The David Raker Collection

by Tim Weaver

  Throwing away half the mail he’d opened up, he pulled his appointment diary down from the in-tray and turned to 3 November. His days were divided up into hour-long sessions, and the day was full, from 8 a.m. through to 1 p.m., and 2 p.m. through to 6 p.m. First up was a name he definitely didn’t recognize: Sykes. Probably a new patient. He turned to his computer, logged into his e-diary and clicked on the entry for 8 a.m. marked ‘Sykes’. His medical history came up. Broken arm at nine. Fractured wrist at seventeen. Nondescript doctor’s appointments throughout the course of the rest of his life until a fortnight ago when he’d returned five times over the course of a ten-day period complaining of insomnia, anxiety attacks, severe chest pains and problems concentrating at work. Markham scrolled down and clicked on the GP’s referral letter. The patient had been given a medical on his last visit to the surgery, and nothing had been found. Physically, he was fine. Markham’s two-second diagnosis was depression.

  On the desk, his phone started ringing.

  He picked up. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Sykes is here for you,’ his secretary said.

  Markham looked at the clock on the wall. It was just before eight.

  ‘Okay. Send him in.’

  He moved across to where two sofas were sitting in an L-shape in the corner of the room. They faced a tilting, high-backed leather chair. In between was a coffee table with a series of heavy, and largely tedious, books he’d picked up from a market for a tenner. He wanted the room to seem less like an office in a sprawling, faceless hospital and more like a place to feel at home.

  Two knocks at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  Mr Sykes entered. He was in his late thirties and six foot, but looked much shorter. He was stooped, almost curved from the middle of his spine. Brown hair, dark eyes, a couple of days of stubble and a tired expression. Markham studied him: some of it was the lack of sleep, but not all. He carried a kind of sadness with him. ‘Mr Sykes?’

  He nodded. ‘Dr Markham.’

  ‘Please,’ Markham said, pointing to the sofas. ‘Take a seat.’

  Sykes nodded his thanks, and looked around the office, sitting down on the nearest sofa. He perched himself on the edge, legs together at the knees, looking nervous.

  ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ Sykes replied, glancing briefly at Markham and away again. He had the look many had on entering the office for the first time: a mix of expectation and terror.

  Markham sat in the leather chair. ‘So what brings you here today?’

  Sykes nodded. Hesitated. ‘I, uh …’ He stopped, looked around the office again. Drummed his fingers on his knees. ‘I haven’t been feeling right.’

  Markham nodded. ‘In what way?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve slept for about six weeks now. Not properly.’

  ‘Has something been bothering you?’

  Sykes looked up. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lots of things. Lots of different things. I’m worrying so much I’m having anxiety attacks – these great big waves of panic rushing through me.’

  ‘What’s been worrying you?’

  ‘I get these chest pains,’ Sykes said, his eyes fixed on a space behind Markham. Almost no eye contact so far. ‘Physically, they can’t find anything wrong, but I can feel something eating away at me from the inside.’

  Markham paused. ‘Okay. Let’s take a couple of steps back. What is it you do?’

  Sykes looked up briefly. ‘I kind of freelance.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Dealing with people.’

  ‘You’re a manager?’

  ‘No. I observe and then I act.’

  Markham frowned. ‘Why don’t you elaborate?’

  ‘I can’t concentrate on my work, on anything in my life. I sit there all day, looking at my computer screen, and all I can see is her face looking back at me.’

  ‘Who are we talking about here?’

  Sykes didn’t reply. He was staring down into his lap, his fingers on his knees, one of his legs vibrating gently, his shoe tap-tapping against the carpet.

  ‘Mr Sykes?’

  No response. Markham leaned forward.

  ‘Who is it you can see looking back?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Mr Sykes? Whose face can you see?’

  A second later, like a light cutting out, Sykes went completely still. He continued looking down into his lap, the fingers of each hand resting on either knee.

