The David Raker Collection

by Tim Weaver

  I glanced both ways to make sure I wasn’t being watched, then pulled myself up and over. I stood for a second, looking along the house, grass squelching beneath my feet.

  The smell was stronger now.

  There were two windows and a single door on this side of the house. The first window looked in at the kitchen. Semi dark. Wooden cupboards, metal finishes. A picture of Charlie Bryant’s mum on top of the microwave in a green frame. Everything was clean. Nothing was out of place. The next window was for a toilet. Air freshener on the windowsill. Frosted glass made it difficult to see anything else. I moved to the door and, through a glass panel, saw it led into a pokey utility room. Washing machine. Tumble dryer. Fridge freezer. A wine rack full of wine bottles. Boots and shoes lined up next to a tray full of dog food. It was squirming with insects.

  I moved quickly around to the back.

  The garden was small and surrounded on all sides by high wooden fences. Huge fir trees lined the back wall. It was very sheltered and very private. The back of the house had a big window and a set of patio doors. Cupping my hands against the glass of the doors, I could see into a long room that ran all the way to the front of the house. Leather sofas. Bookcases. Modern art on the walls. A TV surrounded by DVDs, with a games console slotted in underneath. As I stepped away from the glass, the patio door shifted slightly. It was open.

  I reached for the handle and slid it across.

  And the smell hit me.

  It spilled out of the living room on to the patio, like a wave crashing. As it did, a feeling of dread began to slither through my chest. I put my hand to my mouth and stepped into the house. It was as quiet as a cemetery. Hardly any noise at all, except for the hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

  ‘Mr Bryant?’

  I waited, didn’t expect an answer, and didn’t get one.

  ‘Charlie?’

  No reply. No movement. No sound at all.

  I headed for the stairs. The smell got stronger as I moved up. At the top I could hear a tap dripping. Nothing looked out of place in any of the rooms I could see into. Only the fourth door was closed. Bluebottles buzzed around the top of the frame, sluggish and dozy in the airless house. I pulled the sleeve down on my coat, over my fingers, and then wrapped my covered hand around the door handle.

  Slowly, I opened it.

  It was a small room. Maybe ten feet by ten feet. The curtains were partially drawn but – through the gap – I could see down to the side of the house. Inside it was warm, suffocating, and there were more flies at the glass and more insects crawling through the carpet. The family dog was in the corner of the room, a gaping wound in its side. In front, lying exactly parallel to one another, were Charlie Bryant and his father.

  They were both dead.

  His father was face down, arms tied behind his back with duct tape. Blood had spread out beneath him. Now it was dry and the carpet fibres were rigid. His skin had a green tinge to it, and there were maggots wriggling out from beneath his face.

  Across from him was his son.

  Charlie faced up to the ceiling, his chest awash in blood. Somehow, in death, he seemed younger than seventeen. I stepped further into the room. His legs were over to one side, bent in an A-shape. He’d been tied at the ankles as well. His mouth was slightly open, almost in a cry for help. And his eyes were the same.

  Begging his killer to stop.

  17

  I called the police and waited for them at the front. They arrived ten minutes later. Once the whole place was cordoned off, the scenes of crime officer asked me to retrace my footsteps in and out of the property. When a route was established, tents were erected at the side and the rear, and it became the route everybody used. No one deviated from the line. Despite the rain, they wanted to try to preserve as much evidence as they could.

  After that, a uniform walked me out to the front of the house, where a second officer was standing with a clipboard, recording anyone entering and leaving. At the front gate, police tape flapped, twisting and whipping in the wind. ‘Here,’ one of them said and handed me an umbrella. I put it up. ‘Someone will come for you in a bit.’

  Fifty minutes later, two CID officers emerged from the side of the house. One was in his late thirties, dark hair, slim and lithe, dressed smartly in a black raincoat, black suit and salmon tie. The other was bigger, older and greyer, in his early fifties. He hadn’t made such an effort: a dirty brown jacket, jeans, a thick red woollen top and a pair of white trainers. The younger one led the way towards me. He had the air of a man in charge.

  ‘Mr Raker?’

  I nodded. He was Scottish.

  ‘I’m DCI Phillips,’ he said, and pointed to his partner. ‘This is DS Davidson. We need to have a chat. We can do it here, in the middle of this mayhem, or we can do it back at the station, where I can offer you a cup of coffee and something to eat.’

  He spoke softly, in a controlled tone, and had his hands laced together at his front in an almost respectful gesture, the fingers of his right occasionally turning the wedding band on his left. But I could see it for what it was: an act. He was trying to tell me he was a reasonable man. Someone I could trust and confide in. But a different man existed beneath the surface.

  ‘Mr Raker?’ he repeated.

  ‘Am I under arrest?’

  Beside Phillips, Davidson snorted. I glanced at him. He wasn’t as good at the drama as his partner. He stood slightly back, his stance more aggressive. Small, dark eyes. Arms folded. Head tilted, as if he was looking down his nose at me.

  ‘Arrest?’ said Phillips, and briefly turned to his partner. ‘Why would we want to arrest you? You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?’

