by Tom Weaver
He shook his head. 'No. We don't maintain a presence there, otherwise it starts to look suspicious. The houses are close together; lots of windows, lots of people. The task force calls her a couple of times a day, and she's got a panic button for emergencies. That's why it's best to go at night. They don't bother her after seven in the evening unless she indicates she's in trouble — and all the neighbours will have their curtains shut, so we won't get any added attention.'
We descended into silence.
Healy turned the radio on, and we both listened to the fallout from a north London derby at the Emirates. About five minutes further on, he hung a right into a short stretch of road with a series of double-storey, grey-brick terraced houses at the far end. They looked like they'd been airlifted in from the Eastern Bloc, then dumped in the centre of the city to decompose. A thin path led through an arch and into a courtyard. There were no doors on the outside of the buildings. The adjacent car park was set in semi- darkness, a solitary street lamp standing sentry, its orange glow flickering on and off. Healy pulled into it and killed the engine.
A second later, my phone started ringing. I'd had it off all day, but had switched it on briefly to check messages as we left Walthamstow. I'd forgotten to turn it back off again. I reached into my pocket and took it out, ready to kill the call.
But it was Jill.
I pressed Answer. 'Hello?'
Silence. A buzz, like interference.
'Jill?'
Then the line went dead. I glanced at Healy. He was looking out of his window to where a group of teenagers had gathered beneath the street light. But he was listening to every word. I tried calling Jill back, but after ten unanswered rings it went to voicemail.
'So what are you going to do?' Healy said, without looking at me.
I flipped my phone shut. 'About what?'
'About her.'
It was obvious he saw this as some kind of weakness in me, as if by expressing mild concern about Jill I'd somehow let my guard down. But I just ignored him, and turned my thoughts back to her. Why call someone if you weren't going to answer? And even if she'd accidentally dialled my number, why not pick up when I rang back?
'We can't afford to waste time.'
'I know that.'
'Where Does she live?'
'Acton.'
He rolled his eyes and looked away again, over to where the teenagers had produced a big bottle of cider and a pack of cigarettes. 'Acton's miles away.'
'I know that, Healy,' I said sharply.
He made a big show of looking at his watch as if he didn't believe me. I flipped my phone open again and dialled Jill's number, just to piss him off.
The line connected.
I let it ring nine times, then hung up. Next, I dialled directory enquiries and got a landline. They connected me. Again, the line continuously rang for half a minute. But just as I was about to hang up, someone answered.
'Hello?'
'Jill?'
'David?'
'Are you okay?'
'Yes, fine. Why?'
'It's just… you called me a minute ago and didn't answer.'
A hesitation. 'Did I?'
'I just wanted to make sure you were okay.'
'I'm fine.'
'Are you sure?'
'Yes, I'm good. I just…' She faded off.
'Just what?'
'Oh, nothing. I guess I just got spooked again, that's all.'
'About what?'
A pause. 'I don't know. This house, being on my own.'
'What's the matter?'
She didn't reply. 'Jill?'
'It's…' She stopped. 'It's just…'
'What?'
'I'm sure I just saw someone.'
'What do you mean?'
'The same man from before. The man in the red Ford. The one who was watching my place when you came round that night. I'm sure he keeps passing the house.'
I glanced at Healy. He had turned his head slightly in my direction, shifting closer as he listened to what she was saying. But he made a show of looking at his watch, so he could remind me that our priority was sitting inside a house about five hundred feet away.
'Can you call Aron?'
'No. He's in Paris.'.
I remembered him saying he was flying out earlier in the day.
'Okay, listen. I'm going to call a friend of mine and send him around. His name's Ewan Tasker. I'll get him to sit with you until I can get there.'
'Oh, thank you, David.'
'Okay. Sit tight.'
I hung up, didn't bother even looking at Healy as he glanced at his watch again, and dialled Tasker's number. He answered on the third ring. I told him what I needed him to do and he agreed immediately to drive around to Jill's. I thanked him, gave him her number just in case, then hung up and got out of the car. Healy looked across at me.
'Well,' I said. 'What are you waiting for?'
* * *
Chapter Fifty-nine
The houses in Sona's complex were built into a square, with the front doors facing on to a courtyard. They were two-storey homes, a separate flat on each floor, a stairwell leading to the top-floor flat in each of them. Everything was exactly the same: whitewashed windowsills, blue doors, grey-slate roof.
We moved through the arch and into the courtyard. It was large and overgrown, a huge oak tree spiralling up into the night from the centre. Dull cream street lamps ran in a line, tracing the right angles of the buildings all the way along. Each collection of ten houses had been given a different name: flats 1—20 were Randall; flats 21—40 were Chance. It looked like flats 41—60 were called Wren, but by the time we'd got to numbers 26 and 27, Healy had stopped.
