The Dead Tracks dr-2

by Tom Weaver

  'I'm sitting in a police station.' I said. 'What could be better?'

  He smiled. 'They been treating you nicely?'

  'Five-star service.'

  'Good.' He looked again at the door. 'I'm not going to take up much of your time here. I just need to ask you a few questions.'

  'Your pals just asked me a few questions.'

  'I know,' he said. 'Luckily for you, I've got some more.'

  'Why?'

  'Why what?'

  'Why are you here?'

  'Like I said, I've got a few quest-'

  'I know what you said.'

  He paused, a serious expression settling across his face. Then a smile cracked; he wasn't amused, he was just trying to tell me he was a reasonable guy. 'Are you playing hardball, Mr Raker? Is that it?'

  'Where's Phillips?'

  'Never mind about Phillips.'

  'You two don't get on?'

  He pushed his coffee aside and reached into his back pocket. Took out his warrant card and laid it down in front of me. Next to a picture of a younger version of him it said DETECTIVE SERGEANT COLM HEALY.

  'I worked on the Megan Carver case,' he said, and glanced towards the door again. 'So I'd like you to answer a few questions for me. That way we can stop messing around and get on with the business of finding her.' He smiled his best shit-eating grin. 'Is that okay with you?'

  'I've already told Phillips everything I know.'

  He sighed. 'I'm going to level with you, Mr Raker. Me and Phillips…' He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. 'We don't get on. If I have to spend more than a couple of minutes in his company, I want to put my fist through a bloody wall. He rubs me up the wrong way. He rubs a lot of people up the wrong way here. The guy's got a rod up his arse.'

  'At least we agree on something.'

  'Do you think Megan Carver is still alive?'

  I looked at him. There had been a tremor of desperation in his voice. I leaned in even closer to him and this time I could smell the aftershave on the collar of his shirt and the coffee on his breath.

  'Mr Raker?'

  'I don't know.'

  His eyes narrowed. You don't know — or you won't tell?'

  'I don't know.'

  He glanced towards the door again. "We might be able to help each other here.'

  'How?'

  'You scratch my balls, I scratch yours.'

  I smiled. I didn't particularly want any man scratching my balls, but I was intrigued by what his play might be. Five minutes after Phillips warns me off my case, another cop turns up and tells me he can help me if we meet halfway.

  'So… you want to dance?' he asked.

  I didn't reply.

  Healy's eyes narrowed again, like he'd second-guessed me. 'That's disappointing' He stood. 'I could have helped you.'

  'I don't even know you.'

  'You don't need to,' he said. "We don't have to move in together. You tell me what you know, I tell you what I know. After that, we go our separate ways.'

  'Why?'

  'I already told you why.'

  'No, you didn't. You told me you worked the Carver case, but we both know that's not true.' I nodded towards the pad wedging open the door. We both know you're not supposed to be here.'

  We looked at each other; a face-off. After a while, he shrugged again, and made a move for the door. Give him something. See what his angle is.

  'Wait a sec.'

  He turned back to me. I reached into my jacket pocket and removed the folded-up printout of the man from Tiko's. I placed it down on the table, turning it so Healy could see. 'You want to help me?'

  He stepped back in towards the table. Nodded.

  'Tell me who this is.'

  He picked up the photograph, his eyes moving from left to right, taking in as much of the face, and the scene around it, as possible. There wasn't a lot else to see but the features of the man. I'd cropped it in as close to his head as I could get. Kaitlin had recognized the surroundings as Tiko's. Healy wouldn't.

  'What's this?' he said.

  You didn't come across him during the Carver investigation?'

  His eyes flicked to me. Frowned. 'Now why would I have done that?'

  A weird answer. I leaned back in my seat.

  'I don't know,' I said.' Why would you?'

  'Do you know who he is?'

  'No. Do you?'

  He didn't answer.

  'Do you?'