  When I didn’t reply he seemed to realize his usual methods weren’t going to work on me. Maybe we were interested in the same things. Maybe we’d both read the same books. I’d spent years trying to understand people better; trying to find ways to see past the lies. The politicians, the celebrities, the headline-makers. He’d probably done the same. Trying to get inside the heads of the worst humanity could dredge up.

  ‘Why don’t you follow me?’ he asked quietly, eyes lingering on me.

  I was half tempted to say no and walk away, but refusing would make me look suspicious. I wasn’t legally obliged to go, but I didn’t need them digging around in my case and I definitely didn’t need them thinking I had something to hide. They’d want to bag what I was wearing, so I told them I’d go with them once I got some spare clothes from the BMW.

  After I was done, it was a quiet, fifteen-minute journey to the station. Davidson sat in the back with me while Phillips drove. Neither of them said anything. As we moved south through Camden, I began to put things together in my head. A plan. An approach. I imagined how they would come at me. I doubted they seriously thought I was the killer, but, at the moment, I was their only lead.

  The station was an old 1970s building, with a horrible industrial look. Part factory, part prison block. Phillips pulled into a parking bay and killed the engine. Two spaces down I noticed a sign had been nailed to the wall: RESERVED FOR DCI HART. Jamie Hart. The lead on the Megan Carver case.

  This isn’t coincidence.

  They would have discovered the link between Charlie and Megan months ago. The only question now was: How much did they know beyond that?

  ‘Wait there a second,’ Phillips said to Davidson as we were getting out. ‘I left my phone in my car.’ Davidson nodded and we both watched Phillips move across the car park to where a battered red Mondeo was parked. He flipped the locks, fiddled around in the glove compartment and then returned to us with his mobile phone. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

  The two of them led me inside to a small, cramped waiting area, with a raised front desk that looked down over everything. The custody sergeant – early sixties, with silver hair and half-moon glasses – was sitting there, filling in some paperwork. His eyes flicked up to watch as we approached.

  ‘Aren’t you dead yet?’ Davidson said
. It was the first time he’d spoken. He had a broad East End accent.

  The sergeant smirked. ‘You’ll be dead before me, Eddie. I mean, just look at what you’re wearing. No way the fashion police are going to take that lying down.’

  Phillips burst out laughing.

  ‘Who have we got here?’ he asked, looking at me.

  ‘He’s just here for a chat,’ Phillips replied.

  The sergeant nodded, reached for a button under the desk and then went back to what he was doing. A codelocked door to our left buzzed, and we moved through into a thin corridor. On my right was a big, open-plan office, ‘CID’ printed on the door. Further down the corridor, in front of me, were four interview rooms. Phillips pointed towards Room 1.

  As he opened the door, two strip lights flickered into life above us. The inside was stark. White walls, a dark blue carpet, no windows. A table, two chairs on one side, one on the other. Everything was bolted down, and there was a crash bar midway up the wall on all four sides of the room in case anything kicked off and one of the officers needed to raise the alarm. Next to the door was an intercom. Once the door had locked shut, that was how you got back out. Not exactly the cosy chat Phillips had promised.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Black coffee.’

  He nodded, then disappeared.

  Davidson watched me from the open doorway as I sat down. He didn’t look like the type for polite conversation, so I drummed my fingers on the table as we waited in silence. It seemed to annoy him, which I liked. Phillips re-emerged after ten minutes with three cups of coffee and pushed the door closed. It was on a slow spring and took an age to click shut. Neither of them moved until it had. Once it locked, there was a gentle buzz, both of them sat down and we began.

  18

  In the business, this was called a ‘voluntary attendance’. I wasn’t under arrest, so I didn’t need a solicitor, and I could get up and leave whenever I wanted. But even here there were rules. Number one was covering your ass. The first thing Phillips did was pass a form across the table towards me that confirmed I was here voluntarily. I read it over and signed it. Davidson slouched in his chair, resting his coffee cup on his belly.

  ‘Okay,’ Phillips said, both hands flat to the table. ‘Let’s establish a few ground rules here, so there are no grey areas. You’re not under arrest and we haven’t charged you with anything. You’re helping us with our enquiries. We have no legal responsibility to inform a lawyer you’re here, but if you want a lawyer, you can make that call.’

  They both looked at me. Phillips genuinely didn’t seem to care whether I called anyone or not, as if it made no difference to the opinion he’d already formed of me. Davidson looked like he’d take it personally. If I called a lawyer, it would immediately cement his view that I was involved in something.

  ‘Do you want to call a lawyer, Mr Raker?’

  I shook my head. ‘No. I’m good.’

  ‘Great.’ Phillips wrapped his hands around the coffee. Steam rose from the oily surface. ‘Well, let’s start at the beginning then. What were you doing at the house?’

  ‘I’m on a case.’

  Davidson snorted. ‘Case?’

  I looked at him and then back to Phillips. ‘I work missing persons, including kids who have disappeared. Charlie Bryant was linked to the case I’m currently on.’

  ‘Linked how?’

  ‘He knew the girl I’m trying to find.’

