Road of the Dead

by Kevin Brooks

  As the train passed through Exeter and on toward Plymouth, the surrounding countryside began to change. The brown earth became red, brick became granite, and the sunlight seemed to lose its brightness. Sad-looking hills loomed in the distance, casting cold gray shadows over the passing fields, making everything look mournful and empty.

  “It’s a long way from Canleigh Street,” I said to Cole.

  “It’s not so different,” he murmured. “It’s just another place.”

  “You reckon?”

  He turned away from the window and stretched his neck. “What time is it?”

  I looked at my watch. “Two-thirty. We should be in Plymouth in about half an hour.”

  Cole stretched again. “I’ve been thinking…”

  “Yeah?”

  He looked at me. “About Rachel.” He rubbed his eyes. “This girl she was staying with—Abbie Gorman. Do you know much about her?”

  “I thought you knew her. She was at school with Rachel. They were only a couple of years above you, weren’t they?”

  “I was never at school, was I? And even if I had been, you know what it’s like at school—a couple of years is a lifetime. Rachel wouldn’t have been caught dead talking to me. Come on, Rube—you must know something about Abbie. You were always talking to Rachel about her friends and stuff.”

  I hesitated for a moment, waiting to see if he’d realize what he’d just said about Rachel not being caught dead…but thankfully he didn’t. So I told him what I knew about Abbie Gorman.

  “She used to live on that big estate at Mile End. Rachel met her in grade school, then they went on to secondary school together. I don’t think they were best friends or anything, but they used to hang around together a lot. Abbie came around to our place quite often. I think she even stayed over a couple of times.” I looked at Cole. “Are you sure you don’t remember her?”

  He shook his head. “What’s she like?”

  “I’m not sure, really. I only spoke to her once or twice. She seemed OK—friendly enough, pretty, a bit edgy…”

  “What do you mean—edgy?”

  “Like she could take care of herself if she had to. You know…she had that look about her.”

  “Like Rachel?”

  “Yeah…come to think of it, she looked like Rachel in lots of ways. Same height, same size, same kind of face. They could have been sisters.”

  Cole ran his fingers through his hair. “How did she end up living on Dartmoor?”

  “Her mother lived there. Abbie was brought up by an aunt or something. I don’t know why. A couple of years ago her mum got cancer and Abbie left London and moved down to Dartmoor to look after her. I think she must have been about sixteen or seventeen then. She met this local boy—I don’t know his name—and when her mum died, he moved in with her, and then a few months later they got married. Rachel went down for the wedding—remember?”

  Cole shook his head again.

  “Yeah, you do,” I said. “She had that cream-colored dress and the big hat and everything—you must remember. When she came back she showed us all the photographs and the video…” I suddenly realized that Cole was upset with himself for not remembering, so I shut up about it and changed the subject. “We’re nearly there, look.” I pointed through the window at the approaches of a sprawling gray town. Cole made a show of looking, but I knew he wasn’t interested. His face had died. It wasn’t that he cared about Rachel’s cream-colored dress or her big hat or the wedding photos or the video, he was just sad that he’d forgotten a moment when she was happy. He’d been there, and he’d missed it.

  He’d lost it.

  We got off the train and made our way out of the station to the taxi stand. There was a long line and no taxis. I followed Cole to the end of the line and watched him light a cigarette.

  “You ought to give that up,” I said.

  “I ought to do a lot of things,” he replied, breathing out smoke and giving me a look.

  A taxi trundled past us and stopped at the front of the line. A woman with a trolley full of suitcases loaded up and got in. The taxi pulled away and the line shuffled forward.

  “You’re not sending me back then?” I said to Cole.

  “I will if you don’t stop yakking.”

  It wasn’t much of an invitation, but coming from Cole it was about the best I was going to get. He still didn’t like it, but I think he’d realized that if I was determined to be with him, there wasn’t much he could do about it. And besides, he liked being with me. He always had. He’d never admit to it, but I could feel it—buried deep down inside him.

  He was keeping a lot of other stuff buried, too—but most of it was buried so deep that neither of us knew what it was.

  I didn’t mind.

  As long as we were together, that was enough for me.

  I kept my mouth shut and my thoughts to myself.

  Half an hour later we were sitting in the back of a black taxi and the driver was asking us where we were going. I looked at Cole, wondering if he’d given it any thought.

  “Police station,” he told the driver.

  “Which one?”

  “What?”

  “Which police station d’you want?”

  Cole hesitated. He hadn’t given it any thought.

  “Breton Cross,” I told the driver.

  He nodded at me and pulled away, and I settled back and looked out of the window. Cole didn’t speak for about a minute.

  Eventually he said, “I suppose you think that proves something, do you?”

  “What?” I said innocently.

  “There’s no need to look so pleased with yourself. I would have gotten there in the end. It just would have taken me a bit longer, that’s all.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “How do you know which police station we want, anyway?”

  “I looked it up on the Internet. Breton Cross is the main one. It’s where the officer in charge of Rachel’s investigation is based. That’s who we want, isn’t it?”

