The David Raker Collection

by Tim Weaver

  I smiled. ‘I’m not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing.’

  ‘It’s good,’ she replied, and managed a smile. ‘I just wanted to thank you for what you’ve done. Away from my husband.’ She paused, corrected herself. ‘Ex husband.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He needed you. He needed someone strong to rein in his excesses. I don’t know what you found in that place, and I don’t want to know. But I was married to Colm for long enough to know that, in order for you to get him there, in order to contain him, you would have had to have been strong enough to face down his arrogance, his anger and his resentment. And as I can tell you from personal experience, that takes some doing.’

  I nodded, not entirely sure how to respond.

  ‘So thank you,’ she added quietly.

  She went to walk away, and, as she did, I killed the engine. She looked back at me, brow furrowed, eyes moving back and forth across my face.

  ‘Has he ever told you why he did it?’

  She knew what I meant. Subconsciously she reached to the spot on her face that he must have struck, and brushed it with a couple of fingers. Then she shook her head.

  ‘It wasn’t the affair,’ I said, and watched colour briefly fill her cheeks. ‘It was the fact that he thought everyone had turned their backs on him.’

  ‘He still shouldn’t have done it.’

  ‘I totally agree.’

  ‘And I can’t forgive him.’

  I let her know that I understood that too. ‘I know why you walked away from him. I even know why you did what you did. But the isolation you felt before you made that decision, that’s what he felt in those last few months. That’s what he felt when we were looking for your daughter. You hated him. Leanne hated him. He had a case that completely consumed him. But he bottled it up and he pushed it down, and something had to give. I’m not saying it’s right, I’m just saying that, if you felt he’d turned his back on you, then I think he might have felt the same.’

  She studied me, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘This is none of my business.’

  ‘No,’ she said, and held up a hand in front of her. ‘It’s fine. I just … the Colm you’re telling me about isn’t the Colm I’ve come to know over the past year.’

  I told her that I understood, and started up the car.

  Gemma studied me, as if she was about to ask me something, but then turned on her heel and started walking away. After about five paces, she stopped and looked back at me. ‘How long does it take?’ she asked gently.

  I looked at her, her eyes glistening in the half-light of the evening. Healy had asked me the same question two days before, and I wondered why they would both think I had the answer. Perhaps I still carried a sadness around with me, a stain in the fabric of my skin. Or perhaps they saw faint signs of hope, of recovery. A man who had been through the darkness and was standing in the light at the other end.

  ‘You say goodbye to them eventually,’ I replied, the sun disappearing beyond a copse of trees behind us. ‘But, the truth is … you never let them go.’

  77

  The sound of the shower woke me at six-thirty. As I slowly stirred, I lay on my back and looked up at the ceiling, steam crawling out through the partially open bathroom door. The bed was empty and the bedroom was cold. I pulled the duvet up and rolled over, studying the photograph of Derryn on my side table. I knew every inch of her face so well: the shape of her eyes, the way her mouth turned up when she smiled, the pattern of her freckles, the curve of her body. Next to the frame was a black coffee, steam rising from inside the mug.

  The shower stopped.

  I sat up, sipped on the coffee and watched through the gap in the door. The noise of the shower door opening. An arm reaching to the rail for a towel. One side of a body, water droplets running down the skin, tracing the waist and the hips.

  Outside, rain spat against the window.

  I glanced at the picture of Derryn again and then went to the window. The first pinpricks of day pierced a smear of cloud beyond the houses opposite. I pulled on a pair of boxers and watched one of my neighbours filling his car full of junk. When he was done, his wife came down the drive to him, kissed him, and watched him pull out and disappear along the road.

  ‘Morning.’

  I turned. Liz was standing looking at me, a towel around her, her hair darkened by water and sitting against one of her shoulders like a thick tail.

  ‘Morning,’ I said, smiling, and held up the coffee. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She moved around to my side of the bed, then perched herself on the edge. I sat down next to her. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

  I looked at her. She blinked, a little water breaking free from her hairline and running down her cheek.

  ‘I feel good. You?’

  She nodded. ‘Sorry it’s so early.’

  ‘Are you in court today?’

