The David Raker Collection

by Tim Weaver

  ‘Maybe you killed her to satisfy your “appetite”. Or maybe you killed her by accident. But now you wish you hadn’t, and all these women – the way they look, the way you’re cutting them up – they’re just replacements for her.’ I leaned in even closer. ‘Thing is, though, it doesn’t matter how many women you kill, how many times you cut them up and try to make them like her, the one you really loved, she’s not coming back. Take it from someone who knows.’

  His smile shattered. I’d got at him. I’d guessed right.

  ‘Was your wife pregnant when she died?’

  He twitched, like he’d been prodded with a taser.

  ‘Were those their hearts I found?’

  He laid both hands down on the table in front of me.

  ‘Megan looks exactly like your wife, doesn’t she?’ I asked him. ‘One or two minor adjustments and you have her back. A little younger maybe, but you’ll put up with that. That’s why you went to the trouble of creating the website, inventing the LCT, why you told Markham he could never call her or email her. Because you didn’t want to risk this one. Ultimately, Megan was all that mattered.’

  He was quiet. Breathing in and out.

  ‘And all the others: they were like the corpses you used to practise on in medical school. Tissue and bones. Mannequins. Nothing more. They were your research. Your little project. You cut into their faces and their noses so that you wouldn’t mess up when the time came to do it on the one that really mattered. And you finally found her. Megan. The fact that Markham got Megan pregnant was just terrible luck for them – but for you, it was probably like some kind of a sign. Because in seven weeks’ time, not only was the project finally over and Megan all sliced up how you wanted her, not only would you have your wife back, but you’d have your unborn child back too.’

  There was nothing in his face now. He’d managed to wipe it clean.

  ‘But here’s the thing, Aron: this whole project of yours, it’s insane. You’re a psychopath. I’m sure there’s a shrink somewhere that will find you fascinating; the fact you can kill without remorse, yet still retain some sort of positive emotional connection to someone. But to me, you’re black and white. There’s no mystery. You’re just another worthless piece of shit.’

  Silence.

  I held his gaze for a long time, and then he turned away from me. His left hand, chained to the table, wrapped around the metal ring. The handcuffs jangled against the surface. He seemed to drift off. But seconds later he moved in his seat, the handcuffs jangling for a second time. He released his hand from the ring. Looked at me. Shrugged.

  But said nothing.

  I got to my feet. His eyes followed me but his body was completely motionless. I walked across the room and buzzed the intercom. The door opened inwards. In the corridor, a uniformed officer was waiting to escort me to the viewing room next door. When I looked back, Crane was staring up at me from under the ridge of his brow, a hint of a smile back on his face. A real one this time. Lips turning up. Eyes widening, like they were trying to suck in all the light in the room.

  ‘We’re done,’ I said to him.

  A sliver of tongue passed along his lips.

  ‘Are we?’ he said quietly.

  Legal Right

  The holding cell was small and cold. The white walls looked like they’d been painted recently, but the ceiling – a creamy-beige colour – was peeling all along the middle and in the corners of the room. There was one bunk screwed to the wall and one metal toilet screwed to the floor.

  Aron Crane was sitting on the edge of the bed. His clothes had been bagged and taken off somewhere. Now he sat in a dark blue sweater, a pair of black trousers and a pair of black rubber-soled slip-ons. At the door to the cell, a uniformed officer was standing guard. Crane saw part of his head and the white cotton of his shirt when the porthole slid across. Occasionally, other policemen would look in, some in uniform, some in plain clothes.

  Everyone wanted to see Dr Glass.

  He’d been sitting there for an hour when the door clunked and opened. Two officers were standing in the doorway. One of them was holding a set of handcuffs. They entered and told him to stand, then the one with the handcuffs placed them around his wrists, clicked them into place and led him out. They were taking him back to the room he’d faced Raker in earlier that day.

  Raker.

