by Tim Weaver
‘Hold on a min–’
‘No, you hold on a minute.’ He lowered his voice. He must have been in another room, trying to keep the conversation away from her. ‘Don’t ever accuse my wife of trying to get in the way of finding Meg.’
‘I didn’t accuse her of –’
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t. I know you did. I’m paying you to be an investigator, not some amateur-hour psychologist.’
‘Just let me explain.’
‘You really believe Caroline doesn’t want her found?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then what the hell are you playing at?’
I paused, let him calm down for a moment. ‘She seemed hesitant.’
‘About what?’
‘About everything.’
‘Our daughter has been missing six months. You know what that’s like? You know what that does to you? No, you don’t. You’ve got no idea.’
I didn’t reply. Let him feel like he’d had his victory.
‘Are you going to apologize?’
‘Listen, James … I don’t know either of you well, but I went with a gut reaction and if it turns out to be wrong, then I’ll apologize.’
‘You insulted her. Do you understand what I’m telling you?’
‘It won’t happen again.’
‘No, it won’t.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I think we should call it a day.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I want you off this. We entrusted you with the most precious thing in our life, gave you money, all you’d need to get the job done. But you’ve destroyed my confidence in you, David. And you’ve insulted my wife. I won’t have that. I won’t have you speak to her like that.’
‘This is ridiculous.’
‘Put Megan’s things in an envelope and mail them to us. Whatever you have found out so far, please put it down on paper and include that too. The last thing Caroline needs now is to see you at the house again. I will pay you for the three days you have done, and an extra day as a goodwill gesture. Not that you deserve any goodwill from us.’
‘Don’t you think this is a little extreme?’
He hung up.
11
At 2 a.m., something woke me. For a moment, the noise was distant and distorted, just a sound on the edge of my sleep. Then, when I opened my eyes, I saw my mobile was gently vibrating on the bedside cabinet. I reached over and scooped it up.
‘Hello?’
‘David?’
I rubbed an eye. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s Jill.’
It took me a couple of seconds to realize it was Jill from the support group.
‘I’m so sorry to call you like this.’
‘Uh …’ I looked at the clock again. She really is calling me at two o’clock in the morning. ‘Uh, no problem.’
‘I tried Aron, but he’s not answering. I think he’s away with work tonight. I tried a police friend of Frank’s too, but he’s not answering either. I didn’t know who else to call. I guess I just thought, because of your job, you might know what to … to, uh …’
I sat up in bed, still feeling a little woozy. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m so sorry to wake you.’
‘No, no – don’t worry.’
‘It’s just … I don’t know who else to …’
‘Really,’ I said, flicking on a bedside lamp, my brain working over the reasons she might be calling, ‘don’t worry. What’s the matter?’
‘I’m, uh …’ She paused. The more awake I became, the more distressed she started to sound. ‘There’s, uh …’
‘What?’
A pause. ‘I think someone’s watching my house.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘There’s someone across the street. He’s just been sitting in his car all evening, looking across at my house. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Is he still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay,’ I said, and turned around in bed, flipping back the sheets. She wants you to come over. ‘Uh, would you like me to come over?’
‘Oh, thank you.’
Her voice wobbled. She was scared.
‘Where do you live?’ She gave me the address. ‘Make sure all the doors and windows are locked. If you’re unsure, at any time, call the police. I’ll be there as fast as I can.’
The night was cool. On the drive over I had the heaters on full blast, rain spattering against the windscreen the whole way. Her road was narrow, cars parked on either side. She’d told me she had a black door, but in the darkness every door looked black. I found a space about halfway down the road, got out and saw I was about ten houses away. I scanned the street for any sign of someone watching her place, but it was difficult in the rain. Gutters were filling. Water pelted off glass and bodywork. Visibility was low.
There were no lights on in her house. I knocked twice, then turned and looked up and down the street again, this time from under the protection of her porch. Lots of cars. No sign of anyone sitting inside one.
The door opened.
Jill was dressed in tracksuit trousers and a big baggy fleece. Her eyes wandered past me, to a spot on my right. I turned and followed her gaze. There was no one there. When I looked back at her, I could see the confusion in her face.
‘He’s gone,’ she said quietly.
I looked back out at the street again.
‘Seems that way.’
‘But he’s been there all night.’ She looked at me, then out into the street. ‘He was sitting there in a red car. I think it was a Ford.’
I didn’t say anything. She wasn’t crazy, and I doubted she was seeing things. But being on your own changed things. Small things. Knowing someone else was in the house with you was a security blanket, even if – ultimately – you were just as vulnerable as ever. She looked at me and tears formed in the corners of her eyes.
‘I wasted your time.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Not at all.’
‘I must be going mad.’
‘No,’ I repeated, and touched a hand to the top of her arm. ‘You aren’t mad. He could have been watching another house. He could have been a cop. Or a government agent. Or maybe they think you’re a terrorist.’