  ‘No,’ she said, her eyes moving across my face. ‘I’m driving up to Warwick to see Katie again. She’s meeting with an investment bank about a graduate programme next week. I’ll give her the old mum-to-daughter pep talk and then we’ll probably head into Birmingham and go shopping.’

  ‘You excited about seeing her again?’

  ‘Very.’

  I remembered the photographs of them I’d seen at Liz’s. Katie looked a lot like her mum. She was also beautiful, except with even longer, darker hair.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  I looked at Liz. ‘For what?’

  ‘For just having to leave like this.’

  ‘You’re not just leaving,’ I said. ‘You’re leaving to see your daughter. That’s the best kind of excuse.’ I took another sip of coffee. ‘And in any case, this is a mean cup of coffee to depart on.’

  She leaned into me and kissed me. When she moved away again, her eyes were fixed on mine. She looked like she was expecting me to flinch.

  ‘I don’t regret what we did,’ I said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  More water ran down her face. She placed a hand on my leg, studying me, looking for signs of uncertainty.

  ‘Derryn was a part of my life for fifteen years,’ I said, placing my hand on hers. ‘She was the first woman I loved, the only thing that ever really mattered to me during the time we were together. If you’re asking me if there’ll be moments to begin with when I’m a little unsure of myself, or feel like things are maybe moving too fast, then yes, there will be moments like that. But if you’re asking me if I regret what we did, if I regret spending the night with you, then no. I don’t. You’ve waited for me, and supported me, and comforted me. You’ve been there for me. I don’t regret what I’ve done.’

  Her eyes shimmered a little.

  I touched a hand to her face, where a trail of water had worked its way down past her ear, to her neck. ‘Like I told you yesterday, you don’t have to compete with her.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said softly.

  ‘I will always love Derryn,’ I said. ‘A part of me will always love her, whatever happens.’

  She nodded.

  ‘But …’ I paused and looked into her eyes. ‘I’m tired of feeling lonely. I’m tired of being scared of letting go. I’m tired of looking at her in pictures and feeling guilt choking me up when I think about moving on. I feel guilt, and yet Derryn never laid any guilt at my door. She would never have expected me to spend my life trying to cling on to every memory I have of her. That wasn’t who she was. If she could see the way I’d been for almost two years, sitting alone in this house, feeling terrified about moving on … she would never have forgiven me. She would have wanted me to take the next step.’

  I ran a hand through Liz’s hair and then leaned in and kissed her.

  ‘So, that’s exactly what I’m going to do …’

  Later, as I watched Liz’s car disappear into the rain, I thought about what she’d said to me. You’re trying to plug holes in the world because you kn
ow what it’s like to lose someone, and you think it’s your job to stop anyone else suffering the same way.

  She’d been right.

  She saw it in me, even before I saw it in myself. She understood that the reason I let Derryn talk me into taking on that first case was because I could see what was happening to her, could see the end coming, and I didn’t want anyone else to suffer like I had. The loss. The helplessness. The inevitability. I wanted to help families turn their lives around, to punch through the darkness to the light on the other side.

  And then, finally, bring the people that mattered to them back from the dead.

  Author’s Note

  Anyone even remotely familiar with London geography will know that I’ve taken some liberties in The Dead Tracks. I hope the residents of east London will forgive me for making their home the hunting ground for a notorious Victorian serial killer and a crazed plastic surgeon. Plainly, the woods, and the factories that surround it, don’t actually exist.

  Acknowledgements

  Sometimes you have to admit when you’ve lucked out, and I feel very blessed to have landed Stefanie Bierwerth as my editor; her kindness, support, guidance and razor-sharp editorial powers have consistently refocused the book as it journeyed between drafts. My agent Camilla Wray also has an incredible eye for a story and was instrumental in shaping the book from the first moment it landed on her desk. Handily, she’s become a black belt in settling my nerves too – important for the (many) times when doubts start creeping in. Without these two wonderful women there wouldn’t be a book.

  A special thank you to the brilliant team at Penguin (including, but not limited to, Tom, Jessica, Jennifer, Andrew, Shona and Caroline) who do an incredible job of getting Raker out there into people’s hands, and who work so tirelessly on my behalf. Also, to the ladies of Darley Anderson, who have supported and promoted my writing right from day one.