  He placed the picture back down on the desk. 'You want my advice, David?' he said, ignoring my question and calling me by my first name now.

  'Not really.'

  'Well, I'm gonna give it to you.' He picked up his coffee cup for the final time, and nodded at the picture. You want to spend less time with your nose in the history books, and more time trying to find out where the hell Megan Carver is.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'This prick,' he said, pressing a finger to the face of the man in the photo. 'How's he going to help you?'

  'What do you mean?'

  He looked at me, like he couldn't decide if I was joking or not. 'What do you think I mean? Your guy in the picture there — how's he going to help find Megan when he's been buried in the fucking ground for a hundred years?'

  Chapter Twenty

  I stared at Healy across the interview room. 'What are you talking about?'

  He glanced at the door, then back to the photo on the desk in front of me. 'You ever heard of Milton Sykes?'

  I frowned. 'The serial killer?'

  'Right. Old school. Kidnapped and killed thirteen women just over a hundred years ago and buried them so well no one's ever been able to find them. Sat there happily admitting he'd taken them, but wouldn't tell the police where he put the bodies. Probably thought he was Jack the Ripper — all smoke and mirrors and mystery — but all he really was, was a fucking arsehole.'

  I glanced at the photo. 'So?'

  'So if someone's given that to you, they're taking the piss.'

  'It's not Milton Sykes.'

  'It looks exactly like him.'

  'It's not Sykes.'

  'It's Sykes. Open your eyes.'

  I shook my head. Short of screaming in his face, he was unlikely to understand how certain I was. 'I'm telling you now, this isn't Milton Sykes.'

  'Face it. You've been taken for a ride.'

  This is a still from CCTV footage taken six months ago.'

  He took a step back towards me, the smell of aftershave and coffee coming with him again. His eyes flicked across the photograph, as if satisfying himself he was right. Then he shrugged. 'Look, believe whatever you want to believe. I don't care whether it is or it isn't. It doesn’t help me either way.'

  'So what helps you?'

  'What?'

  'You're not interested in Megan. So what are you interested in?'

  He was at the door now, fingers wrapped around it. He opened it a fraction and looked out through the gap. When he saw no one was coming, he turned back to me. Glanced at the photograph. Picked up his pad. Didn't say anything.

  'Come on, Healy.'

  Two uniformed officers had stopped outside the door, chatting.

  'Why are you standing here now?' I asked.

  He looked out into the corridor again, nodding at the officers. They nodded back, before saying goodbye to one another and disappearing from view.

  'I have my reasons,' he said.

  And then he was gone.

  They made me wait outside the CID office when we were done. Through the door I could see Phillips and Davidson at the back of the room, close to a wall full of photographs, chatting to someone. I recognized his picture from the papers: DCI Jamie Hart.

  He was thin, gaunt, with closely cropped blond hair, and wore the tired, put-upon look of a man who spent most of his life inside the walls of the station. His eyes, though, were different: fast, bright, lively, darting to meet mine every few seconds as Phillips, perched on the edge of his desk, spoke to him.

  As I wait
ed for them, I took in the walls of the office: the photographs, most too small to make out; a map of the city, littered with tacks and scrawled all over in marker pen; pieces of notepaper pinned adjacent to that; and — off to the side - a thin, vertical series of stickies with numbers on each: 2119, 8110, 44, 127, 410, 3111, 34. Something next to that also caught my attention: a blown- up black-and-white photocopy of Megan. It was the same picture I'd found of her on her digital camera, standing outside the block of flats. What have they got on her?

  I glanced at Phillips and Hart, then removed my mobile phone. The best bit about voluntary attendance was that you didn't have to sign over your personal effects. I raised the phone in front of me so it looked like I was texting, then quickly went to the camera option, zoomed in and took the best shot of the wall that I could manage. It was blurry and half lit - but it would have to do.

  Seconds later, Phillips led Hart out towards me.

  'David,' he said, as he came through. 'This is DCI Hart.'