  ‘Mr Sykes?’ Markham leaned forward even further, trying to get an angle where he could see Sykes’s face more clearly. ‘Who can you see?’

  Slowly, Sykes started to move: his fingers slid back along his thighs, his legs loosened up and his body seemed to expand, as if filling with air. Suddenly, every inch of his six-foot frame was visible, shoulders broadening, chest filling out, the curve of the stoop fading away. Markham sat back in his seat, aware – without even really understanding why – that Sykes was transforming into someone else. The nervousness was gone. The lack of confidence. The sense of expectation and uncertainty. Finally, Sykes’s face tilted upwards, eyes fixed on Markham, a smile worming its way across his face. And, in that moment, Markham realized something: it had all been an act.

  ‘You want to know who I can see, Dr Markham?’ he asked, even his voice different now. ‘You want to know who I can see every day looking up at me, terrified, from a hole in my floor?’ He paused. His eyes flashed; as dark as the entrance to a tomb. ‘I can see your wife.’

  57

  There was no noise inside the house. On-screen, Markham had stopped talking and was wiping an eye. He’d just gone over the moment he’d first come into contact with Glass.

  Healy turned to me. ‘Glass kidnapped Markham’s wife?’

  ‘Now we know why no one can find her.’

  We both looked back at Markham. His image was fuzzy, the age of the TV draining colour from his skin. He shifted in his seat as if he couldn’t get comfortable.

  ‘So Markham was just a pawn,’ Healy said.

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘Why? Why would Glass start using Markham?’

  I shook my head. ‘Maybe we’re about to find out.’

  We both looked back at the screen again. Markham was still composing himself. ‘Glass,’ said Healy quietly, as if he’d thought of something. He reached forward and pushed Pause. ‘He had a medical history. You heard Markham. Broken arm, anxiety attacks, chest pains. We can trace him.’

  ‘It won’t be his.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘If Markham had medical records in front of him, they won’t have belonged to Glass. He’s too careful for that. He doesn’t make mistakes.’

  We both went quiet and I pressed Play again.

  ‘Everything after that was a lie,’ Markham said on-screen. ‘But I did it to protect Sue. I couldn’t bear the thought of him hurting her. He kept calling me, saying he’d do all these unspeakable things to her – slice her, and stab her, and cut her. In the days after he first came to my office, I tried to fight back. I tried to find him. But he knew what I was doing; he was watching me the whole time. And I couldn’t find a trace of him. Nothing. His medical records were a sham. His mobile phone number was untraceable.’ He looked around him. ‘He doesn’t even seem to own this shitty house he makes me live in. And about three or four days after he came to see me that first time, just to prove he was really in charge, he called me and made me listen to her begging for her life.’

  A long pause. We waited for Markham to continue.

  ‘I was scared of him, and he knew it. He’d play on it. I’d come back to this house and he would have made tiny adjustments to it, swapped my things around, just to show me he’d been inside. He’d leave new toys on the windowsill, or adjust the position of the mannequins, or leave rubber masks attached to their faces. One time, he left Sue’s blouse in the middle of the living room, with blood all over i
t. That was when I really got scared.’

  He sniffed. Shifted in his seat. I glanced at Healy and saw him slowly rubbing his fingers and thumb together again. This time it wasn’t his craving for nicotine; it was the air of inevitability settling around us. The dread and anticipation that the worst was yet to come. Healy was about to have his heart ripped out.

  ‘So I took three of them,’ Markham said, looking up into the camera. Beside me, I felt Healy bristle. ‘He told me who he wanted me to take, and I took them. Because the alternative was him killing Sue. I was … I just didn’t …’

  Another pause. I turned to look at Healy again. He saw the movement. I could see his eyes flick in my direction and then back to the screen.

  ‘You don’t have to watch this,’ I said.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘I can watch it and tell you what you need to know.’

  ‘I’m watching it,’ he said, teeth gritted.