  Mike Hedges was enthusiastic and gracious, filling me in on his years as one of the country’s top policemen, and offered ideas and details which I’ve since twisted and adapted for the purposes of the book. Any errors are entirely of my own making. Bruce Bennett also provided some intriguing insights in the early stages of the novel, while plastic surgeon Rob Warr will probably be horrified with how I’ve portrayed his profession – although I did warn him that things might go a bit rogue. I hope he forgives me.

  My family in the UK and South Africa have been amazing, going above and beyond the call of duty in their support of the books. Thank you to everyone. I must give a special mention to my mum and dad, though. This book is dedicated to you both for a reason.

  Finally, the two Weaver ladies: Erin, who wakes me up at six in the morning after I’ve been writing until one; and Sharlé, who lets me lie in, and never complains when Raker and I disappear for months on end. Without you both, I’d be lost.

  Tim Weaver

  VANISHED

  Contents

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  PART TWO

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Date Night

  PART THREE

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  PART FOUR

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Daddy

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  PART FIVE

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  For Lucy

  ‘The fathers shall not be put to death for the children, neither shall the children be put to death for the fathers: every man shall be put to death for his own sin.’ Deuteronomy 24:16

  15 June

  Healy looked down at the temperature readout as he pulled up outside the estate. Almost twenty degrees. It felt hotter than that. He’d had the air conditioning on all the way from the station but, on the journey over, nothing had cooled. His sleeves were rolled up, his top button undone, but the car was still stifling. Even in the middle of the night, under cover of darkness, the heat continued to cling on.

  He paused, looking out through the windows of the Mercedes to the maze of broken homes beyond. The most dangerous housing estate in London had gone into hibernation. There were no lights on in the flats, no kids in the alleys, no gangs crossing the walkways between buildings. But then, as more marked cars arrived, lightbars painting the ten-storey slabs of concrete, he could make out shapes in the night, watching him from darkened windows and doorways.

  He got out. Away to his left, the media were encamped behind a strip of police tape, in shirts and summer dresses, faces slick with sweat. It was mayhem. Journalists jostled for the best position. Feet slid on grass banks. Noise. Lights. Voices screaming his name. In another life, he might have enjoyed the celebrity. Some cops did. But when he looked at the entrance to the building, ominous and dark, like a mouth about to swallow him up, he realized it was all a trick. This wasn’t celebrity. This was standing on a precipice in a hurricane. They were behind him now; with him on that precipice. But if it went on any longer, if it got any worse, if the police still hadn’t found the man responsible by the time the media were camped out at the next crime scene, all they’d be trying to do would be to feed him to the darkness beyond.

  He moved across the concrete courtyard to the entrance and looked inside. Everything was broken or cracking, like the whole place was about to collapse under its own weight. The floor was slick with water, leaking from somewhere, and along the corridor a broken door, leading into the first set of flats, was hanging off its hinges. Litter was everywhere. Some people would go their whole lives without seeing the insides of a place like this: a two-hundred-apartment cry for help. The sort of place where even the night at its darkest wasn’t black enough to hide all the bruises.

  A uniformed officer with a clipboard was standing at the bottom of a stairwell to Healy’s right. He looked up as Healy approached, shining a flashlight in his direction. ‘Evening, sir.’

  ‘Evening.’

  ‘The elevator doesn’t work.’

  Healy glanced at the lift.
Across its doors was a council notice telling people it was unsafe to use. On the damp, blistered wall next to it, someone had spray-painted an arrow and the words ‘express elevator to hell’.

  After showing the officer his warrant card, Healy headed up three flights of stairs, most of it barely lit. Everything smelled like a toilet. Glass crunched under his shoes where light bulbs had been deliberately smashed and never cleared away. At the third-floor landing, people started to emerge – other cops, forensics – a line snaking out from Flat 312. A crime-scene tech broke off from dusting down a door frame to hand Healy a white paper boiler suit and a pair of gloves. ‘You’d better wear this,’ she said. ‘Not that you’re going to be disturbing much evidence.’

  Healy took the suit.

  Inside the flat, a series of stand-alone lights had been erected, their glare washing into the corridor. Apart from the buzz of a generator, the apartment was pretty much silent. The occasional click of a camera. A mumble from one of the forensic team. Brief noises from other flats. Otherwise, nothing.