‘Your secretary said you wanted a meeting.’
‘Oh, right, yeah — ’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Anything, really. Whatever you’re willing to share with me about the Anna Gerrish case. Of course, I understand that you can’t reveal any details of your investigation …’
I let my voice trail off, slightly surprised that Bishop hadn’t interrupted already to tell me that he had neither the time nor the inclination to share anything with me, and as the silence on the phone stretched out to a relatively eternal three or four seconds, I wondered what the hell was taking him so long. You either meet me or you don’t, I thought. You don’t have to spend ages thinking about it.
And then, quite suddenly, his voice came back on the line. ‘11.30 tomorrow morning,’ he said brusquely. ‘The CID offices at Eastway. I’ve only got ten minutes to spare, so don’t be late.’
And that was it. No goodbyes, no see you tomorrows, no nothing. He just said what he had to say, then hung up. I sat there for a while, smoking my cigarette and going over the conversation in my mind, trying to work out if it meant anything or not … but the only conclusion I came to was that my father hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told me, many years ago, that Mick Bishop was the most odious man he’d ever known.
I looked at my watch, saw that it was 6.30, and got going.
The streets of Stangate Rise were fairly quiet as I walked from my car to the Gerrishes’ house, and I guessed that it was still too early for the commuters to be arriving back from London. They’d be here soon enough, though — driving home from the station in their?30,000 cars, tired and wet, stressed and bored, burdened with the knowledge that tomorrow morning they’d have to get up early, put on their suits, and start all over again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Poor fuckers.
Or stupid fuckers.
It depends how you look at it, I suppose.
It was fully dark now, the estate glowing orange in the sodium gleam of the streetlights, and as I rang the bell of the Gerrishes’ house I was vaguely aware of countless unseen TV screens strobing away behind the curtains of the houses all around me. There was something almost Christmassy about it, in a tacky kind of way.
Helen Gerrish seemed anxious when she opened the door, which was only to be expected. She was a nervous woman, caught up in a highly stressful situation. It would have been strange if she hadn’t been anxious. But as she stood there in the doorway, smiling her tight little smile at me, I got the feeling that she wasn’t just worried about Anna, she was worried about something else. Something that belonged to now. Right here, right now.
‘Sorry I’m late again, Mrs Gerrish,’ I said. ‘I got a bit lost.’
She shook her head. ‘No, no … that’s fine, Mr Craine. No trouble at all.’ She opened the door wider and stepped to one side. ‘Please, come in.’
I followed her along a narrow little hallway into a boxlike front room. It was very neat, very ordered, very suburban. Three-piece suite, widescreen TV, dull ornaments, blackwood coffee table, fake log fire. Over by the window, a man in a grey cardigan and green corduroy trousers was sitting in an armchair watching TV. He had a grim face, greying skin, and one of those wide upper lips that look as if they ought to have a moustache, but don’t. He was older than his wife, in his mid-fifties at least, and his short black hair was greying at the edges.
‘This is Graham, my husband,’ Helen Gerrish said.
‘Evening, Mr Gerrish,’ I said. ‘Good to meet you.’
He looked at me for a moment, nodded without smiling, then went back to watching the TV. I stared at him for a second or two, trying to see the man who his wife had assured me was ‘as desperate to find Anna as I am’, but either she’d been lying to me, or he was incredibly good at hiding his emotions. I turned back to Helen, remembering also that her husband was supposed to be working this evening, but I didn’t say anything to her about that or his distinctly ill-mannered welcome. She looked embarrassed enough as it was.
‘Here’s Anna’s keys,’ she mumbled, passing me a key ring. ‘The Yale one is for her flat, the other one’s for the main door.’
‘Thanks. Did you manage to find another photograph?’
‘Oh, yes … I knew there was something else. I think there might be some in her room.’ She looked over at her husband. ‘Do you know if there are any photographs of Anna in her room, dear?’
He didn’t answer, just carried on staring at the TV.
‘Graham?’ Helen said.
He looked up grudgingly. ‘What?’
‘Mr Craine needs another photograph of Anna. Are there any in her room?’
He shrugged. ‘How should I know?’
‘I just thought — ’
‘Why don’t we both go and have a look?’ I suggested.
She glanced at me, then looked back at her husband again. ‘Is that all right with you, dear?’
‘Is what all right?’
‘If Mr Craine has a look in Anna’s room.’
‘What are you asking me for?’
As Helen stood there, obviously upset, her lips fluttering nervously in search of a reply, I saw the faintest hint of a sneer flash across her husband’s face. It was an ugly little moment, a small horror from a small man in a small house, and just then I really didn’t want to be in the same room as him any more.
‘Is it this way?’ I asked Helen, stepping towards the door.
‘Uh, yes … yes,’ she muttered, still quite shaken, but trying her best to hide it. ‘Just up the stairs … uh … first door on the right.’
‘After you,’ I said.
Graham Gerrish was still staring blankly at the TV screen as we left the room and I followed his wife up the stairs.
‘We haven’t changed anything since Anna left home,’ she told me. ‘In her room, I mean. We’ve kept it just the way it was, you know … in case she wanted to stay over when she visited.’
‘How old was she when she left?’ I asked.
‘Seventeen. She’s a very independent-minded girl.’
‘Did she visit very often?’
‘This is it,’ Mrs Gerrish said, ignoring my question as she opened a door, turned on the light, and ushered me inside.
When I stepped into that room, I really thought that she’d made a mistake and shown me into the wrong daughter’s room, a daughter that she hadn’t told me about … a daughter who was twelve years old. Because that’s what it looked like — the bedroom of a twelve-year-old girl. Pink wallpaper, Mickey Mouse curtains, furniture that belonged in a doll’s house. There was a little wooden chair with flowers painted on it, a minuscule dressing table, a single bed made up with crisp white sheets and embroidered blankets. There were frilly things all over the place, velvety cushions, brightly coloured ribbons. And there were teddy bears and stuffed animals everywhere — lined up on the bed, sitting on chairs, perched on top of a wardrobe. The only non-sugary-sweet thing in the room was a sleek black laptop on a table beside the bed.
‘This is Anna’s old room?’ I said, trying to keep the disbelief from my voice.
‘Yes … she liked to keep it neat.’
‘And she slept in here until she was seventeen?’
‘That’s right,’ Helen said, crossing the room towards a rack of plastic shelves standing against the wall. ‘Yes, here they are … Anna’s photographs.’ She started looking through a collection of framed photographs positioned neatly on the shelves. All of the pictures were of Anna: Anna when she was a child, Anna when she was six or seven, Anna when she was twelve, thirteen, fourteen. I could hear Helen muttering to herself as she searched through the photos. ‘I think we’ve got some recent ones here … I’m sure Graham framed some and brought them up …’
I wandered slowly towards her, looking around as I went, still unable to believe my eyes. ‘Did she decorate the room herself?’ I asked.
‘Who, Anna? Goodness me, no. Graham would never have allowed that. He does all the DIY in this house. He’s very good with his hands, is Graham.’