  Cole looked at me. “What’s his name?”

  “Pomeroy. He’s a Detective Chief Inspector.”

  Cole nodded. He almost said thanks, but then he remembered who he was and just nodded again instead. I looked out the window and allowed myself a secret smile.

  Breton Cross Police Station was a five-story building that looked as if it had been dipped in shit. God knows what color it was supposed to be. It was the kind of color you get when you mix up all the colors in your paint box. A shitty color, basically.

  Cole paid the taxi driver and we went up some steps and through some doors into the reception area. There wasn’t much going on. A ratty-haired drunk woman in a long nylon coat was sitting on a plastic chair staring at the floor, but apart from that, the place was empty.

  I followed Cole up to the glass-paneled reception desk. The reception clerk—a fat old man in a thin white shirt—was pretending to be busy. He was writing something really important in a really-important-looking ledger. It was so important that he didn’t even have time to acknowledge our existence. It didn’t bother me, but I knew Cole could only take it for so long, so I wasn’t surprised when after thirty seconds or so he raised his hand and gave the glass panel a sudden hard slap.

  The fat man jumped and looked up angrily. “What the hell—?”

  “Sorry,” said Cole. “I thought you were dead.”

  The fat man frowned.

  “We want to see DCI Pomeroy,” Cole told him.

  “You what?”

  “DCI Pomeroy. We want to see him.”

  “You can’t just—”

  “Is he here?”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Find out.”

  The fat man’s hand reached for the phone, but then he realized what he was doing—taking orders from a scruffy kid he didn’t even know—and he frowned again and stopped himself. He turned back to Cole and was about to say something, but Cole beat him to it.

  “Tell him it’s a
bout Rachel Ford,” he said. “Tell him her brothers are here.”

  The fat man stared at Cole for a moment, then grudgingly picked up the phone.

  Pomeroy’s office smelled of air freshener and Juicy Fruit. It was a nondescript kind of place—desk, chairs, filing cabinet, window. Nothing much at all, really. A bit like DCI Pomeroy himself. He was one of those men who don’t seem to take up any space. Not big, not small, not anything. Just some kind of face, a haircut, a suit, some limbs, a voice.

  “Sit down, please,” he said, indicating a couple of chairs on the other side of his desk.

  We sat down.

  Pomeroy smiled at us. It wasn’t much of a smile. It looked like someone had cut into his face with a miniature penknife. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you both for some identification,” he said. “I know it sounds a bit paranoid, but you’d be amazed at the things people will do to get hold of information these days.”

  Cole took out his wallet and passed over his driver’s license. Pomeroy took it and looked it over. If he realized it was a forgery, he didn’t show it. He nodded at Cole and passed it back, then looked at me.

  “I left my driver’s license at home,” I told him.

  He smiled again but didn’t say anything.

  “I’m fourteen,” I said. “The only thing I’ve got with my name on it is my Simpsons Fan Club Membership card, and I think I’ve lost that. You could probably call the club if you wanted to check…”

  The look on his face told me to shut up.

  “Give him your library card,” Cole told me.

  I reached into my back pocket and passed over my library card. I don’t know why I didn’t do it in the first place. I just didn’t feel like it, I suppose. Pomeroy glanced at the library card, then passed it back to me and leaned back in his chair.

  “So,” he said, smiling at Cole, “what can I do for you?”

  Cole looked at him for a moment, wondering how to play it. I was wondering the same thing myself. Pomeroy hadn’t said a word about Rachel yet. No commiserations, no heartfelt apologies, no platitudes. That was fine with me, and I’m sure it was OK with Cole, too—but it wasn’t how it was supposed to be. And that was a little bit puzzling.

  “We saw Detective Merton this morning,” Cole said. “He’s our Family Liaison Officer—”

  “I know who he is,” Pomeroy said.

  “He’s been keeping us informed about how the investigation is going.”

  Pomeroy nodded. “That’s part of his job.”

  “Right,” said Cole. I could feel his voice getting tighter. So could he. He looked down at the floor, took a couple of steadying breaths, then looked up at Pomeroy again. “You’re the Senior Investigating Officer, is that right?”

  Pomeroy nodded.

  “OK,” said Cole. “What can you tell us?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Cole said calmly. “How about telling us why you’re treating us like shit, for a start. Then maybe we can take it from there.”

  Pomeroy didn’t even blink. “I wasn’t aware that I was treating you like shit. Of course, I apologize if that’s how you feel, but I can assure you that wasn’t my intention. I’m simply waiting for you to tell me what you want.” He smiled his nasty little smile again. “I realize it’s sometimes difficult to find the right words in these situations, but if it’s a question of viewing the body—”

  “We don’t want to see the body,” Cole said.

  “What, then? If it’s your sister’s personal effects you’re after, I’m afraid we need to hold on to them for a while. You can probably have some of them back in a few days, but we’ll need to keep her raincoat and clothes for evidence—”

  “We don’t want any of Rachel’s stuff.”

  Pomeroy frowned. “I’m sorry—I don’t see what else I can do for you.”