  We shook hands. I made a show of pausing briefly, as if to send a message, and took in Hart properly. Then something else registered with me: Hart and Phillips were both DCIs. They worked out of the same station. They even worked out of the same office. Usually there was one ranking officer and a series of sergeants and constables.

  Here, the balance was off. Ten officers maximum, two of whom were DCIs. It was top heavy in a way I'd never seen before.

  'I understand you're working my case,' Hart said, disrupting my train of thought. There was a smile on his face. I didn't know him well enough to tell whether it was genuine or not - but somehow I doubted it.

  'Yeah, looks that way.'

  You think this Bryant kid was murdered because he knew Megan?' he asked, launching straight in.

  'I doubt it,' I lied.

  'So what's your take?'

  'Charlie Bryant had a disrupted last year or so. From what I can tell, he wasn't spending a lot of time at school, so he had to be spending his time somewhere.'

  'And?'

  'And maybe he got in with the wrong crowd.'

  'His father too?'

  I smiled at Hart. He was trying to corner me. I didn't want to lead myself anywhere I didn't have to go, so I just shrugged and said nothing.

  'Petty stealing,' Phillips said, picking things up, 'a little vandalism, underage drinking - that's the wrong crowd where Charlie Bryant comes from. Having an eight-inch blade put through your chest? Not so much.'

  I shrugged again for effect, but Phillips was right. Charlie Bryant wasn't from the bad part of town. He wasn't even from the okay part. His corner of north London was affluent and safe. Crime in his road was swearing at old women. Despite that, I stuck to the argument: 'It's been a while since we were teenagers, DCI Phillips. It's not the good old days any more. You leave your back door open now, you come home to no house.'

  Phillips studied me, eyes fixed, brain ticking over. He didn't look convinced, and I made a mental note to watch him. He was switched on and bright. That made him dangerous.

  'So,' I said, 'if we're done, I'll be off.'

  'Fair enough,' he replied, and held out his hand. I shook it. 'Remember, the Bryant murders are a police matter now, David. That means the police are dealing with it, and we don't need anyone getting in the way. And we absolutely, one hundred per cent, will not be sharing any information until we're ready to do so.'

  I nodded. 'Sounds like a plan.'

  'It does, doesn’t it?' he replied, then jabbed a thumb over his shoulder to the office. Davidson was sitting at a desk, watching us, an expression like a pitbull. You have a think about what we discussed. We're all after the same thing here. We all want to know why Charles Bryant was killed like that - and we all want to find Megan.'

  Inside the office, I suddenly saw Healy appear, a fresh mug of coffee in his hands. He glanced towards us, momentarily stopped, then moved away and out of view.

  Yeah, we all want to find her, I thought. Just some of us more than others.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Phillips had someone drop me back at my car, which I'd left outside the Bryant house. A uniformed officer was still positioned outside the front gates, another one further up the drive, and lights were on in the living room. Crime-scene tape shone in the street light.

  On the drive back home, I placed my phone in the hands-free and made a couple of calls. The first one was to Liz. It was Friday night, and we were supposed to be going to the new Italian restaurant her client owned in Acton. I told her we were still on, but I'd got caught up at work and would have to re-book the table for eight-thirty. She said that was fine. As I killed the call and thought about what lay ahead, something bloomed in my stomach. Excitement. Or doubt. Or both.

  As the traffic ground to a halt, I reached inside my jacket and took out the photograph of the man from Tiko's, studying the features of his face: the lines, the shape, the prominent brow sitting like a shelf of flesh above a pair of oil-black eyes. It wasn't Sykes. Milton Sykes was long dead. But there must have been enough of a similarity for Healy to believe it was him. Once I was home I'd find out more about Sykes - his victims, his crimes, his history — but, in the meantime, I could start filling in the gaps. I reached across to the phone and scrolled through to T.

  Terry Dooley.