  Phillips nodded. He started turning his wedding band. A flash of that same steel in his eyes, as if he knew what was coming. ‘Who are you trying to find?’

  I paused, looked between them and then leaned forward. ‘Megan Carver.’

  Davidson snorted again. ‘You gotta be fucking kidding me.’ Next to him, Phillips didn’t move. Davidson sat forward, placing his coffee cup down in front of him. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since five days ago.’

  ‘Why did they come to you?’

  I shrugged. ‘I guess her parents felt like the police investigation had hit a wall. You guys would probably know better than me if that’s true.’

  Davidson’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean, DCI Hart’s in the next room,’ I said, staring at him. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

  A short pause.

  Then, Phillips again: ‘You made any headway?’

  ‘Some. Not much. Mostly I’ve been going back over ground Hart and his team were covering six months ago.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like everything. Family, friends, her school.’

  ‘So you turned up at the Bryant house because … ?’

  ‘Because, as you know, Charlie Bryant used to go out with Megan.’

  And because he knew she was pregnant.

  Phillips was staring at me, his expression fixed, his body still. He didn’t seem surprised by any of this. Next to him, his partner was twitchy and aggressive, his fingers tapping the plastic coffee cup, his body shifting in the chair.

  ‘Things must have been getting a bit desperate,’ Davidson said eventually. I glanced at him, frowning. ‘I mean, you don’t break into someone’s house if a case hasn’t already started going south.’

  ‘You sound like you’re speaking from experience.’

  Davidson’s skin started to redden. I could see a corner of Phillips’s mouth turn up in a smile.

  ‘Nothing was going south,’ I said.

  ‘So why did you break into their house?’

  ‘There’s no sign of a break-in anywhere in that house. You know the back door was unlocked. The only thing I did was scale the gate.’

  ‘Trespass, you mean?’

  ‘Which would you prefer? Me jump over that gate, or those two bodies lie in that house for another two weeks? Or a month? Or a year?’

  ‘Still doesn’t make it legal.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. Better that they stayed like that until the room filled with blowflies.’ I picked up my coffee cup. ‘Better that the police never get to find out why someone would want to murder a seventeen-year-old.’

  Davidson’s face reddened again.

  ‘So why would someone want to murder a seventeen-year-old?’ Phillips asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  He eyed me. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. I told you: I’ve been on this case for less than a week.’

  ‘You been sitting on your hands for a week, then?’

  Davidson again. The colour had started to fade from his cheeks, but he still looked pissed off. I watched him. Eventually he sighed, as if my silence somehow confirmed what he’d said, and turned his attention back to the coffee cup resting on his belly.

  ‘Charlie didn’t seem a prime candidate for a murder victim,’ Phillips said.

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘So why would someone do that to him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And his father.’

  I shrugged. I don’t know.

  ‘Do you think this is related to Megan Carver?’

  It was obvious he’d already decided the answer for himself, and I realized that a red flag had just gone up again on the Carver investigation. I could have lied to them both from the start and pretended I hadn’t been led to the Bryant house through Megan’s disappearance, but none of us would have believed it. What was definitely obvious was that they’d be pulling Jamie Hart into a meeting room as soon as I left the building.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s related to Megan,’ I said eventually.

  Davidson snorted again. ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘Shall I make something up?’

  ‘All right,’ Phillips said softly, and placed a hand on his partner’s arm. ‘DS Davidson, why don’t you take five minutes?’

  Davidson’s eyes lingered on me before getting up and leaving the room. Phillips waited for the door to click shut, then turned back to me.

  ‘You were a journalist, is that right?’

 
I stared at him. So that was why you took so long to get the coffees. He’d spent some time going through my history. After my last case, I’d had to sit in a police station giving interviews for two days. Everything I’d told them over those forty-eight hours would be logged in their database for him to find. He’d know about me, about my background, about my cases.

  ‘Why the career change?’

  I shrugged. ‘Why not?’

  ‘You didn’t enjoy journalism?’

  ‘I enjoyed it up until my wife got cancer.’

  ‘Is she still around?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said gently. He waited for a moment, once again laying both hands flat to the table. ‘You know the Carver disappearance is an ongoing investigation, right? Her parents told you that, I expect.’

  ‘I’m not sure it makes much difference to them.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Megan hasn’t been found. That’s all they care about.’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what game you’re playing here – but it’s not me against you. It’s not me against anyone. I’m trying to find Megan Carver, just like DCI Hart was trying to find her.’

  ‘But you can see how your presence complicates things?’

  ‘How does it complicate things? Hart stopped calling the Carvers when the case hit a wall. You should be talking to him, not me.’

  He rubbed a couple of fingers against his forehead, as if he were trying to reason with a child. ‘Truth is, David, you’ve – whether unwittingly or not – stepped into a situation here – and I need you to step back out again.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I need you to drop the Carver case.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  He sighed. ‘I’m asking you as a favour.’

  ‘A favour?’ I sat back in my seat and studied him. His eyes were dark, focused, looking right at me. ‘Have you got a lead?’

  ‘I can’t talk to you about that.’