by Tom Weaver
There were photographs of her husband on some of the bookcase shelves, and again on the mantelpiece above the fire. I walked over and picked one up. They were at a police get-together somewhere. She was in a flowery summer dress, her hair up. He had his arm around her, and was dressed in full uniform, two silver stars on his shoulder. I put the photograph back on the mantelpiece just as Jill brought two cups of coffee through, setting them down on the table. She perched herself on the other sofa.
'Your husband was an inspector,' I said.
'You know your police stripes.'
'Was he a detective?'
'Yes. He worked for Thames Valley before he moved to the Met. That's when we came up to London.'
'He was a cop the whole time you were married?'
'The whole time,' she said, pouring milk into her cup. After she was done, she lifted a necklace out from her top. There was a small silver angel dangling from the end, a long spear in one hand. 'This is St Michael.'
The patron saint of policemen.'
'Right.' She smiled. 'I'm impressed.'
'I got to know the police pretty well as a journalist.'
'It was Frank's. I was going to bury him with it, but in the end preferred the idea of keeping it close to me. It seemed…' She slowly stirred her drink. 'It just seemed right.'
I nodded that I understood.
A thin smile worked its way across her face. 'Sometimes I still buy his favourite food when I go to the supermarket. I still leave the key in the wall out back, just in case he comes home. I guess… I guess I can't accept he's gone.'
'Do you mind if I ask what happened to him?'
She frowned. Looked at me for a moment. Then, as she blinked, her eyes filled up. She wiped them and sat back on the sofa, both hands wrapped around her coffee cup. They told me he was part of a task force looking into Russian organized crime. There was some link up with… is it SOCA'
I nodded. The Serious Organized Crime Agency. In my previous life as a journalist, I'd had a couple of contacts inside the National Criminal Intelligence Service, which later became part of SOCA. At the time it came into being in 2006, the media labelled it 'the British FBI', but as few of its officers had the power to arrest, and most of their work was surveillance and co-ordination, they were closer to the MI 5 model.
She shifted, sadness welling in her eyes. 'A couple of weeks after the funeral, one of his friends came here.'
'Off the record presumably?'
'Oh yes, definitely. I think he felt sorry for me. The way in which things had been… communicated. I mean, I tried to find out what happened to Frank in the weeks after his death, but the official version his bosses gave me, it just never…'
'Never felt right.'
'It just felt like there were gaps still to be filled.'
'How do you mean?'
She shrugged. 'They told me they were closing in on a big figure in one of the Russian gangs, and they'd been given a tip-off that he might be at a warehouse in Bow.'
'And was he?'
'I don't know.'
'They didn't tell you?'
She shook her head. 'No.'
'Because they wanted to contain the case?'
'Right. But I knew enough about police work to understand that. I didn't want to know the details of the investigation, I just wanted to know what had happened to Frank, and who killed him.' She took a few moments to find her feet again. 'All they told me was that he and another officer were shot in the chest.'
'By who — this Russian guy?'
'They said it happened fast.'
'So they didn't know?'
Her voice wavered. 'Officially, they said they didn't.'
'And unofficially?'
She paused for a moment. 'Frank's friend said the big figure they were after was a man called Akim Gobulev.'
Gobulev. The Ghost.'
She glanced at me. 'You've heard of him?'
'He's been on SOCA's most wanted list for the entire time it's been in existence.'
'Why do they call him "The Ghost"?'
'Because no one's even sure if he's alive.' 'Oh.'
'The NCIS used to joke that Gobulev was either buried somewhere, or had the power to turn invisible. They pinned stuff on him — trafficking, prostitution, drugs, money-laundering - but no one has seen him in years. The only evidence he even exists is an entry in a computer at Heathrow over a decade ago. He landed on a flight from Moscow - and then vanished into thin air.'
'Frank's friend said they were closing in on him.'
'Really?'
'That's what he said.'
'Gobulev was the guy at the warehouse?'
She picked up her cup of coffee again. 'No, I don't think so. He said he'd heard from some guys on the task force that this Gobulev man had had surgery.'
'What kind of surgery?'
'I'm not sure. But they'd found his surgeon.'
I sat forward in my seat. 'And that was who was in the warehouse?'
'Yes.'
'Gobulev's surgeon killed Frank?'
Yes,' she said again. 'His friend said the task force didn't know much about the surgeon, but they went to that warehouse to get him — and then use him to get Gobulev.'