  Dooley was an old contact I'd used during my paper days. His career was twenty-four hours away from being flushed down the toilet after I'd found out him and three of his detectives had spent a couple of hours at an illegal brothel in south London. I stepped in and offered to save his career and his family life all at the same time in exchange for information when I needed it. He reluctantly agreed, realizing the trade-off was better for him. Dooley was all bluster and front, but basically repentant. The one thing he cared about more than his job was his kids, and the idea of seeing them once a week after his wife had dragged him to the divorce courts was more terrifying than any crime scene.

  'What a great end to the day,' he said when I told him who it was.

  'How you doing, Dools?'

  'Yeah, fantastic now I've heard from you, Davey. What do you need this time? Your car cleaned?'

  The last time I'd called him, I'd got him to sort out a problem I'd had with a stolen hire car. Dooley's days of dealing with petty crime were about fifteen years behind him. He'd been working murders ever since.

  'Nothing like that, Dools - although my kitchen needs painting'

  He blew air down the line. 'Funny.'

  'This won't take long.' I glanced at the photograph of the man from the club. You familiar with anyone from the Megan Carver team?'

  'The Carver team?' He paused. 'Not really. They mostly worked out of the stations in and around north London.'

  'How come?'

  The chief super wanted things to look like they were focused locally so her family and the public would think we were on the frontline, asking all the right people all the right questions. Made it look better in the papers if the teams stayed local.'

  'It was all bullshit?'

  He snorted. 'What do you think? I know a few of the faces up there, but not well. I've seen Hart around. He used to work Clubs and Vice with one of the boys on my team. They called him "Skel" - as in "Skeleton". You seen him?'

  'Yeah. He's thin.'

  'Thin? Dooley laughed. 'I don't trust anyone who looks like they just crawled out the fucking ground.'

  'Anyone else?'

  'I know Eddie Davidson. We came through the ranks together, but I haven't seen the Burger King for a few years. The others… only what I've heard. There's some Jock going off like a rocket up there.'

  'Phillips?'

  'Yeah, that's him.'

  'Any idea why him and Hart are working out of the same office?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I mean, he's a DCI and so is Hart. There's two of them leading a tiny team of about eight detectives. I've never come across a set-up like that before — have you?'

  'Can't say I have.'
/>   'So what's your take?'

  'My take? Sounds like a one-way ticket to a great big shitheap of politics and personality clashes. I mean, who's the SIO? Who sets out the Policy Log?'

  The senior investigating officer ran the case and was also responsible for determining the parameters of the Policy Log, a set of rules unique to every case, which set out how the investigating team dealt with things like roles, responsibilities, HOLMES searches and the media. Dooley had a point: who made those choices when there were two officers of equal rank working in such close proximity? Something was definitely out of kilter. I just had to find out what.

  'Can I go now?' Dooley asked.

  'What about a guy called Healy?'

  'Colm Healy?'

  'Yeah — you know him?'

  'Yeah, everyone knows Colm. He was a good copper back in the day. Worked murders with me for a while. Nose like a bloodhound.'

  'He's not good any more?'

  'He's had…' He stopped. 'He's had a few personal problems.'

  'Like what?'

  'His wife left him, his kids hated his guts. He had this unsolved which pretty much broke him for a year. He had to take a month off on stress leave, and when he came back he was about half the cop and twice the man. He looked like the Goodyear blimp last time I saw him.'

  'Why'd his wife leave?'

  'Cos he spent most of his life chained to a desk working murders. She ended up banging some other guy, and when Colm found out he flipped.'

  'And did what?'

  'Punched her lights out and put her into a neck brace for eight weeks. She lost the hearing in one of her ears for a while. The kids had already turned on him, so he didn't do himself any favours there. I think he had three - two boys, one girl. Girl ends up having a massive barney with him; tells him she can't even stand to be in the same room as him any more. Just ups and leaves a couple of days later.'

  'Moves out?'

  'Disappears.'

  'As in, vanishes?'

  'Into thin air.'