‘But you know it’s her, don’t you? You know it’s Anna?’
‘What did I just tell you?’ he said, beginning to lose his temper. ‘This has got nothing to do with you any more. This is a police investigation. You are not police, you are not involved in any way, shape, or fucking form.’ He leaned forward and spoke slowly, looking me in the eye. ‘Now … do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ I said calmly. ‘I understand.’
‘You’d fucking better.’
I looked at him. ‘Can I go now?’
He sniffed again, pausing for a moment just to make me wait, then he jerked his head at the door. ‘Yeah, go on, fuck off.’
PART TWO
17
Two weeks later, on a cold and misty Friday morning, I was sitting on an old wooden bench in my backyard, drinking coffee and listening to Bridget Moran as she told me about a fat little boy and a mouse.
I’d been seeing quite a lot of Bridget over the last ten days or so, mainly because she’d finally split up with Dave and didn’t like being on her own too much, and although I often heard her talking to her dog, Walter, I knew that she needed a bit of human company every now and again. Of course, I liked to think that there was a little bit more to it than that, but I didn’t really mind if there wasn’t. If all I was to Bridget was a convenient pair of human ears, and if all we ever did was share the occasional cup of coffee together … well, that was perfectly all right with me.
After my interview at the police station — and after three or four days of stultifying depression, when all I could do was lie in bed and wait for the black place to leave me — I’d done what Mick Bishop had told me to do: I’d gone back to my shitty little office and got back to doing my shitty little job. Apart from one phone call to Cal, I hadn’t got in touch with anyone who had anything to do with the Anna Gerrish case, including Helen and Graham Gerrish. I hadn’t even sent them a bill. I’d just got back to living my life, doing my job … working insurance cases, tracing bad debts, tracking down the makers of pirate DVDs …
The Anna Gerrish case was over for me: I’d done what I’d been hired to do; I’d found her. It wasn’t my job to find out who’d killed her. It wasn’t my business to ask any more questions. Who was driving the Nissan that night? Who was Charles Raymond Kemper? Did Kemper kill Anna? Did Bishop kill Anna? If he didn’t, what was he trying to hide? And if he did …?
No … it wasn’t my business.
Right now, my business was investigating the alleged whiplash injuries suffered by a 48-year-old woman in a minor road-traffic accident. That’s what I was being paid to do. And once Bridget had finished telling me about the fat little boy and the mouse, and after I’d had another cigarette, or maybe two, and perhaps another cup of coffee or two … that’s exactly what I was going to do.
‘You know the kind of fat kid I mean, don’t you?’ Bridget said.
She was dressed up warmly in a baggy old jumper and fleece-lined boots, her short blonde hair hidden beneath a red woollen hat, and she was sipping her coffee with both hands wrapped round the cup, like a small child drinking orange juice from a beaker.
‘Sorry,’ I said, smiling at her. ‘I was miles away for a minute there. Who was this fat kid again?’
Just then, Walter wandered out through the back door. He paused on the step for a moment, sniffing the air, then he shook his head and lolloped across the yard. Bridget watched him with quiet affection as he found a bush, cocked his leg, scratted the ground, then went back in again.
‘It’s too cold for him,’ she said.
‘You should get him a coat.’
‘He’s got a coat.’
A veil of mist hung in the air, suffused with the sour tang of nettles. Small birds were flitting from wall to wall, and somewhere in the distance I could hear the unseasonal chimes of an ice-cream van.
I felt OK.
‘Right,’ Bridget said. ‘Are you listening now?’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘OK, so … Wednesday morning, this fat kid came into the shop looking to buy a mouse …’
Bridget was the joint owner of a pet shop in town. It was only a small place, nothing fancy — no chinchillas or snakes or lizards, just fish, birds, mice, rabbits …
‘… and I refused to sell him one.’
‘You refused to sell him a mouse?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
She shrugged. ‘I didn’t like the look of him. He was one of those nasty fat kids with piggy little eyes, you know, the ones who always get what they want. If I’d sold him a mouse it would have been dead within a week. So I told him he couldn’t have one.’
‘What did he do?’
‘The little shit went and got his dad. The two of them came back in the afternoon — fat kid, fat dad.’ She smiled. ‘Fat dad said that if I didn’t sell his boy a mouse, he’d take me to court.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Told him to contact my lawyer.’
I lit a cigarette. ‘There’s probably a joke in there somewhere.’
‘Probably.’
She raised the coffee cup to her mouth and gently blew at the steam.
I said, ‘Why aren’t you at the shop today anyway?’
She smiled. ‘I’m skiving, the same as you.’
‘I’m not skiving … I’m just taking a break. I’ll have to get back to it soon.’
‘Yeah, well … it’s my afternoon off. Sarah’s in charge today.’
‘Who’s Sarah again?’
‘My partner.’
‘Oh yeah … I remember you telling me about her.’
Bridget looked at me. ‘Yeah, I did, didn’t I?’
‘What?’
‘I told you about Sarah.’
‘That’s what I just said.’
‘I know …’
She was still looking at me, and there seemed to be a question in her eyes. And I got the feeling that I was supposed to know what it was, but I didn’t.
‘What?’ I asked her. ‘What is it?’
She smiled. ‘How long have we known each other, John?’
‘I don’t know … about ten years?’
‘Closer to thirteen, actually. Thirteen years. And in all that time … well, I know we’re not really close or anything, but we’ve talked to each other quite a lot, haven’t we?’
‘Yeah …’
‘And I’ve told you quite a bit about myself — how I met Sarah, how we got the shop together, what I like doing, what I did when I was a kid … things like that. I mean, you know stuff about me, don’t you?’
‘Yeah …’
‘But I still don’t really know anything about you. I know that your mother used to own this house, and that your wife was killed … and I know what you do for a living, but that’s about all.’ She sipped from her coffee cup, looking at me over the rim. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Mind what?’
She shrugged. ‘Me … you know …’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah.’
She smiled. ‘You can tell me to shut up if you want.’
I looked at her, my heart beating hard with an expectation that I wasn’t sure I wanted. ‘What do you want to know about me?’ I asked her.
‘Anything, really … whatever you want to tell me.’
‘Like what?’
‘Tell me about your wife.’
‘Stacy?’
‘Yeah … Stacy.’ Bridget smiled. ‘Tell me how you met her.’
It was the smile that did it, I think. Bridget’s smile. If she’d been at all hesitant in asking me about Stacy, or if there’d been any trace of sadness or pity in her voice, I probably would have made an excuse and tried to change the subject. But the way she asked, as if the memory of Stacy was something to be celebrated, not mourned or avoided or tiptoed around … somehow that made all the difference. And as I began telling Bridget about the summer of 1990, I realised that this was the first time I’d talked to anyone but myself about Stacy since the day she was killed.