  Crane had underestimated him. He thought he could use him, the fact he had sore points. Weaknesses. But Raker was perceptive and clever. He’d used Crane’s wife as bait and tried to get inside his head, tried to force Crane to react. But that was okay. Raker might have messed with the project before it was finished, but Crane had plans for him.

  Revenge would come.

  They turned a corner and moved into the interview room, sitting him down at the table. They chained him to the metal ring, welded to the surface, and then left.

  Silence.

  They would find out about Phedra eventually. He knew that. If they looked hard enough, they would find what was left of her body. And they would find the body next to it as well. They would realize that the inscription on his chain – PC – were her initials, and that the chain had been hers.

  But they would never find out what happened.

  Because even he wasn’t sure now. He’d moved it around in his head so much, some days he remembered it being an accident and some days he didn’t. Some days she was carrying a tray across the decking on the top of their house and stumbled. And some days she was screaming at him, telling him she was two months away from giving birth and she needed him to care, and he pushed her. The one thing that was clear was looking over the edge of the roof and seeing her on the grass below him, flat on her back.

  Looking up at him as her life ebbed away.

  Two plain-clothes policemen entered. One was Hart, the other was Phillips. Hart asked Crane if he was all right. Crane gave no reply. He’d spoken little to them since they’d brought him in; only to tell them he wanted Raker to ask the questions. Now they were going to try again.

  ‘Mr Crane,’ Hart said, ‘we need to know where Jill White is.’

  He studied Hart. You look like a skeleton.

  ‘Mr Crane?’

  You look like you should be buried in the ground.

  ‘Mr Crane, we really need you to –’

  ‘I want to make a phone call.’

  They looked at him. Inside he felt himself smiling. He’d stunned them into silence. Hart glanced at Phillips and back to Crane. ‘You want a solicitor now?’

  Crane nodded.

  ‘We can appoint you one.’

  ‘I have my own.’

  ‘Okay, we can call him for –’

  ‘No,’ Crane said. ‘I’ll call him.’

  They looked at him. Hart leaned forward. Phillips started turning his wedding band, eyes fixed on Crane. ‘Why now?’ Phillips asked.

  ‘Because it’s my legal right.’

  ‘Yeah, but why now?’

  ‘Because it’s my legal right.’

  More silence. Hart glanced at Phillips, but Phillips was looking at Crane, his head tilted as if trying to work out what made him tick. Crane stared back, the two of them holding each other’s gaze. He could tell Phillips had something about him. In many ways he wasn’t dissimilar to Raker: they both observed, and watched for the rhythms of conversations – and the things that were out of place. Finally, Phillips stopped turning his wedding band and slowly started to nod.

  ‘Then it looks like you get to call your solicitor,’ he said.

  73

  It was almost 9 p.m. by the time I got to Derry Road. Police cars were lined up at the entrance to the alley that led through to the Dead Tracks, the entire street cordoned off. The taxi dropped me off at the southern end. I waited while a uniformed officer radioed through to Phillips to tell him I’d arrived. A minute later, he lifted the tape and I ducked under and moved along the pavement, towards the eye of the storm. Windows were open. People were looking down. Sirens were paint
ing the concrete blue. There was the smell of food in the air, drifting out from the houses, and the coolness of imminent rain.

  In the middle of the street were two specialist firearms officers. One of them was at the rear of their vehicle, checking a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun, a Glock 17 holstered at his hip. The other was inside the front of the car, on a phone, writing something on a piece of paper he had pressed to the dashboard. Beyond was a Mercedes Sprinter police van. Two officers were stationed outside. Spread around them in a vague semicircle were a series of marked cars. Next to one of them, I could see Phillips and Hart talking to one another, Hart pointing towards the closed rear doors of the police van.

  Inside was Aron Crane.

  Hart looked up as I approached; Phillips too. Both of them nodded. They didn’t want me here, and I didn’t want to be here. But when they’d tried to question Crane about where Jill really was, he said he’d show them – as long as I was there. They had a look on their faces I could read as clearly as if it was printed on a billboard: I was tied up in this somehow. But the only thing I knew for sure was that there was something ominous about this whole thing. Something dangerous and sinister.

