by Tom Weaver
She picked up the phone. 'Hello?'
'Sona, it's Jamie Hart.'
We could hear him. She looked back at me. I smiled and nodded for her to continue. 'Hello,' she said quietly.
'I just wanted to let you know that we're on our way over.'
I looked at Healy, then back to Sona.
Healy got to his feet and went straight to the window that looked out into the courtyard. Inched the curtains across. Leaned in closer to the glass so he could see along the pathway that led from the main road into the courtyard.
'We're about two minutes out,' Hart said to her.
'Fine.'
'We'll see you in a moment.'
The call ended.
'We need to leave,' Healy said. I glanced at Sona: she was starting to wonder what she'd got herself into now, whether she should have trusted us.
'I just need to ask one more question.'
'Raker,' Healy said. We need to go.'
I held up a hand. 'I know. One question.'
She looked between us.
'You said you couldn't make sense of the things you heard after Markham attacked you, after you blacked out. What did you mean by that?'
Healy was looking at his watch.
She frowned. 'I mean, I heard things. Out-of-place things.'
'Like what?'
Silence.
Then: 'After Mark said "I can't do this any more," everything was black. But…' She paused. 'But I swear I could hear something. I swear I could hear whimpering.'
* * *
Chapter Sixty-one
As we were jogging down the steps of the house, we saw Hart and Davidson pass the entrance to the complex in an unmarked Ford Focus. They were headed for the car park. 'He'll see my car,' Healy said, panting already.
'He knows we're here,' I said. 'He'll have tracked your phone.'
We darted through the darkened arch linking the courtyard and the road, and then watched as Hart and Davidson emerged from the Focus. They didn't speak, but they were moving with a purpose. They'd picked up our trail faster than I thought.
Hart led the way, Davidson following gingerly. They were an odd pairing, in a different time, they may almost have been comical. It was hard to imagine Davidson ever being slim. Stocky would have been the best he'd been called, but middle age had robbed him of even that. Hart was the polar opposite: gaunt, almost painfully so, like his skeleton was the only part of him. No muscle. No sinew. Just bone.
We backed up and returned to the courtyard. Immediately right, on the opposite side to the safe house, was a long patch of shadow. We moved into it, crouching - and waited. Thirty seconds later they appeared, heading off to their left. We watched them disappear out of view.
And then Healy made a break for it.
I tried to grab him, tried to pull him back, but he was already off, using the darkness as cover. It was a stupid, desperate move. He didn't want to get caught, not now, not by them — but if he'd waited another couple of minutes, we would have been in the clear. I glanced in the direction of Hart and Davidson. Healy had been quiet — but not quiet enough. Gravel scattered. A loose paving slab rocked in its bed. The two detectives came back into view—and saw him.
'Healy!' Davidson shouted.
They both broke into a run, Hart immediately moving faster. I glanced at Healy. His bulk was holding him back. He was built for strength, not pace. He stumbled. Lurched towards one of the walls inside the archway. When he looked back, he could see they were gaining. Could see they'd be on him before he even got to the car. He looked frightened, angry and guilty. Eyes wide. Breath rasping.
He was watching his plan collapse.
I've got to do something.
I stepped out of the darkness, just as Hart was about to pass me. He slowed up, stopping about five feet from where I was standing. Davidson was three or four seconds behind. I held up both hands. 'It's okay.'
Hart glanced at Healy. I looked back over my shoulder and saw him slowing up, then come to a stop. When I turned to Hart again, he was staring at me.
'It's not okay, David.'
'Raker?' Healy's voice.
'Take the car and do what you have to do, Healy,' I said, without taking my eyes off Hart. Davidson was alongside him now, but could hardly breathe. He was almost doubled over, hands on hips, his gaze flipping between Healy and me. 'Just do what you have to do.'
Hart's eyes wandered back to Healy, surprise in them.
I looked over my shoulder.
Healy was moving back towards us, his eyes fixed on Hart and Davidson, hands in his pockets. 'Healy, I said take the car and do what you have —'
And then he did something stupid.
He pulled a gun.
