbing … holding her for ever, for ever, it’s all I can do. I can’t let go. I can’t ever hold her enough …

I can’t.

There’s nothing left.

After a timeless time — a thousand years, a minute, a day — I wipe a smear of blood from her mouth, kiss her cold lips, and whisper goodbye. I have to let go now, Stacy. Just for a while. I have to call the police. I don’t want to. I want to stay here with you, holding you in my arms … I don’t want to let you go. But I know if I stay here, I’ll stay here for ever, and if I stay here for ever I might as well be dead. And dead’s no good to me now. Not yet. I have to attend to the business of death.

I opened my eyes, wiped the tears from my face, and took a long shuddering drink from the whisky bottle. A flood of wretchedness welled up inside me, a feeling so awesome and desperate that it defied all logic and reasoning. Stacy was dead … for ever. The child she was carrying, our child, was dead …

For ever.

The tears filled my eyes again as I went over to the wall safe, opened it up, and took out my father’s pistol. I went back to the settee, and sat there for a while with the gun in my hand, wondering — as I’d wondered so many times before — where my father had got it from. Did he buy it? Was it police issue? Had he owned it for years, or had he got hold of it specifically to end his own life?

I slipped off the safety catch and wondered how it would feel to rest the barrel against my head and gently pull the trigger.

It wouldn’t feel like anything, I told myself.

It wouldn’t feel like anything at all.

Twenty minutes later, I reset the safety catch, put the pistol back in the wall safe, and lit a cigarette instead.

11

The office was dark and quiet when I woke up, the whole building hushed with the edgy silence of a time and place that isn’t meant to be heard. I could hear the light spit of rain on the window, the unconcerned hum of a water pipe, a low groaning creak from somewhere downstairs …

There is no silence, not anywhere. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the sound of the machine beneath your skin.

I reached for my whisky glass and took a long, slow drink, savouring the sedate heat of the alcohol.