  On-screen, Markham repositioned himself. He wasn’t a man used to this kind of thing. Even as his eyes filled with tears there was a strange kind of reticence to him, as if he was frightened by everything he was feeling.

  Then he started again: ‘I had a lot of guilt left over after Sue and I divorced. The way she went downhill so fast.’ A pause. ‘I mean, I had her committed. Who commits their own wife?’ He stopped for a second time. ‘And then, when she got out, I didn’t even contact her. I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. I couldn’t face her. Couldn’t deal with her. And I guess he used that. He played on that. He used all the guilt, and made me think I’d never get the chance to say sorry.’

  Healy shook his head. I could smell the sweat on him now.

  ‘So I took Leanne.’

  As Markham spoke her name a subtle change passed across Healy’s face and I realized something: he hurt too deeply to ever get over what he was about to be told. He could get his vengeance, but it would never repair the hole left behind. All the frustration, all the aggression, all the violence to come – ultimately it meant nothing.

  ‘He must have first picked me out through the youth club,’ Markham said. ‘He must have been watching that place – watching Leanne and Megan – and seen me there on a Monday. I had a good relationship with both of them. I suppose they trusted me. I mean …’ He stopped. ‘Why wouldn’t they?’

  I glanced at Healy. He was absolutely still.

  ‘He called Leanne my practice run. I had to make her think I wanted to be with her. Then I had to take her to the woods and give her to him. He told me that if I got found out, if I left anything for anyone to find, he would cut me adrift, and I would never see my wife again.’ Markham looked away for a moment. ‘So that’s what I did. I made Leanne think I liked her. I forced myself into her life. And then, when I had her fooled, I just … fed her to him.’

  ‘Healy,’ I said.

  ‘It stays on.’

  ‘You can –’

  ‘It stays on,’ he spat, turning to face me. In the dull light, something shimmered in one of his eyes. And then he fixed his gaze back on the television as Markham got up from his seat. He sniffed, walked past the camera – and everything turned to black.

  A second later, it started again.

  He moved from behind the camera and headed back to his seat. This time he appeared more composed. ‘I got the sense Megan was more important to him than Leanne. I don’t know why – that was just what it felt like. He planned everything out for Leanne, but he seemed to be even more meticulous with Megan. Maybe it was just that Leanne was easier to get at. She wasn’t very bright and she’d had a disrupted home life. Her mother was having an affair, and her father was never around.’

  I glanced at Healy. Nothing.

  ‘Megan was different. She had wealthy parents, and with wealth comes resources. If she disappeared, they’d use that wealth. They’d use all of it if it meant finding her. Leanne, I just got for him. But Megan came with a set of ground rules.’

  I looked at Healy again. Sweat had soaked through his shirt, under his arms, at his collar. He turned to me, face blank. ‘What does he mean by “ground rules”?’

  ‘I think he means the London Conservation Trust,’ I said, pushing Pause on the VCR. ‘Glass set that up to make himself untraceable. He used bogus newsletters to hide messages in, and the site to give her details of meetings. She thought it was all being sent from Markham – but it wasn’t. It was Glass.’

  ‘And Megan didn’t think it was a bit weird?’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe. But remember, Markham was nearly twenty years older than her. In fact, technically, she wasn’t even an adult yet. Glass probably told him to play on that, made Markham tell her that he had a public-facing job and couldn’t risk any controversy. Markham must have ended up convincing her that it was safer to use the LCT as cover until she turned eighteen – and then they could tell people about their relationship.’

  ‘What the hell was she thinking?’

  ‘He was the first guy she ever fell in love with. Her friend said she’d never been that way about anyone in her life. She just got swept away by it.’

  ‘They never spoke on the phone?’

  ‘I doubt Glass allowed Markham to communicate with Megan in any other form but the LCT. No other emails. No messaging. No phone calls. Nothing traceable. Only face to face at the youth club and via the website. I mean, what would be the point of going to the trouble of setting up the LCT if they had each other’s mobile number?’