'What else did he say?'
'I think that's all he knew.'
'Did he know the surgeon's name?'
She shook her head. 'No.'
She quickly wiped a tear away with a finger; but then a second one followed, breaking free and running down her cheek.
'I'm really sorry, Jill,' I said gently.
Eventually she looked up, an apologetic expression on her face. She was conscious of embarrassing me, but couldn't do anything to stop herself crying. I watched her for a moment, studying her, turning things over in my head.
'Look, I'll tell you what: I'll make a few calls for you and see if I can find out anything more. I can't promise anything.'
'David, you don't have to —'
'It's fine. I have another case, and that one has to take precedence. But after I'm done with that, I'll ask around for you, okay?'
She nodded, choked up on tears.
'It might be… it might be painful, some of it.'
'I know,' she said gently. 'But it can't be any more pain- fill than not knowing.'
I got back from Jill's at four o'clock. The rubbish bin I always kept at the front of the house had been tipped over, black bin liners spilling out across the pathway — and the sliding door at the front porch was open. I tried the front door.
It was still locked.
Backing out, I did a quick circuit of the house. Nothing was out of place. No sign of any disturbance. I often left the porch door open, without ever noticing; and, as I got back around to the front, a cat darted out from the shadows, across my lawn and out on to the street. It had some food in its mouth, removed from a hole in one of the spilt bin liners. I put the bags back inside the bin, and headed to bed.
* * *
Chapter Twelve
After staying out until 4 a.m. the previous night, I slept late. By the time I was showered and fed, it was almost midday. I headed into the office.
I didn't use it anywhere near as much as I once did. At the start, it had been a way to separate my home life from my work life. A way to legitimize my career. Now Derryn was gone, it was just an expensive inconvenience, and I was thirty days away from watching the lease lapse. Once that happened, I'd work out of the house permanently, and another little piece of my previous life would have washed away.
Swivelling in my chair, I looked up at the corkboard behind me. A wall full of the missing. Right at the top was Megan Carver. I stood and pulled the picture out, then sat down again and studied her. What's going on, Megan? What's your mum hiding? I turned gently in the chair, tracing the shape of her face; letting my mind turn over.
A couple of seconds later, my phone burst into life.
I looked at the display, NUMBER WITHHELD. Pulling it towards me, I switched to speaker phone.
'David Raker.'
No response.
'David Raker,' I said, louder.
No sound at all. No static, no background noise.
I sat forward in my seat. 'Hello?'
Just silence.
'Hello?
'Mr Raker…' A soft voice. Female. 'It's Kaitlin.' 'Kaitlin?'
'You said to call you if I…'
I glanced at the photograph of Megan. Things have changed., I should have said. But then I remembered the way Kaitlin had been when I'd gone to the school, and realized a part of me wanted to find out what she had to say.
'I, uh… There's something…' 'It's okay, Kaitlin.'
'Something you should know.' 'Okay.'
'About Megan.' A pause. A long one. 'I'm just sick of having to lie.'
More silence. For a moment, all I could hear was the slight crackle of her breath against the mouthpiece.
Then, finally, she spoke.
The Carvers' gates were closed when I pulled up outside. I'd tried calling ahead, but no one had answered. I locked the BMW, stepped up to the intercom and pressed the buzzer. They had a small camera embedded in the number pad. I looked into it. It was moving from left to right, then — as it got to me - stopped. A crackle on the intercom.
'What do you want?'
James Carver.
'I need to speak to you.'
'We've got nothing more to say to one another.'
'You're going to want to hear this.'
The camera hummed. This time, in its centre, I could see the lens open up. He was zooming in on me. I stared straight into the eye of it.
Then the gates buzzed open.
Carver met me at the door, but didn't offer me anything to drink. Didn't even ask me in. The two of them stood in the doorway, arms crossed, defensive, waiting for whatever I had to say. Carver was in front of his wife, protecting her, as if he thought I might try to start something.
'I got a call this morning,' I said, keeping my eyes fixed on him. 'From Kaitlin - Megan's friend. Did the police ever tell you what she said in her statement?'
'What's this got to do with anything?'
'Did they?'
Anger flared in his eyes. 'She was the last person to see Megan.' He paused, a flutter of sadness in among the irritation. 'That's it.'
For the first time, I glanced at Caroline. Her eyes were fixed on mine, but there wasn't any of the animosity of her husband.
'That's not it,' I said, glimpsing a little fear in her now.