'This is it?'
'Yeah, this is it,' Healy replied, and started moving up the stairwell to the top floor. He looked left and right, and then knocked four times on the door. Paused. Then knocked again. 'Just follow my lead,' he whispered. 'And don't act surprised.'
I frowned at him.
'Just don't act surprised,' he repeated.
A knock on the door, from the inside.
Healy leaned in further, as if he'd been expecting it.
'Charlie, Hotel, Alpha, November, Charlie, Echo. Case number 827-499.'
There was no reply. Healy looked at his watch and back at me, nodding as if this was how things were supposed to go.
'Winter.'
A female voice. So quiet, for a second I wasn't sure if it had come from another house. Healy leaned in again. 'Wintergreen,' he said.
'Spring,' the voice said again.
'Springboard,' Healy replied.
Then everything went quiet again. As we waited, I realized I could hear a TV beyond the door, muffled but audible. Two people were arguing. Healy turned to me, then back to the door. The code confirmed he was part of the task force, even if he wasn't. The responses to her would have been words only known by those intimate to the investigation: the trusted members of the task force Healy had described.
'What do you want?'
Her voice. A little louder now, but still small.
'My name is Detective Sergeant Colm Healy,' he said, adding a softness to his voice that I hadn't heard before. 'I'm part of Operation Gaslight. We haven't met before but I was hoping I might be able to speak to you for a few minutes. We've had some further developments in the case and I'd like to run a couple of things past you.'
I thought I heard something: paper being leafed through.
'You're not one of the names on my list.'
'I know.' He looked at me. There was an expression in his face that suggested this wasn't going according to plan. 'If you come to the window, I will hold up my ID.'
More pages being turned. Then the sound of footsteps. Healy backed away and stepped towards the window, which was adjacent to the door. He held up his warrant card at the glass. The curtain twitched and opened. In the V-shaped gap, we could see a woman, mostly just silhouette, arms on the curtains either side of her. Her eyes moved from th
e warrant card to Healy, and then to me. The curtain fell back into place. More footsteps.
'Who's he?'
'His name's David Raker. He's a missing persons investigator. He's been trying to trace the whereabouts of Megan Carver.'
'He's not on the list either.'
'Megan Carver was taken by the same man who took you.'
More silence. Even to my ears, even knowing that Healy was basically telling the truth, it sounded suspicious. Two men, neither of whom was on the list of contacts she'd been given by the task force, turning up on her doorstep at ten o'clock at night. Only one with ID. One not even employed by the Met. If she'd refused to let us in, it wouldn't have been a surprise. Instead there was a noise, like a lock sliding across, and the door opened a fraction on a chain.
In the gap, we could see blonde hair and a sliver of face. An eye. Part of the nose. Some of the cheek. Her eye darted between us and then out into the courtyard.
'Can I see your ID again, please?' she said.
Healy nodded. 'Of course.'
He took out a small black wallet and removed his warrant card, handing it to her through the gap in the door. She took it, disappeared for a moment as she checked it, then gave it back to him. She looked at me. 'And you?'
I got out my wallet, slid out my driver's licence and a business card, and handed it to her. She studied it, then disappeared out of sight. Somewhere in the background I could hear a gentle tap tap. About a minute later, she reappeared. Eye flicking between the licence and me. Then, finally, she handed it back and pushed the door closed. The sound of the chain being removed. Healy looked at me once again, this time not saying anything, the same message as earlier etched on his face: Don't act surprised.
The door opened.
Framed by the doorway, Sona looked between us. She'd been beautiful. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A sculpted face that swept through a thin nose and high cheekbones. She was dressed in tracksuit trousers and a vest, her arms exposed. Even as forty approached, she was still slender, the skin on her arms a pale pink, her fingers long and graceful, as unblemished and smooth as a twenty-year- olds. In her file, I remembered reading she was once a catalogue model. It was easy to imagine.
Except, now, imagine was all you could do.
Glass had been halfway through surgery when she'd woken up. Pale blotches covered much of her face, like dye spreading beneath her skin. Both cheeks were entirely bleached. Even whiter lines had formed in the creases in her forehead and in the gentle cleft of her chin, as if something had run across her face and collected there. And it had spread to her neck too, along the ridges of her throat. A scar followed her hairline on the right side of her face, and a second one in the same position on her left. There was bruising too, where the blotches hadn't formed: at the bridge of her nose it was almost black, like the advanced stages of frostbite; and under both eyes purple-blue smears moved down into her cheeks. Her eyes fell on me, chips of blue stone, narrowing slightly as if waiting for me to react to the sight of her. I nodded once, smiled, but didn't break my gaze. She stepped back from the door, glanced at Healy and invited us both in.