  He’d tracked Jill for months himself, while he forced Markham to lure in Megan and Sona. I imagined he liked the idea of pursuing the wife of the man he’d killed. It massaged his ego. His sense of power. His control. And now, for all the men and the cars and the show of force, there was only one person directing everything: Aron Crane.

  Phillips told me he’d be with me shortly, and then both he and Hart turned their backs on me, shielding their conversation. I didn’t care. I didn’t need to know their strategy to know that everything about this felt wrong.

  Around them police officers gathered. Some with dogs. Some with flashlights. The two SFOs fell in next to the rear of the van, eyes taking in the scene. One of them fiddled with the slide on his Glock. He removed it from its holster, checked it, then returned it. Any moment, the doors were going to be flung open and Crane would be sitting there, looking out. He’d love the chaos he’d created.

  Finally, Phillips and Hart finished talking, and Hart wandered off. Phillips had the air of the man in charge. Hart was a career cop. Solid, dependable, bright but not a natural. He’d progressed through the ranks based on decent results and saying the right things. Phillips was different. He could play the game, but he was good at his job too. People would wait for Phillips to give the command.

  He came over to me.

  ‘Crane will be handcuffed throughout,’ he said, bypassing any sort of greeting. ‘Two uniforms up front with flashlights, a couple more at the sides. The firearms officers will be either side of him the whole time – and they’ll also have torches.’

  He paused as a female officer came and asked him a question about whether he wanted the press pushed back even further. He told her yes, and turned back to me.

  ‘Have you been in?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Find anything?’

  ‘No. Crane told us the body is about twenty minutes’ walk, but wouldn’t tell us in which direction.’ He stopped, must have seen something in my face. ‘We’ve done a risk assessment and believe we have all the angles covered.’

  ‘It’ll be pitch black in there.’

  ‘We wait until morning and Jill might be dead.’ He was right, but it didn’t make me feel any better. ‘A paramedic and two dog-support units will be coming too; one will go out front, another will trail behind us. And that just leaves DCI Hart, myself and you.’

  ‘Are you taking forensics in?’

  ‘No, they’ll be on standby. We’ll wait to see where he leads us, and then I’ll call Davidson.’ I looked around me and spotted Davidson talking to a uniform on the other side of the police van. ‘We’re already taking too many people with us.’

  Nearby, one of the SFOs cranked the chamber on his Glock.

  ‘They’re a precaution,’ Phillips said. ‘A man with six women to his name isn’t a man worth taking a risk over.’

  Six we know about, I thought, and then looked to the alley leading to the woods. ‘What about his lawyer?’

  ‘He called him, but he never showed up.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Crane wouldn’t say.’

  I eyed Phillips. ‘I don’t like this.’

  He didn’t say anything. But in his eyes I could see what he was thinking: I don’t like it either. For a moment, something passed between us: a second where we both considered backing out. But then Phillips must have cast his mind back to the risk assessment they’d done at the station, the planning, the officers he was taking in with him, and figured they were as prepared as they could be. Maybe he was right. I certainly hoped he was. But that didn’t settle my nerves. Because I knew Crane now. He wouldn’t lead us to Jill unless he had a way to skew things in his favour.

  ‘Don’t engage him in conversation unless you have to,’ Phillips said. ‘This is a game to him. We’re not playing the game. What we want is to find Jill.’

  I nodded. Ultimately, Jill was all that mattered.

  ‘Once we’ve done that, we call the forensic team and we get the hell out.’

  Hart appeared from my left. ‘Mr Raker.’

  ‘DCI Hart.’

  ‘We ready?’ he said to Phillips.

  ‘Yeah, we’re ready.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s do it.’

