‘Yeah.’
‘It’s not much of a plan, John.’
‘Yeah, well,’ I said, ‘the best-laid schemes of mice and men …’
‘What?’
‘They gang aft agley.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ I muttered, looking down at Anna’s pale body … naked, butchered, bled white …
Dead.
For ever …
‘John?’ Cal said. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Not really …’
‘Do you want me to — ?’
‘Listen, Cal. I’ll call you later, OK?’
‘I can come out there if you want.’
‘No … it’s OK. I’ll just … I’ll call you later.’
The first police car turned up about fifteen minutes later — two uniformed constables in a patrol car — but even as I was showing them where the body was, more vehicles began to arrive, and within about an hour or so the once-gloomy isolation of the lay-by had been transformed into a brightly lit hive of activity. A crime-scene tent had been erected, floodlights blazed, there were uniformed officers all over the place, CID detectives, scenes-of-crime officers, a doctor, pathologist, photographer … all of them bustling around, doing what they had to do, which included asking me lots of questions. By the time Mick Bishop finally arrived, I must have told my story at least three or four times already. But as Bishop got out of his Vectra and immediately began taking control of the scene, I knew that it was going to be the story I told him, and how I told it, that really mattered.
I was sitting in the back of a car with a female officer called DC Roberts when Bishop first arrived. Roberts was asking me some more questions — and also, I think, just keeping an eye on me — and as she carried on talking, I watched Mick Bishop striding around the lay-by, doing his thing — barking out orders, demanding answers, telling people where to go and what to do. He never once looked over at me. He spent very little time at the actual crime scene either. I saw him go through the gap between the end of the bank and the hawthorn trees, and in the bright white light of the floodlights I saw him gazing down at the pool below, but he didn’t go any further. He just stared down at Anna’s body for a while, asked a few questions, then turned round and came back.
And now, I could see, he was heading towards me.
He looked tired, his skin even paler than usual in the blaze of sterile white light, and there was a depth of cold determination to his eyes that I hadn’t seen before. I didn’t like the look of it at all. As he came round the back of the car, DC Roberts opened the door for him.
‘We’re going to need lifting equipment to get the body out,’ he said to her. ‘Sort it out, OK?’
‘Sir,’ she said, closing her notebook and getting out of the car.
Bishop waited for her to leave, then got in, sat down beside me, and closed the door.
‘Why didn’t you call me?’ he said calmly.
‘I called the police — ’
‘Why didn’t you call me?’
‘I didn’t have your number.’
‘I gave you my card.’
‘Yeah, I lost it — ’
‘Bollocks.’ He stared angrily at me. ‘I told you, didn’t I? I fucking told you not to do anything without telling me first.’
‘I was just driving around — ’
‘Yeah, so I’ve heard. You were just driving around and you just happened to find her. Is that the best you can do?’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Like fuck it is.’ He stared at me. ‘How did you know, John? How did you know where she was?’
‘I didn’t — ’
‘Come on, John,’ he said, smiling thinly. ‘You can tell me. Look, there’s no one else here, just you and me … whatever you say to me now, I can’t use it. So come on, humour me, how did you find her?’
‘I looked.’
‘That’s it? You looked.’
‘Yeah. It wasn’t that difficult, really. I just asked a few questions and went where the answers took me. Anyone could have done it if they’d made the effort.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
I shrugged. ‘Nothing … I’m just answering your question.’
We looked at each other in silence for a few moments, Bishop tapping his ring finger on his knee, his mouth tight, his eyes focused … and I could imagine the hum of his brain, the busy grey flesh behind his eyes, trying to work things out — assessing the options, running things through, considering this, considering that …
I was so tired — and drained by the speed — that my own grey flesh was dancing like a brain-damaged boxer.
Eventually, Bishop sighed and said, ‘You know what your trouble is, don’t you?’
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
He smiled. ‘You’re just like your father. He was a fucking pain in the arse too. And look where it got him.’
About an hour later, I was driven away to Eastway police station where I spent another hour or so sitting around, waiting to have my fingerprints and DNA taken again, for elimination purposes. I was then escorted to an interview room for further questioning.
‘DCI Bishop’s still at the crime scene,’ a uniformed PC told me. ‘But he shouldn’t be long. So if you’d just like to wait in here until he’s available …’
‘Can’t someone else do it?’ I said.
‘Sorry … DCI’s orders.’
He closed the door, and I sat down and waited.
I just have to wait. And wait …
And I wait.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday … long days and eternal nights of oblivion, living for nothing, waiting for nothing … what is there to wait for? DI Delaney will call me soon about the DNA results from the piece of flesh retrieved from Stacy’s stomach, and then I will either know or not know the identity of the man who raped and butchered the love of my life. But even if the killer is identified, even if he is arrested, charged, tried and convicted … what difference will it make?
What happened cannot be unhappened.
Stacy will always be dead.
And for ever is a long long time.
So why do I wait?
What am I waiting for?
It’s Friday 27 August, about 10.30 at night, and I’m sitting in the front room, drinking whisky, trying to drink myself to sleep. This is where I sleep now. I haven’t been in the bedroom since the day it happened. I can’t go in there any more. I spend my nights sitting on the settee, staring at the television, drinking whisky — and taking whatever drugs I have — until I pass out. And then I wake up and start all over again.
Tonight, I’m purely drunk. I have a couple of grams of cocaine somewhere, but I don’t want cocaine now. I don’t want to be awake. I don’t want to think about anything. I just want to drink and drink and stare at the pictures on the television screen until I can’t see anything any more …
And that’s what I’m doing when I hear a faint sound from the hallway, a soft metallic clack. It sounds like the letterbox flapping shut, the familiar sound of post being delivered … but it can’t be. Not at this time of night. I almost ignore it, too drunk to care if I’m hearing things or not, but for some reason I find myself stumbling to my feet and shuffling out into the hallway … and there, on the floor by the front door, is an envelope. A plain white envelope. I stare at it for a moment, then lean down and pick it up. My name is typed on the front — JOHN CRAINE — but nothing else. No address, no stamp.
I open the front door.
There’s no one there.
I walk up the garden path, open the gate, and look up and down the street.
There’s no one there.
I go back into the house, into the front room, and open the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of plain white writing paper. I take it out, unfold it, and read the typed message: