The David Raker Collection

by Tim Weaver

  I glanced from Healy to the television screen and back again. He was looking at me, no hint of anything in his face now, a mixture of sweat and aftershave coming off him. Maybe this was how he dealt with emotion: bottled it up, pushed it down, until one day he couldn’t contain it and ended up doing something he regretted. Like putting his wife in a neck brace. Or arguing with his daughter. Or telling his boss he was going to rip apart the man who’d taken her.

  When I started the tape again, it clicked and whirred.

  ‘If you’re watching this, he’s probably killed me,’ Markham said, pausing for a moment. ‘I’ve probably tried to find a way out. I can’t take this. I can’t see an end. Leanne, Megan, and then we moved on from the youth club; on to Sona …’ Eye contact with the camera now. ‘I know, unless I refuse to do this any more, it’s just going to go on and on, and he’s going to keep on using me. And although …’

  He stopped. An eye watered. A part of me felt sorry for him; at the way a good man had been manoeuvred into position against his will. But I couldn’t forgive him for taking those women. Because when you faced darkness, sometimes there wasn’t a light. Sometimes you had to step in blind and have enough faith, enough fearlessness, to try and find the right way. And the right way for Markham would have been to fight back.

  On-screen, he shifted in his seat and he brought out a photograph from under him; from beneath a leg, or out of an unseen pocket. He held it up to the camera.

  ‘This is Sue,’ he said. She was pretty: dark, petite, bright eyes. In the photo she looked almost shy; slightly turned away from the camera, a smile on her face. She wore a white blouse and a chain around her neck, a silver heart dangling at her throat. ‘Whoever finds this tape, can you tell her something for me? Can you tell her that, although I know I’ve done some terrible things, and I know I don’t deserve forgiveness, I’m just …’ His voice broke up. ‘I’m just so sorry.’

  And then he got up, walked to the camera – and everything went black.

  Healy didn’t move. When I turned to face him, he was still staring at the black screen. After a couple of seconds he stirred, glancing at me, a blur in one of his eyes. Then he looked away.

  ‘We’ll find him,’ I said.

  He didn’t reply. Didn’t move.

  ‘I promise you – we’ll find him.’

  58

  Forty minutes later, we were nosing along City Road, heading towards a knot of council houses in King’s Cross. In one of them, insulated from the outside world, was the one who’d got away.

  Sona was a huge break. A giant rift that should have broken the case the minute she was found. Instead, everything she’d seen, everything she knew, was hidden inside the walls of the safe house in which she was being kept. Her family had watched her disappear, and for a month they’d been waiting for the phone to ring: news that someone had seen her, mentioned her, any scrap, however small. But they’d still be waiting in another month. And they might still be waiting in a year. Because the police weren’t going to call them. They were going to squeeze every ounce of recollection out of her in order to get at Dr Glass – and then bury the rest in the ground. It made me sick even thinking about it.

  ‘Her family don’t know she’s back?’

  Healy shook his head. ‘No. Just the police.’

  ‘But she didn’t just magic herself into police custody. Someone must have seen her when she came up for air. There must be witnesses. So where are they?’

  He glanced sideways at me. ‘You been following the news?’

  And then it hit me.

  I remembered the story I’d seen in passing twice over the past week: once in the café near Newcross Secondary; and once through the windows at the front of Liz’s house. Woman found floating in the Thames.

  ‘That was Sona?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But I thought she’d been returned to her family?’

  ‘So does the rest of the world.’

  I could feel bile rising in my throat and anger tightening in my muscles. ‘It’s all a lie?’

  ‘The bit about finding her wasn’t. The witnesses aren’t either. But everything else is. She didn’t ask for anonymity. She didn’t ask for anything.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘She washed up in the Thames at seven in the morning. An empty tour boat yanked her out, and one of the tour guides dialled 999. She had mild hypothermia and concussion. Dazed and confused. Didn’t say much. Didn’t know where she was. No ID, no real idea of where she’d been or what had happened, plus she was pretty messed up.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Bruises. Lots of cuts. Bleeding.’

  ‘What happened after they fished her out?’

  ‘She gets rushed to A&E and the tour guides go off and talk to the media. Next morning, it’s playing out in the nationals. That’s when Phillips and Hart got wind of it. Luckily for them, half her face was damaged, which made describing her hard. The tour guides told the papers as much as they knew, which wasn’t a lot. Next day, the task force leaked a story saying they “believed” she was in her late forties …’

  Which would have put her out of the age range of any of the women who’d gone missing – including Sona – and dampened any expectation their families might have had. Another hole plugged before it took everything down.

  ‘Couple of days after that, Phillips leaks another story to the media telling them she and her family want to remain anonymous. End of story.’

  I looked out into the night, fists clenched, teeth locked together. So many lies, one on top of the other. ‘How has everything been contained?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, why haven’t Professional Standards got wind of this? People talk. You can’t tell me everyone on the task force has remained silent.’

  ‘I can – because they have.’

  ‘Nothing has slipped out?’

  He shrugged. ‘The task forces are small. Trusted. They’ll burn the uniform before they give Professional Standards anything to feed on. Cops who investigate other cops are pond life.’

  I remembered Phillips’s comment to Healy on the phone earlier: There’s a reason you’re not part of this task force, or any other task force for that matter. And it’s because you can’t be trusted. ‘If it’s so watertight, how do you know so much?’

  ‘After Leanne went missing, one of the guys helped me try to find her. I’d known him a long, long time. He told me some things. I worked the rest out myself.’

  I looked at him. In his face I could see the rest: And I dug around in places I shouldn’t, I found out things I wasn’t supposed to, and both the task forces know. That was what Phillips had meant when he said Healy couldn’t be trusted. Now the battle wasn’t in keeping Healy from telling anyone about what was going on; Healy was too invested in avenging his daughter to be concerned with spilling secrets. The battle was in trying to prevent him from pulling down every pillar they’d raised in their pursuit of Glass and his little black book.

  ‘Does Sona remember why she was in the Thames?’

  ‘No. She hasn’t really talked.’

  ‘About what happened?’

  ‘About anything.’

  ‘At all?’

  ‘A little, but not much. He’s either totally screwed her up or she genuinely can’t remember. Doctors reckon she’s got some sort of post-traumatic stress. Maybe mild amnesia too. She needed fourteen stitches in her head.’

  ‘Surely she wants to tell her family she’s alive?’

  ‘Phillips, Hart, Davidson, the rest of them – they’re playing on her fear. She basically thinks that she can’t tell anyone she’s alive or Glass will be back for her.’

  ‘This is insane.’

  ‘I told you it would be like this.’

  His words from the night before came back to me: You can come with me, or you can back down. But if you come with me, be prepared for it to get bad.

  ‘Do we have to worry about her having polic
e protection tonight?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. We don’t maintain a presence there, otherwise it starts to look suspicious. The houses are close together; lots of windows, lots of people. The task force calls her a couple of times a day, and she’s got a panic button for emergencies. That’s why it’s best to go at night. They don’t bother her after seven in the evening unless she indicates she’s in trouble – and all the neighbours will have their curtains shut, so we won’t get any added attention.’

  We descended into silence.

  Healy turned the radio on, and we both listened to the fallout from a north London derby at the Emirates. About five minutes further on, he hung a right into a short stretch of road with a series of double-storey, grey-brick terraced houses at the far end. They looked like they’d been airlifted in from the Eastern Bloc, then dumped in the centre of the city to decompose. A thin path led through an arch and into a courtyard. There were no doors on the outside of the buildings. The adjacent car park was set in semi-darkness, a solitary street lamp standing sentry, its orange glow flickering on and off. Healy pulled into it and killed the engine.

  A second later, my phone started ringing. I’d had it off all day, but had switched it on briefly to check messages as we left Walthamstow. I’d forgotten to turn it back off again. I reached into my pocket and took it out, ready to kill the call.

  But it was Jill.

  I pressed Answer. ‘Hello?’

  Silence. A buzz, like interference.

  ‘Jill?’

  Then the line went dead. I glanced at Healy. He was looking out of his window to where a group of teenagers had gathered beneath the street light. But he was listening to every word. I tried calling Jill back, but after ten unanswered rings it went to voicemail.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Healy said, without looking at me.

  I flipped my phone shut. ‘About what?’

  ‘About her.’

  It was obvious he saw this as some kind of weakness in me, as if by expressing mild concern about Jill I’d somehow let my guard down. But I just ignored him, and turned my thoughts back to her. Why call someone if you weren’t going to answer? And even if she’d accidentally dialled my number, why not pick up when I rang back?

  ‘We can’t afford to waste time.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Acton.’

  He rolled his eyes and looked away again, over to where the teenagers had produced a big bottle of cider and a pack of cigarettes. ‘Acton’s miles away.’

  ‘I know that, Healy,’ I said sharply.

  He made a big show of looking at his watch as if he didn’t believe me. I flipped my phone open again and dialled Jill’s number, just to piss him off.

  The line connected.

  I let it ring nine times, then hung up. Next, I dialled directory enquiries and got a landline. They connected me. Again, the line continuously rang for half a minute. But just as I was about to hang up, someone answered.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jill?’

  ‘David?’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Why?’

  ‘It’s just … you called me a minute ago and didn’t answer.’

  A hesitation. ‘Did I?’

  ‘I just wanted to make sure you were okay.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I’m good. I just …’ She faded off.

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. I guess I just got spooked again, that’s all.’

  ‘About what?’

  A pause. ‘I don’t know. This house, being on my own.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Jill?’

  ‘It’s …’ She stopped. ‘It’s just …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sure I just saw someone.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The same man from before. The man in the red Ford. The one who was watching my place when you came round that night. I’m sure he keeps passing the house.’

  I glanced at Healy. He had turned his head slightly in my direction, shifting closer as he listened to what she was saying. But he made a show of looking at his watch, so he could remind me that our priority was sitting inside a house about five hundred feet away.

  ‘Can you call Aron?’

  ‘No. He’s in Paris.’

  I remembered him saying he was flying out earlier in the day.

  ‘Okay, listen. I’m going to call a friend of mine and send him around. His name’s Ewan Tasker. I’ll get him to sit with you until I can get there.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, David.’

  ‘Okay. Sit tight.’

  I hung up, didn’t bother even looking at Healy as he glanced at his watch again, and dialled Tasker’s number. He answered on the third ring. I told him what I needed him to do and he agreed immediately to drive around to Jill’s. I thanked him, gave him her number just in case, then hung up and got out of the car. Healy looked across at me.

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  59

  The houses in Sona’s complex were built into a square, with the front doors facing on to a courtyard. They were two-storey homes, a separate flat on each floor, a stairwell leading to the top-floor flat in each of them. Everything was exactly the same: whitewashed windowsills, blue doors, grey-slate roof.

  We moved through the arch and into the courtyard. It was large and overgrown, a huge oak tree spiralling up into the night from the centre. Dull cream street lamps ran in a line, tracing the right angles of the buildings all the way along. Each collection of ten houses had been given a different name: flats 1–20 were Randall; flats 21–40 were Chance. It looked like flats 41–60 were called Wren, but by the time we’d got to numbers 26 and 27, Healy had stopped.

  ‘This is it?’

  ‘Yeah, this is it,’ Healy replied, and started moving up the stairwell to the top floor. He looked left and right, and then knocked four times on the door. Paused. Then knocked again. ‘Just follow my lead,’ he whispered. ‘And don’t act surprised.’

  I frowned at him.

  ‘Just don’t act surprised,’ he repeated.

  A knock on the door, from the inside.

  Healy leaned in further, as if he’d been expecting it. ‘Charlie, Hotel, Alpha, November, Charlie, Echo. Case number 827-499.’

  There was no reply. Healy looked at his watch and back at me, nodding as if this was how things were supposed to go.

  ‘Winter.’

  A female voice. So quiet, for a second I wasn’t sure if it had come from another house. Healy leaned in again. ‘Wintergreen,’ he said.

  ‘Spring,’ the voice said again.

  ‘Springboard,’ Healy replied.

  Then everything went quiet again. As we waited, I realized I could hear a TV beyond the door, muffled but audible. Two people were arguing. Healy turned to me, then back to the door. The code confirmed he was part of the task force, even if he wasn’t. The responses to her would have been words only known by those intimate to the investigation: the trusted members of the task force Healy had described.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Her voice. A little louder now, but still small.

  ‘My name is Detective Sergeant Colm Healy,’ he said, adding a softness to his voice that I hadn’t heard before. ‘I’m part of Operation Gaslight. We haven’t met before but I was hoping I might be able to speak to you for a few minutes. We’ve had some further developments in the case and I’d like to run a couple of things past you.’

  I thought I heard something: paper being leafed through.

  ‘You’re not one of the names on my list.’

  ‘I know.’ He looked at me. There was an expression in his face that suggested this wasn’t going according to plan. ‘If you come to the window, I will hold up my ID.’

  More pages being turned.
Then the sound of footsteps. Healy backed away and stepped towards the window, which was adjacent to the door. He held up his warrant card at the glass. The curtain twitched and opened. In the V-shaped gap, we could see a woman, mostly just silhouette, arms on the curtains either side of her. Her eyes moved from the warrant card to Healy, and then to me. The curtain fell back into place. More footsteps.

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘His name’s David Raker. He’s a missing persons investigator. He’s been trying to trace the whereabouts of Megan Carver.’

  ‘He’s not on the list either.’

  ‘Megan Carver was taken by the same man who took you.’

  More silence. Even to my ears, even knowing that Healy was basically telling the truth, it sounded suspicious. Two men, neither of whom was on the list of contacts she’d been given by the task force, turning up on her doorstep at ten o’clock at night. Only one with ID. One not even employed by the Met. If she’d refused to let us in, it wouldn’t have been a surprise. Instead there was a noise, like a lock sliding across, and the door opened a fraction on a chain.

  In the gap, we could see blonde hair and a sliver of face. An eye. Part of the nose. Some of the cheek. Her eye darted between us and then out into the courtyard.

  ‘Can I see your ID again, please?’ she said.

  Healy nodded. ‘Of course.’

  He took out a small black wallet and removed his warrant card, handing it to her through the gap in the door. She took it, disappeared for a moment as she checked it, then gave it back to him. She looked at me. ‘And you?’

  I got out my wallet, slid out my driver’s licence and a business card, and handed it to her. She studied it, then disappeared out of sight. Somewhere in the background I could hear a gentle tap tap. About a minute later, she reappeared. Eye flicking between the licence and me. Then, finally, she handed it back and pushed the door closed. The sound of the chain being removed. Healy looked at me once again, this time not saying anything, the same message as earlier etched on his face: Don’t act surprised.

  The door opened.

  Framed by the doorway, Sona looked between us. She’d been beautiful. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A sculpted face that swept through a thin nose and high cheekbones. She was dressed in tracksuit trousers and a vest, her arms exposed. Even as forty approached, she was still slender, the skin on her arms a pale pink, her fingers long and graceful, as unblemished and smooth as a twenty-year-olds. In her file, I remembered reading she was once a catalogue model. It was easy to imagine.