  Healy shook his head, reached forward and pushed Play.

  ‘It was going okay with Megan,’ Markham continued, his voice beginning to wobble. ‘I’d managed to convince her that what I felt was genuine, like I had with Leanne. And once she started to believe me, it became easier to fool her about things like the website.’ A pause. Another finger brushed his face, this time closer to his eye. ‘But then the boy turned up at my door, shouting and threatening me and …’ He seemed to shrink a little. ‘I know it sounds stupid, but I think the things he said to me hurt more than anything anyone’s ever said to me in my life. To be called a pervert, a paedophile …’

  Markham looked down into his lap. Sniffed. Silence descended on-screen. Healy glanced at me. ‘Is he talking about the Bryant kid?’

  I nodded. ‘Charlie, yeah.’

  ‘How did the kid know about Markham?’

  I remembered something Kaitlin said to me about Charlie. He was, like, in love with Megan. Totally in love with her. Sometimes he’d go over the top and creep us all out … He’d follow her around.

  ‘He must have been watching her,’ I said. ‘He must have gone to tell Markham to stay away from Megan. Charlie was jealous. But by then it was too late. Megan was in love with Markham – or, at least, the idea of him.’

  Markham cleared his throat, the sound distorting through the speakers on the TV. ‘Maybe he was right about me. Maybe I was a pervert.’ He cleared his throat a second time. Then, as he spoke again, his voice started to tremor. ‘It was an accident,’ he said quietly. ‘It was just an accident. She was supposed to be on the pill.’

  Healy looked at me. ‘Do you think the Bryant kid knew?’

  ‘That Megan was pregnant? Yeah, he knew. He was the one that warned Kaitlin off telling the police about it, remember. Megan might have told him outright, but it was more likely he found out some other way. Maybe he followed her to a supermarket, or a walk-in clinic, or a pharmacy. Maybe he saw her buying a pregnancy kit.’

  The video jumped, crackled, and more lines drifted down the picture. Markham began talking again. ‘When he called me the next night, I told him we had a problem. I told him Charlie Bryant knew about Megan and me. I told him about Megan being pregnant as well, thinking that would be the end of the line for me, and for Sue. But he wasn’t angry.’ He frowned. ‘He just laughed. And then said, “Oh, Daniel – that’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.” ’

  ‘Why would he be pleased she was pregnant?’ I said, pausing the tape. Healy just shrugged at me. I turned back to the
TV. ‘It does explain something, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why Charlie – and his father – were killed.’

  ‘The kid got too close.’

  I nodded. We both let that settle, and in the silence I could see Healy’s mind ticking over. Eventually he turned back to me: ‘Why, though?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why did he start using Markham? He takes five women before Leanne without the help of Markham. Then he takes three more – Leanne, Megan and Sona – with his help. Why?’

  ‘Maybe he wanted to insulate himself.’

  ‘So why didn’t he do that from the start?’

  I saw where Healy was going. ‘Because of Frank White.’

  ‘Exactly. I think Glass was operating just fine on his own until 25 October last year. Five women already in the bag, no one able to pick up his scent. Then things get screwed up at the warehouse, Frank White dies, and suddenly he’s back to feeling mortal again. He realizes it only takes one mistake for the whole house of cards to come down. So he pinpoints Markham.’

  ‘Because of his connections to the youth club.’

  ‘Right. Glass spots Megan somewhere – in the street, on a bus, somewhere – and follows her to the youth club. He sees Markham at the club, maybe sees the way Megan looks at him or something, and he realizes he can use Markham to get at Megan, without risking more exposure. And there’s an added bonus …’

  ‘Susan Markham.’

  Healy nodded. ‘Glass does a bit of background on Markham and finds out not only that he seems to be in with Megan, but he can be manipulated through his wife.’