‘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.’
‘I thought you were the SIO on this case.’
‘I’m in overall charge of the operational side of the investigation, yes. But it’s become a lot more than just a murder investigation now, and that means there’s a lot more people involved. PR people, team co-ordinators, media strategists … it’s simply not possible for me to control everything.’
‘But you’re still in control of the actual investigation?’
‘Yes.’
I stared at him. ‘And how’s it going?’
He stared back. ‘Reasonably well.’
‘Any idea where Viner might be?’
‘We’re working on it.’
‘Any leads, witnesses …?’
Bishop said nothing, just carried on staring at me, his eyes perfectly still.
‘What about CCTV footage from the night Anna disappeared?’ I said. ‘Any luck with that?’
He blinked once. ‘We’re working on it.’
19
In the summer of 1991, I worked for a few months as a handyman at the crematorium in Hey’s Weir. Most of my time was spent cutting grass, burning old wreaths, digging flower beds … I basically did whatever I was told to do. I didn’t mind. It was pleasantly thoughtless work, physically but not mentally tiring, and I was on my own most of the time. And, besides — as I’d explained to Bridget — as long as I knew that I’d be with Stacy at the end of the day, I didn’t care what I was doing.
Occasionally, when the crematorium was busier than usual, I’d be asked to help out in the furnace room. I didn’t get involved with the actual cremation procedures — I was mostly just moving coffins around or sieving the ashes — but it was while I was working in the furnace room that I met a man known as Dougie the Burner. Dougie was an intriguing man. In his late twenties or early thirties, he had an unruly mop of tousled black hair, twinkling dark eyes, permanently grubby skin, and an equally permanent lopsided grin. He was slightly hunchbacked and he walked with a limp. And he always wore the same shabby old blue overalls. He smoked pipe tobacco in hand-rolled cigarettes, and for his lunch he’d eat a whole raw onion.
Although there was plenty about him that always unnerved me a little — not least his resemblance to a hunchbacked Fred West — there was a lot about Dougie that I liked. I liked the way he never got angry about anything, never worried about anything, never took anything seriously. He just seemed to hobble his way through life, carelessly enjoying whatever came his way — burning bodies, sieving ashes, eating onions … he was perfectly content with his lot.
On a warm Friday night in July that year, just as the sun was starting to go down, I suddenly realised that I’d left my jacket at the crematorium earlier in the day. My wallet was in my jacket pocket, and Stacy and me were setting off early the next morning for a weekend away in Wales, and for some reason that I can’t remember I decided that, rather than picking up my jacket in the morning, I’d go back and get it that night.
So I grabbed my work keys, got in the car, and drove out to the crematorium. It must have been around ten o’clock when I got there, and at first the whole place seemed as quiet and deserted as I’d expected. But as I got out of the car and headed across the car park towards the door at the side of the main building that led into the staff room where I’d left my jacket, I gradually became aware of a familiar low rumbling sound — the muffled roar of the furnace. I’d always assumed that the furnace was shut down at night, so I was a little surprised to hear it working, but I didn’t really give it much thought. I just assumed that my assumptions were wrong. And as I approached the side door, and noticed that Dougie’s car was parked at the back of the building, and that next to it was a dark-blue van I’d never seen before, I still didn’t think anything of it. I just supposed Dougie must be working late, maybe checking the furnace or something, and that the van probably belonged to a friend of his who was helping him out …