Immediately inside was a thin hallway that opened out into a living room, three other rooms leading from it. The first was the kitchen. Plates were piled in the sink, one on top of the other. The next was a bedroom with only a bed and a stand-alone wardrobe. The last was the bathroom. The extractor fan was still on as we came in, condensation on the mirrors and her towel lying in the middle of the floor.
The living room was sparse: two sofas, both of which looked about five years past their sell-by date, and a television on a cardboard box, leads snaking off to a Sky decoder on the floor behind it. There was a small coffee table in the corner. Books were stacked up on it, in two piles: ones that looked as if they'd been read, and ones that looked new. A magazine lay on the floor between one of the sofas and the TV, a crossword puzzle half filled in. There was a laptop as well. It's where the tap tap had come from. On the screen I could see she'd done a Google search for my name. The first hit had taken her to the BBC website, where a news report recounted what had happened on my case before Christmas. There was a photo of me leaving a police station, flanked by Liz.
She dropped back on to one of the sofas. Next to her was a remote control. She picked it up and turned off the TV.
We both sat.
'How are you feeling?' Healy asked, smiling again. It was weird seeing him like this. Smiling didn't seem to come easily to him, but he was a convincing Mr Nice Guy.
'Okay,' she said quietly.
She looked between us, waiting for us to react to her face. When no reaction came, she nodded at a sheet of paper on top of the TV. It was the list of names she'd been referring to. From where I was sitting, it looked like there were only about six. At the top were the words Operation Gaslight. At the bottom, in the same handwriting: These people ONLY.
'Why aren't you on the list?' she said to Healy.
Healy looked at me, and then back at Sona. He sat forward. 'Okay, truth time. I'm on the task force, but I'm on the outside. Not as far in as I'd like to be.'
A flash of fear in her face.
'It's all right,' he said, holding up a hand. He paused, glanced at me. Another pause, as if unsure whether to commit himself. 'Nine months ago, my daughter was taken — just like you.'
Her expression changed; the embers of the fear fading, replaced by a flicker of surprise. She looked between us but didn't say anything.
'I know the man who took you, took her. I knew it as soon as we got to you. I knew it was the same prick…' He stopped. 'Sorry.'
Sona just nodded.
'Anyway, a week ago, David was approached by the family of Megan Carver to look into her disappearance. When that happened - when I found out some of the things he'd discovered — I realized it was time to do something. It was time to find this guy. Because no one else cared about finding my girl. They think she ran away from home because…' He paused again, took a sideways glance at me. 'Because we weren't getting on so well as a family.'
I turned to Healy as he was talking, surprised he was being so honest. Maybe he figured Sona had been lied to enough. Everything Markham had fed her. Everything Phillips and Hart were making her believe. Or maybe he saw it as the best way to get her to talk. Problem was, Sona wasn't an ordinary victim, and Healy wasn't an ordinary detective. He was personally invested in her answers, and he needed her much more than she needed him. She was quiet and introspective, driven into her shell by the man who had taken her, and bringing her back out again could take weeks. We had hours.
'So,' he said, picking up the conversation again, 'in order to find him, in order to stop this, I was wondering whether we could go over some of what happened to you.'
He got the reaction I expected: nothing. She looked away, over to the laptop, where the picture of Liz and me still showed.
Healy leaned forward, trying to soften his face. 'Sona?'
'I can't remember,' she said.
He glanced at me. 'Okay.' He readjusted himself, preparing to come at it again. 'Maybe we could start with the man who took you. Daniel Markham. I think you used to call him Mark?'
She flinched a little. But didn't reply.
'Could you tell me about him, do you think?'
Nothing.
'Sona?'
'I can't remember,' she said.
Healy leaned further forward, but this was going nowhere. The secret was to find the chip in her shield that you could slowly open up in order for everything to pour out. Firing a succession of questions at her, or rephrasing the same one, wasn't going to work.
'So, do you remember anything about the day you were taken?' he asked.
She was looking off into space.
'Any detail, however small?'
She shook her head.
'Even if you think it's unimportant?'
Another prolonged silence. Healy paused. Moved in his seat. I could sense he was getting frustrated, but only because we
were really short on time. He'd done thousands of interviews. He could pace himself, or he could go in hard and fast, but normally he didn't have to keep an eye on the minute hand. The danger here was that the harder he tried to dig in, the less he'd get out of her, and the more the frustration would build. He shuffled right to the edge of the sofa.
'Sona, we just need to stop this guy.'
She looked down into her lap. We both watched her for a moment, but when she didn't make a move to engage us, Healy glanced at me. I shook my head. Don't say anything else. He gave me the look, the one that told me I was overstepping whatever mark he'd made for me in his head. But he was too close to what was happening — he was relying too heavily on her answers — to see why she'd gone back into her shell. In another place, on another case, he may have seen it clearly. But not now.