It took everyone by surprise. I hadn't glimpsed it on him at all, hadn't even thought to look for one. And yet, in that split second, I wanted to rewind to the moment he'd first picked me up that morning because now it made complete sense. I should have known. Should have seen it. He was a man at the mercy of his demons, a lonely figure hunting with no plan other than revenge. It burned in him. Fed on him. And now he stood facing two of the men he saw as culpable, the weapon out in front of him, his finger drifting across the trigger. Guns express their owners: they either show your opponent you are in control - or they show him you are completely out of it.
'Back up, Hart,' Healy spat.
Hart took a step back with his hands up in front of him. His eyes drifted between the two of us. 'For fuck's sake, Healy,' Davidson muttered from beside him.
'Healy,' I said gently.
'Shut up.'
'Healy, this isn't the way to —'
'Shut the fuck up? he screamed at me.
Hart nodded at the gun. 'Colm, just calm down.'
'I'm calm,' he said.
'This isn't the way to find Leanne.'
'Which way is the way to find her then?' Healy replied.
'Your way?' He paused, snorted. 'Phillips already gave me this little talk.'
I watched as Hart raised his hands into the air a bit further. 'I don't know what it feels like to lose a daughter like you have, Colm. I don't. But this isn't the way to do it, I promise you. If you have evidence about the man who took her, then you need to present it in the right way. This…' He stopped, looked at the gun. This isn't the way to do it.'
Hart glanced at me and I knew what he was saying: Step up to the plate, David. He wanted me to stop Healy. He wanted me to grab the gun and put him down. Part of me knew it was the right thing to do. Healy was most of the way down the slippery slope now. Unreliable and dangerous. If it wasn't Hart and Davidson who got in the way, it would be someone else. Sooner or later, someone would get caught in the crossfire.
But I realized, in that moment, I couldn't turn on him.
In a weird way, somewhere deep down, I felt a kinship for him, even as he waved a gun around. He believed he'd been abandoned by the people he worked with, the people he'd spent his life alongside — and I agreed with him. He hated Hart and Davidson and Phillips and all the rest of them because, despite all the cases they'd worked together, all the bodies they'd looked at and the crime scenes they'd stood in, they'd still treated Leanne like just another victim. And some days, he didn't even feel like they'd done that much. By not tying her fully to the other women, they'd just left her as a faceless victim somewhere, anchored to nothing. Part of me understood the sense of injustice he felt because of that. And all of me understood his need to face up to what had happened to the person he'd loved most in the world.
'Colm,' Hart said. 'Just put the gun down and —'
'And what? Healy said, inching towards them, one step at a time. I looked at Hart, who seemed to acknowledge the decision I'd made with another tiny movement of his eyes. 'You're going to find Leanne for me?' Healy continued. You're going to admit you were wrong and fit her into your investigation the same as the others? Forget it. I don't need you now: you, Phillips, your robots back at the station. I've found out more about her in the la
st day than I found out in nine months working with you.'
'Colm,' Hart said, trying one last time to reel him in.
'Don't call me "Colm". Don't call me anything.'
'We're going to have to come after you.'
'Come after me, don't come after me, it makes no difference to me. But you better be clear on this: I will kill the bastard who took my girl. There's not going to be an arrest. There's not going to be an interview. This isn't going to court. There's going to be me putting a bullet in the middle of his face and leaving his body to the fucking flies. And if you want to get in the way, you better make sure your coffin fits, because I swear to you: I will kill you too.'
Something moved in the faces of both Hart and Davidson, and we all knew what it was. Healy had just crossed a line, one he didn't have a hope in hell of retreating back across. His career — everything he'd worked for — was over. He was done. An unspoken conversation passed across the space between us, a silent confirmation that this was the end. And then I grabbed Healy's arm and we made a break for the car.
* * *
Chapter Sixty-two
We headed east through empty city streets, rain hammering down, street lights and shopfronts just smudges against the night as Healy carved his way along Commercial Road.
Our homes would be off-limits now. Phillips and Hart had both their task forces on our trails, and they'd have men stationed outside the places we slept. Until this was over — whenever that was, and however it ended — we had to keep ahead of them without being caught. We had to find Glass. If we didn't, the next time we saw daylight was going to be when we were doing circuits in a prison yard.
'How much of what Sona told us tonight do the task force already know?'
Healy shrugged. 'Not much. That's the most she's ever talked.'
'She never mentioned anything about the place she was kept?'
