‘Keep going,’ I told Cal. ‘And keep your eyes straight ahead.’
As we drove past the parked Prelude, I turned my head away so that even if Bishop did happen to look at us, he wouldn’t see my face.
‘Pull in over there,’ I said a few moments later. ‘Don’t indicate.’
Cal did as I told him, parking between two other cars at the side of the road about thirty yards further on from the Prelude. I wound down the window and adjusted the side mirror just in time to see Ray getting out of the car, turning up his coat collar, then leaning back in to say something to his brother. He smiled, reached in and patted Mick’s shoulder, then stood back and watched as the Prelude pulled away and drove off. As it passed us by, I again turned my head away. When I turned back, I saw Ray opening a gate and heading up the front path of a small, semi-detached house. He paused at the front door, looked around, then unlocked it and went inside. After a few moments, lights came on downstairs.
‘Now what?’ Cal asked me.
I lit a cigarette. ‘This is Long Road, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Can you see the house number?’
Cal adjusted the rear-view mirror and gazed over at the house. ‘One seven four, I think … yeah, one seven four.’
‘Is your iPhone connected to all those databases you use?’
He smiled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. ‘Just give me a few minutes.’
As he began doing whatever it was he was doing — thumbing and scrolling, jumping from screen to screen — I glanced admiringly at the battered old trilby hat on his head. He wore it well — tipped to one side, at just the right angle — and while it could easily have looked quite lame on somebody else, it looked just perfect on Cal.
‘Nice hat,’ I said.
‘It’s my detecting hat,’ he grinned, without looking up from his iPhone.
I smiled. ‘Thanks for all your help with this, Cal.’
He shrugged. ‘No problem.’
‘And I’m sorry if I was a bit pissy with you earlier on.’
‘Pissy?’ he said, smiling at me.
‘Yeah, you know, when I was telling you to sort yourself out — ’
‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘You were right, anyway. I was a bit over-excited.’
‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry — ’
‘Shit,’ he sighed, shaking his head as he looked down at the iPhone screen.
‘What is it?’
‘Another dead end.’ He studied the screen for a moment. ‘174 Long Road is one of a number of properties owned by a man called Syed Naveed. He rents them out through a letting agency called HRL Ltd, and their records show that 174 Long Road is currently leased to a tenant by the name of Joel R Pickton. But the references they’ve got are fake. Fake driving licence, fake passport, fake letter from Mr Pickton’s fake previous landlord.’
‘Do the records say how long the lease is for?’
Cal looked at the iPhone screen. ‘Twelve months, paid in advance. He moved in at the end of July this year.’
I shook my head. ‘Where the fuck does he get all this fake ID from?’
‘I don’t know,’ Cal said. ‘But it won’t be cheap. Whoever he uses — ’
‘Hold on,’ I said, my attention suddenly drawn to the house. ‘The lights have just gone off.’
While I carried on watching the house in the side mirror, Cal turned in his seat and looked out through the rear windscreen. After about half a minute, the front door opened and Ray Bishop came out. He paused on the doorstep, looking up and down the street, then he shut the door behind him, went down the path, out the gate, and headed across the road towards a white Toyota Yaris.
‘Do we follow him?’ Cal said.
I watched Ray Bishop get into the Yaris.
‘John?’ Cal said.
I looked at him. ‘Are you OK following him on your own?’
‘Why? Where are you going?’
‘I’m going to take a quick look round his house.’
Cal frowned. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, John. What if he comes back? I mean, this guy might be a — ’
‘Ring me,’ I said, opening the car door as the Yaris started up. ‘Just keep him in sight, wherever he goes, and as soon as you think he’s coming back, ring me and let me know. All right?’
Cal hesitated.
The Yaris was pulling away now.
I looked at Cal. He still wasn’t happy, but as the headlights of the Yaris approached us from behind, he reluctantly nodded his head and reached for the ignition. ‘All right,’ he said, starting the car. ‘But as soon as I ring you — ’
‘I’ll be out like a shot,’ I assured him.
I waited for the Yaris to pass us, gave it a few seconds, then got out of the car and slapped the roof. As Cal pulled away and drove off after the Yaris, I checked that my mobile was switched on, waited another minute — just to be on the safe side — then headed for the house.
27
I learned how to pick locks from a semi-retired investigator who used to work part-time for Leon Mercer. It wasn’t actually a very useful skill to have in the world of corporate investigation and insurance fraud, which was lucky for me because I was never very good at it anyway. I wasn’t totally useless, but I knew that I probably wouldn’t be able to open the Yale lock on Ray Bishop’s front door, so I went through a rusty old gate at the side of the house and headed round the back instead. There was no back garden as such, just a high-walled concrete yard cluttered with bins and bin bags, carrier bags, bits of scrap metal, car doors, seats, hubcaps, broken deckchairs … all kinds of shit. The wall surrounding the yard was high enough to screen me from the neighbours’ downstairs windows, but I paused for a moment and looked around anyway, making sure that no one was watching me from any upstairs windows, then I went over to a glass-panelled door at the rear of the house and examined the lock. It was an old-fashioned mortice lock, loose and rattly, and I was fairly sure I could open it. I looked around all the crap on the ground, searching for something I could use to pick the lock, and almost immediately I spotted a carrier bag full of broken old tools. I went over and picked out a small handle-less screwdriver, and within a couple of minutes I had the door open and was stepping through into a small kitchen at the back of the house.
I shut the door behind me, took out a penlight, and looked around. The kitchen was very small and very cramped, neither overly clean nor excessively dirty. There was a stained porcelain sink with a warped wooden draining board, old cupboards, a rust-flecked boiler, a formica-topped table scattered with empty KFC boxes. I paused for a moment, listening to the silence, then I moved down a narrow hallway and went into the front room. The curtains were drawn, the lights off. As I swept the penlight around, I saw a room that didn’t belong to anyone. It was a room that had been furnished from Argos: bland pictures on the walls, a thin carpet, a cheap two-seater settee and matching cheap armchair. The dining table and shelves were flat-packed white plastic wood, and the ornaments were straight from the ornaments page of the catalogue: lamp, vase, clock, a porcelain figurine of a doe-eyed child. A cut-price music system was stacked against the wall and a widescreen television loomed large on the floor.
There was nothing of Ray Bishop in here.
It was no more than the simulation of a room.
I left the room and headed upstairs.
Halfway up, a samurai sword was hanging from a cord on the stairway wall. At first, I thought it was just another ornament from the Argos catalogue, but when I paused on the stairs and looked closer, I realised that it was all too real. The blade — 24 inches of slightly curved, razor-sharp steel — even showed some signs of use. It was nicked here and there, the cracked edges beginning to rust, and several parts of the blade were discoloured with dark-brown stains. I stood there for a few seconds, gazing at the sword, trying to ignore the simmering fear in my guts … then I went on up the stairs.