'What are you talking about?'
'Before Megan disappeared, she confided in Kaitlin.'
'About what?' Carver said.
'And I think she might have confided in your wife as well.'
Carver's mouth dropped a little, as if he couldn't believe I had the balls to come into his home and insult his wife again. Then, when Caroline didn't respond, didn't even attempt to register her disgust, he looked over his shoulder at her.
'Caroline?' he said. 'What's going on?' She couldn't look at him.
'James,' I said, and waited for him to turn back to me. When he did, the anger had gone from his face. 'Megan was pregnant.'
* * *
Sona
Sona woke. Next to her, Mark was lying on his stomach, the sheet gathered at the small of his back, breathing so quietly she could barely hear him. On the floor, their clothes were scattered everywhere: a blouse, a skirt, a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, a jacket. Shoes at the door. Underwear still clinging to the ends of the duvet.
She sat up and caught sight of herself in the reflection of the mirror. Naked, and still a little conscious of it, even though they were nearly six months into their relationship. It was a feeling that was slowly starting to pass. Mark made her feel good about herself in a way few men had before. That didn't mean he complimented her a lot either, but she'd made allowances for that. He was incredibly shy, so different from the other men she'd known, and she liked that about him. She'd always had reactive men before. Men who told her she was beautiful and then ended up tearing her heart out. She found Mark's stillness — his sense of quiet — new, exciting and secure.
She headed to the bathroom and closed the door, looking at herself again in the mirror. In her twenties she'd done a little modelling and, as she'd passed into her thirties, she'd lost none of her looks. The blonde hair, blue eyes and high cheekbones could still turn heads, even if she saw changes elsewhere. Maybe a little more weight than she should have had. A few more lines at the corners of her eyes. Some of the definition around her stomach had gone. She'd be thirty-six in two days, and knew she had imperfections now. But she'd found a man who was able to look past all of it.
A man she was falling in love with.
They'd been driving for about twenty minutes when Mark told her she could remove the blindfold. Sona reached up and pulled the tie away. Her head throbbed slightly. She wasn't sure if it was the start of a headache, or the sudden switch from dark to light. Sun poured into the car as she looked around, and saw they were in a parking space on a narrow residential street. Identical terraced houses ran along either side of the road. Most hadn't been maintained with any sense of pride: paint blistered on windowsills, plants were dying in small concrete yards, broken gutters hung loose.
'It gets better,' Mark said, turning to her. 'Promise.'
'Where are we?'
'I used to come here sometimes.' He pointed a finger towards a small alleyway running between two houses further down. It was the only break in the buildings, on either side, for as far as they could see. To the woods down there.'
'Woods?'
Mark killed the engine.
'They used to make munitions in this area during the Second World War, at a factory further up the road. This whole place was once one of the centres of British industry. Now look at it…' He studied the houses opposite. When he turned back, he glanced at Sona and smiled. 'Oh shit, I've just turned into my dad.'
She laughed. He smiled, then reached down to the side of his seat. A second later, he brought out a single red rose. 'Happy birthday, Sona,' he said quietly.
She took the rose, a cream ribbon tied to the stem. Something moved across his face — as if he was on the verge of telling her something important.
He wants to tell me he loves me.
She waited for a moment, and when it didn't come, leaned into him and kissed him gently on the lips. 'Thank you, baby,' she said. When she drew away, she saw the same expression. 'Are you okay?'
He glanced towards the alleyway, then turned back to her.
'I just…' He paused. 'I'm just really…'
In love with you.
She smiled and squeezed his leg, kissing him on the cheek.
He nodded to the back seat. 'I hope you're hungry.'
She turned. She'd heard him sliding something into the back after he'd blindfolded her and guided her to the car. Now she could see it had been a hamper.
'Shall I take you to our picnic spot?' he asked.
'Yes,' she said, her voice trembling a little. 'I'd love that.'
Mark led her away from the car, carrying the picnic hamper. They turned into the alleyway and followed it until it opened up on to a concrete bed with a series of half-demolished brick walls across it. She realized then that it had once been a factory. To her left and right were more ruined walls, remnants of another age; some still just about standing, some nothing but piles of bricks and dust, grass and weeds crawling through the foundations.
Rubbish was dumped everywhere: beer bottles, drinks cans, crisp packets, sweet wrappers, dustbin liners full of rotting food. The smell was awful.
'Don't worry,' he said. 'It really Does get better.'