A smile. ‘That makes me feel much better.’
She glanced at me, brought her hand up to her face, then looked down at herself. In her eyes, now the tension had passed, I could see what she was thinking: Why the hell did I answer the door dressed like this?
‘Would you like to come in for some tea or a coffee or something?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Coffee would be great.’
Her house was small but modern; a show home ripped from the pages of a magazine. There were beautiful wooden floors running through to the living room, where a thick rug sat beneath a beech-and-glass table piled with glossy books. An original brick fireplace dominated one wall, a wood-burning stove perched in it. Opposite were two bookcases, filled with classics, either side of a black flatscreen TV. DVDs were piled up underneath, most of them foreign language. It didn’t look like we’d be discussing the action scenes in Predator any time soon. She pointed to one of two cream leather sofas, and disappeared into the kitchen.
There were photographs of her husband on some of the bookcase shelves, and again on the mantelpiece above the fire. I walked over and picked one up. They were at a police get-together somewhere. She was in a flowery summer dress, her hair up. He had his arm around her, and was dressed in full uniform, two silver stars on his shoulder. I put the photograph back on the mantelpiece just as Jill brought two cups of coffee through, setting them down on the table. She perched herself on the other sofa.
‘Your husband was an inspector,’ I said.
‘You know your police stripes.’
‘Was he a detective?’
‘Yes. He worked for Thames Valley before he moved to the Met. That’s when we came up to London.’
‘He was a cop the whole time you we
re married?’
‘The whole time,’ she said, pouring milk into her cup. After she was done, she lifted a necklace out from her top. There was a small silver angel dangling from the end, a long spear in one hand. ‘This is St Michael.’
‘The patron saint of policemen.’
‘Right.’ She smiled. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘I got to know the police pretty well as a journalist.’
‘It was Frank’s. I was going to bury him with it, but in the end preferred the idea of keeping it close to me. It seemed …’ She slowly stirred her drink. ‘It just seemed right.’
I nodded that I understood.
A thin smile worked its way across her face. ‘Sometimes I still buy his favourite food when I go to the supermarket. I still leave the key in the wall out back, just in case he comes home. I guess … I guess I can’t accept he’s gone.’
‘Do you mind if I ask what happened to him?’
She frowned. Looked at me for a moment. Then, as she blinked, her eyes filled up. She wiped them and sat back on the sofa, both hands wrapped around her coffee cup. ‘They told me he was part of a task force looking into Russian organized crime. There was some link up with … is it SOCA?’
I nodded. The Serious Organized Crime Agency. In my previous life as a journalist, I’d had a couple of contacts inside the National Criminal Intelligence Service, which later became part of SOCA. At the time it came into being in 2006, the media labelled it ‘the British FBI’, but as few of its officers had the power to arrest, and most of their work was surveillance and co-ordination, they were closer to the MI5 model.
She shifted, sadness welling in her eyes. ‘A couple of weeks after the funeral, one of his friends came here.’
‘Off the record presumably?’
‘Oh yes, definitely. I think he felt sorry for me. The way in which things had been … communicated. I mean, I tried to find out what happened to Frank in the weeks after his death, but the official version his bosses gave me, it just never …’
‘Never felt right.’
‘It just felt like there were gaps still to be filled.’
‘How do you mean?’
She shrugged. ‘They told me they were closing in on a big figure in one of the Russian gangs, and they’d been given a tip-off that he might be at a warehouse in Bow.’
‘And was he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘They didn’t tell you?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Because they wanted to contain the case?’
‘Right. But I knew enough about police work to understand that. I didn’t want to know the details of the investigation, I just wanted to know what had happened to Frank, and who killed him.’ She took a few moments to find her feet again. ‘All they told me was that he and another officer were shot in the chest.’
‘By who – this Russian guy?’
‘They said it happened fast.’
‘So they didn’t know?’
Her voice wavered. ‘Officially, they said they didn’t.’
‘And unofficially?’
She paused for a moment. ‘Frank’s friend said the big figure they were after was a man called Akim Gobulev.’
Gobulev. ‘The Ghost.’
She glanced at me. ‘You’ve heard of him?’
‘He’s been on SOCA’s most wanted list for the entire time it’s been in existence.’
‘Why do they call him “The Ghost”?’
‘Because no one’s even sure if he’s alive.’
‘Oh.’
‘The NCIS used to joke that Gobulev was either buried somewhere, or had the power to turn invisible. They pinned stuff on him – trafficking, prostitution, drugs, money-laundering – but no one has seen him in years. The only evidence he even exists is an entry in a computer at Heathrow over a decade ago. He landed on a flight from Moscow – and then vanished into thin air.’
‘Frank’s friend said they were closing in on him.’
‘Really?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘Gobulev was the guy at the warehouse?’
