Dance of Ghosts by Kevin Brooks Page B

quite seven o’clock, and the grey light of day was only just beginning to creep through the windows. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp and cold. A blustery autumn wind was rattling the glass in the kitchen window.
    My body had stiffened up during the night, and it took me a while to get out of bed and start getting ready for the day, but after I’d been through the usual routine – bathroom, coffee, painkillers, cigarette, toast, eggs, coffee, cigarette, bathroom – well, I didn’t actually feel any better, but I certainly didn’t feel any worse.
    For the next half-hour or so, I busied myself doing not very much, then at eight o’clock I called Ada at home.
    ‘What?’ she answered bluntly.
    ‘And a very good morning to you, too,’ I said.
    ‘What’s good about it? And why are you calling me so early?’
    ‘I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be coming in this morning, that’s all. Is it OK if I leave everything to you?’
    ‘You
always
leave everything to me.’
    ‘Yeah, I know. I just meant –’
    ‘I know what you meant, John,’ she said gently. ‘Of
course
it’s all right. Where are you going to be if I need to get in touch?’
    ‘I’ve got a meeting with Bishop at 11.30, and I want to try and see Cal before I go.’
    ‘Bishop called you then?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘He’s a nasty fucker, isn’t he?’
    ‘Yep.’
    I heard her lighting a cigarette. ‘So how did it go last night? Did you find anything at Anna’s flat?’
    I gave Ada a brief rundown of what I’d found out about Anna – the heroin, the prostitution, the possibility that her father might have abused her – but I didn’t mention anything about the Renault or the beating.
    ‘So,’ Ada said when I’d finished. ‘What do you think it all means?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘Maybe it doesn’t mean anything.’
    ‘Apart from the fact that her life was a fucking mess.’
    ‘Yeah, I suppose …’
    ‘Why are you talking like that?’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘All lispy and puffy.’
    ‘Puffy?’
    ‘You said
thuppothe
. It sounds like you’ve got a mouth full of cotton wool.’
    I ran my tongue over my split lip. ‘Uh, yeah … it’s just a … it’s nothing. Just a cut lip. I’ll tell you about it later on.’
    ‘Ooh,’ she mocked. ‘I can’t wait.’
    ‘Yeah … well, I’ll probably get back to the office some time this afternoon, OK?’
    ‘All right.’
    At about half past eight, just as I was about to leave, I heard the sound of raised voices upstairs. Bridget and Dave, arguing. I couldn’t make out most of the words, but I could hear the tone of the emotions: anger, frustration, placation, pleas –
You don’t understand … I do … No, you don’t
…
    After a while, the argument subsided and a low sobbing began. Bridget, crying. A few minutes later, angry footsteps came thudding down the stairs, the front door opened, then slammed shut. Dave Dave, storming out.
    I waited until I’d heard his car start up and pull away, with the inevitable screech of tyres, then I opened my door and went out into the hallway. I could still hear Bridget crying quietly, and just for a moment – a very brief moment – I found myself gazing up the stairs, wondering if maybe I should go up there and …
    And what?
I asked myself.
    Comfort her?
    Hold her?
    Tell her she’s better off without him?
    I shook my head, locked my door, and left.
*
    Cal Franks had at least four mobile phones, maybe more. There were his two ‘regular’ phones, which he used for straightforward, everyday calls. There was another which he’d fitted with some kind of signal booster, in case of poor reception. And then there was his ‘special’ phone, which – according to Cal – was totally anonymous, impossible to listen in to, and completely untraceable.
    I didn’t know what he used this special phone for, and I didn’t want to know.
    I’d already called him on one of his regular numbers before I left that morning to see