Dance of Ghosts by Kevin Brooks Read Free Book Online

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 hadassured 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 asneer 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 theplace, 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