  He gestured to one of the uniformed officers to open the rear doors of the van. The two SFOs fell into a position either side, the H&Ks across their chests pointing down at an angle to the floor.

  A hush seemed to settle across the scene.

  The Mercedes’ doors clunked open.

  Aron Crane sat just inside the van. His wrists were handcuffed. From our position it was hard to see his face as shadows from the interior cut across him. Then he raised his head and the orange glow from the street lamps and the blue flash of the police sirens bloomed against his skin, and he was frozen for a moment in an eruption of colour. His eyes glinted. He scanned the crowd in front of him, looking for someone. And then, when he stopped, I realized who.

  The piece of shit is looking for me.

  As he was being helped out of the van, our eyes met. He nodded once and then looked away. The team heading towards the alley fell in around him and started moving. Phillips and Hart walked me towards the group, slipping in behind Crane, with the dog team bringing up the rear. Crane glanced back over his shoulder and pinpointed me immediately. This time a hint of a smile broke out on his face.

  And then we headed into the Dead Tracks.

  74

  On the other side of the factory beds, everybody stopped. We’d reached the gate. No one had said anything on the way over. We’d walked in silence through the crumbling remains of the buildings and the dumping ground around it. Police torches had swung from left to right, and for brief moments the flashlights had reflected in the windows remaining in the factory shells and in the shards of shattered glass at our feet. But once we were off the concrete and facing the woods, the darkness got thicker and the light shone off into the night and didn’t come back again.

  We filed through the gate one by one. Crane looked back at me from the other side, and in the glow of a passing flashlight nodded again. Phillips noticed and looked at me, as if some kind of secret message had passed between us. This was all working perfectly for Crane: he was creating conflict between people on the same side, and he hadn’t even uttered a word.

  Up front, one of the dogs barked. Everyone stopped.

  Phillips moved ahead of the pack and joined the handler. The two of them began talking as the spaniel on the end of the leash looked towards a swathe of black on our right. Behind me, the second dog, a German shepherd, was gazing in the same direction as the spaniel, its nose out in front sniffing the air. Phillips turned around and told one of the uniformed officers to shine his flashlight into the undergrowth. A second later, a patch of thick, tangled bush was illuminated beyo
nd two great big chunks of oak tree. No sign of anything. Just tall grass swaying gently in the breeze, and light drizzle passing across the circle of torchlight.

  We moved on.

  The woods were incredibly dark. The canopy was fully covering the path now, keeping out any brief glimpse of moonlight and any synthetic glow from the street behind us. All we had were six flashlights – two up front, two at the sides, two attached to guns – passing back and forth across the path and what grew at its edges. I should have brought one, I thought. Once again I was relying on other people when the only person I trusted was myself.

  A little way down, one of the officers must have seen something reflect back at him. He stopped. About twenty-five feet further along, caught in the light from his torch, I could see the first of the abandoned railway lines, cutting across the trail.

  We’d been walking for about ten minutes when the dogs started barking again. Both of them this time. They were facing right, into the woods, noses out, eyes fixed on something. Three of the uniformed officers shone their lights into the undergrowth. The trees, leaves, grass and bushes were freeze-framed for a second, rain coming down harder now.

  Phillips went up ahead again and chatted to the same handler as before. This time there was no breeze and everyone could hear what they were saying.

  ‘Could it be an animal?’ Phillips asked.

  ‘Might be,’ came the reply, but the handler didn’t sound convinced. The dogs were so highly trained they could smell human blood. They’d been inside collapsed buildings and followed trails to survivors. They could sniff out drugs and guns and explosives. They weren’t going to be disturbed by a hedgehog. Everyone was thinking the same, and a couple of them looked to Crane, as if momentarily seeking assurance. He wasn’t even turned towards the noise. He just faced ahead, into the darkness.

  A couple of the officers carrying torches moved off the path and into the undergrowth as far as they could. Grass fell under their feet and then sprang back up again around them. Beyond the tree trunks, cones of light moved left and right.