  “We want to bury her.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “We want to bury Rachel. We can’t bury her until you get the man who killed her. We want to know when you’re going to get him.”

  “I see…”

  “Have you got him yet?”

  Pomeroy rubbed his mouth. “Well, I’m sure Detective Merton has explained that we’re following up a number of leads—”

  “What kind of leads?”

  “I can’t say at this moment.”

  “Why not?”

  “It might jeopardize the investigation.”

  “How?”

  Pomeroy gave Cole a long hard look. “This really isn’t helping, you know. You’re just going to have to trust us to do our job. We know what we’re doing—believe me. There’s nothing we’re not doing to find your sister’s killer and bring him to justice.”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “I’m sorry, I really can’t go into any more details. The best thing for you to do is just go home and wait. As soon as we have any news we’ll contact Detective Merton and he’ll let you know.” Pomeroy stood up and looked down at us, waiting for us to leave. When we didn’t move, he shook his head. “Look,” he said, “if you want me to sit here talking to you all day, that’s fine. But if you want me to do my job, then I suggest you let me get on with it.”

  Cole just sat there looking at him for a while, then eventually he got to his feet. I stood up, too. Pomeroy started leading us over to the door. I looked at Cole, wondering why he was giving up so easily, but when I saw the way he was staring at the back of Pomeroy’s head, I realized he wasn’t giving up anything. I should have known better, really. Cole doesn’t do “giving up.”

  At the door, Pomeroy paused and put his hand on Cole’s shoulder. “Just one more thing before you go,” he said quietly. “I’m not sure what your intentions are, but I hope you don’t think your situation entitles you to any special treatment. I know you’re a victim, and I know you’re going through a terrible time, but that doesn’t put you above the law. Do you understand?”

  “No,” said Cole.

  Pomeroy sighed. “There aren’t any secrets in a murder investigation, son. We have to look into everything—the victim, their friends, their family…” He paused to let that sink in, then went on. “I know all about you and your father…and I don’t just mean what’s on file. Do you understand me now?”

  Cole said nothing, just looked at him.

  Pomeroy smiled. “Just be careful—OK?”

  Cole remained silent. If Pomeroy didn’t take his hand off his shoulder soon, Cole was going to find it hard not to do something about it. I didn’t think that would help things much, so I opened the door and took Cole’s arm and gently pulled him away. His flesh felt like steel.

  “Come on, Cole,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  As Cole reluctantly gave in to me, Pomeroy gave him a final humiliating pat on the shoulder. I felt Cole’s muscles tense.

  “Just relax,” Pomeroy told him. “Leave everything to us.” He looked at his watch. “There’s a train leaving for London in forty minutes. If you and your brother wait downstairs, I’ll arrange for a car to take you to the station. How’s that?”

  Cole didn’t answer, he just turned around and walked out the door.

  As I followed my brother along the corridor, I knew that this was just the beginning. There was a long way to go yet, but the fuse was already burning.

  Four

  Some people think I’m some kind of genius, but I’m not—I just feel things that other people don’t feel, and I’m also really good at remembering stuff. I don’t have a photographic memory exactly, but I can pretty much remember whatever I want. Facts, figures, information…it doesn’t matter what it is, as long as it means something to me, I can remember it. The only stuff I have trouble remembering is the stuff that doesn’t mean anything to me, which is one of the reasons I always had trouble at school. But since I don’t go to school anymore—so I don’t have to remember the stuff that doesn’t mean anything to me—it’s not really a problem.

  It�
��s not really important, either. I’m only mentioning it to let you know how I knew the way from the police station to the bus station. I knew because I’d looked at a map on the Internet that morning and remembered all the relevant details.

  So when we left the police station, and I asked Cole where he wanted to go, and he told me he wanted to go to the bus station, I didn’t have to think about it for long.

  “It’s just over there,” I told him. “Down the street and through the underpass.”

  We headed for the underpass.

  Cole had already put Pomeroy to the back of his mind. He hadn’t forgotten about him—he didn’t forget about people like that—but for now he was content to put him to one side while he thought about what to do next.

  “Where are we going?” I asked him.

  “What?”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I just told you—the bus station.”

  “Yeah, I know that. I mean, where are we going from the bus station?”

  “Lychcombe.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know Pomeroy’s going to be keeping an eye on us?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He knows you’ve got a criminal record.”

  “So? It’s only for stealing cars. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “What about the other stuff?”

  Cole glanced at me. “What other stuff?”

  “Pomeroy said that he knew all about you and Dad, and he didn’t just mean what’s on file.”

  “If it’s not on file there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Forget it, Rube—all right? It’s nothing. We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re just going to Lychcombe. There’s no law against that.”

  He was getting edgy again, so I decided to change the subject.

  “Why don’t we get a taxi?” I suggested. “We might have to wait hours for a bus.”

  “Rachel went by bus,” Cole said. “Merton told us—remember? They found a return bus ticket from Plymouth to Lychcombe in her raincoat pocket.”

  I looked at him. “You want us to retrace her journey?”