She picked up her cup of coffee again. ‘No, I don’t think so. He said he’d heard from some guys on the task force that this Gobulev man had had surgery.’
‘What kind of surgery?’
‘I’m not sure. But they’d found his surgeon.’
I sat forward in my seat. ‘And that was who was in the warehouse?’
‘Yes.’
‘Gobulev’s surgeon killed Frank?’
‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘His friend said the task force didn’t know much about the surgeon, but they went to that warehouse to get him – and then use him to get Gobulev.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘I think that’s all he knew.’
‘Did he know the surgeon’s name?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
She quickly wiped a tear away with a finger; but then a second one followed, breaking free and running down her cheek.
‘I’m really sorry, Jill,’ I said gently.
Eventually she looked up, an apologetic expression on her face. She was conscious of embarrassing me, but couldn’t do anything to stop herself crying. I watched her for a moment, studying her, turning things over in my head.
‘Look, I’ll tell you what: I’ll make a few calls for you and see if I can find out anything more. I can’t promise anything.’
‘David, you don’t have to –’
‘It’s fine. I have another case, and that one has to take precedence. But after I’m done with that, I’ll ask around for you, okay?’
She nodded, choked up on tears.
‘It might be … it might be painful, some of it.’
‘I know,’ she said gently. ‘But it can’t be any more painful than not knowing.’
I got back from Jill’s at four o’clock. The rubbish bin I always kept at the front of the house had been tipped over, black bin liners spilling out across the pathway – and the sliding door at the front porch was open. I tried the front door.
It was still locked.
Backing out, I did a quick circuit of the house. Nothing was out of place. No sign of any disturbance. I often left the porch door open, without ever noticing; and, as I got back around to the front, a cat darted out from the shadows, across my lawn and out on to the street. It had some food in its mouth, removed from a hole in one of the spilt bin liners. I put the bags back inside the bin, and headed to bed.
12
After staying out until 4 a.m. the previous night, I slept late. By the time I was showered and fed, it was almost midday. I headed into the office.
I didn’t use it anywhere near as much as I once did. At the start, it had been a way to separate my home life from my work life. A way to legitimize my career. Now Derryn was gone, it was just an expensive inconvenience, and I was thirty days away from watching the lease lapse. Once that happened, I’d work out of the house permanently, and another little piece of my previous life would have washed away.
Swivelling in my chair, I looked up at the corkboard behind me. A wall full of the missing. Right at the top was Megan Carver. I stood and pulled the picture out, then sat down again and studied her. What’s going on, Megan? What’s your mum hiding? I turned gently in the chair, tracing the shape of her face; letting my mind turn over.
A couple of seconds later, my phone burst into life.
I looked at the display. NUMBER WITHHELD. Pulling it towards me, I switched to speaker phone.
‘David Raker.’
No response.
‘David Raker,’ I said, louder.
No sound at all. No static, no background noise.
I sat forward in my seat. ‘Hello?’
Just silence.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Raker …’ A soft voice. Female. ‘It’s Kaitlin.’
‘Kaitlin?’
‘You said to call you if I … ’
I glanced at t
he photograph of Megan. Things have changed, I should have said. But then I remembered the way Kaitlin had been when I’d gone to the school, and realized a part of me wanted to find out what she had to say.
‘I, uh … There’s something …’
‘It’s okay, Kaitlin.’
‘Something you should know.’
‘Okay.’
‘About Megan.’ A pause. A long one. ‘I’m just sick of having to lie.’
More silence. For a moment, all I could hear was the slight crackle of her breath against the mouthpiece.
Then, finally, she spoke.
The Carvers’ gates were closed when I pulled up outside. I’d tried calling ahead, but no one had answered. I locked the BMW, stepped up to the intercom and pressed the buzzer. They had a small camera embedded in the number pad. I looked into it. It was moving from left to right, then – as it got to me – stopped. A crackle on the intercom.
‘What do you want?’
James Carver.
‘I need to speak to you.’
‘We’ve got nothing more to say to one another.’
‘You’re going to want to hear this.’
The camera hummed. This time, in its centre, I could see the lens open up. He was zooming in on me. I stared straight into the eye of it.
Then the gates buzzed open.
Carver met me at the door, but didn’t offer me anything to drink. Didn’t even ask me in. The two of them stood in the doorway, arms crossed, defensive, waiting for whatever I had to say. Carver was in front of his wife, protecting her, as if he thought I might try to start something.
‘I got a call this morning,’ I said, keeping my eyes fixed on him. ‘From Kaitlin – Megan’s friend. Did the police ever tell you what she said in her statement?’
‘What’s this got to do with anything?’
‘Did they?’
Anger flared in his eyes. ‘She was the last person to see Megan.’ He paused, a flutter of sadness in among the irritation. ‘That’s it.’
For the first time, I glanced at Caroline. Her eyes were fixed on mine, but there wasn’t any of the animosity of her husband.