'She said that it looked like some sort of sewer tonight. I remember reading that in the statement too. But definitely nothing more. Obviously they know where she ended up, so Phillips and Hart have had teams doing on-foot searches of the rivers.'
'Have they found anything?'
'Do you know how far the water travels north from Bow Creek alone?'
I shook my head.
'Twenty-six miles. All the way up past the M25. She didn't get dragged down from there, obviously, but that's a lot of walking just to be sure.'
'Anything apart from on-foot searches?'
They pulled blueprints from Thames Water. Checked the network close to both creeks and found nothing matching her description. There are no disused sewers close to any of the waterways we're talking about.' He looked at me. 'So she wasn't kept in a sewer, if that's what you're thinking. He may have adapted an existing structure, but it wasn't part of the functioning sewer system.'
I nodded and looked out of the window. Rain slid down the glass. Even with the heaters blowing, I could feel the chill of the evening coming off the windows.
'That's good,' I said finally.
'What's good?'
'That no one's figured out where she was taken yet.'
'How the hell is it good?'
'Because she was taken from Hark's Hill Woods, and it seems pretty obvious that she was kept there too. Look at all the connections to that place: Glass's obsession with Sykes; the relationship Sykes had with the woods; Sona talking about coming up above ground into that house, and all the trees that were growing around it. Plus, right at the end, she talked about hearing whimpering before Markham attacked her.'
'So?'
'So it was a dog she was hearing. His dog.'
'How do you figure that?'
'I went to the Dead Tracks a few days back. While I was there, this mutt emerges from the trees. It's on its last legs. Looks like it's had its fur singed and been badly mistreated.' I paused. It sounded crazy, even though I'd seen it with my own eyes. 'And there was this shaved area on the side of its face where a patch of skin had been grafted on.'
Healy looked at me blankly.
'I think Glass was using it.'
'Using it how?'
'Using it as a lab rat. Seeing if the skin would take.'
'Why?'
'I don't know. But look at what he did to Sona.' I paused, seeing the disbelief in Healy's face. You want my best guess? He was planning something big and he didn't want to risk damaging the women.'
He went quiet, and we could both see why: his daughter was one of those women. Rain filled the silence, pounding even harder against the roof of the car, hissing as it exploded against the bodywork.
'So what — we're looking for a messed-up dog?
I shook my head. We're looking for the house Sona described. Wherever the house is, the dog is — because that's where Glass is.'
Healy sighed. 'That place is a square mile of nothing but trees. You know how many houses border it?'
'Remember what she said. We're not looking for one that's still being lived in. We're looking for one that's barely standing. A very specific house.'
'Whose?'
I dug around in my pocket and found my notepad. 'Milton Sykes's.'
Healy smirked. 'You're about seventy years late, Raker. They knocked the entire road down during the war and built an industrial estate on top.'
'We're not looking for the house he owned on Forham Avenue,' I said, holding up the pad and placing a finger against one of the entries: 42 Ovlan Road. 'We're looking for the house he was born in.'
* * *
Chapter Sixty-three
We travelled east down Derry Road, the street I'd parked on before, and turned left at the end, driving between a canyon of abandoned factories and old brick buildings. It looked like an earthquake had passed through it. Either side, roofs had caved in, walls had fallen away and glass lay glinting in overgrown weeds at the base of the buildings.
'This place gives me the creeps,' Healy said.
I studied the buildings, the windows, the doors. So much darkness. In all the time I'd been living and working in London, I'd never seen an area as desolate and abandoned. Healy was right: it was unsettling because it was so out of place.
We turned left again at the end on to what had once been Forham Avenue, the street that eventually lead to Ovlan Road. Except now the whole thing was called Peterson Drive. Nothing remained of the houses that had once occupied the area. The road was bordered by big, metal warehouses on the right and the edges of the woods on the left. The woods were cordoned off by an eight-foot-high wire-mesh fence, broken in parts, but mostly still intact. There were danger — keep out! signs posted along it, every hundred feet or so. At the end, the road opened out into the trading estate I'd seen in the satellite photos.
Healy pulled a U-turn at the entrance to the estate then faced the car back along Peterson Drive. The rain had eased off, but the street lights revealed low-hanging cloud, swollen and dark above us. We both looked at the clock. One-thirty.
'So, where's the house?' Healy said. He leaned forward, eyes on the trees, hands wrapped around the steering wheel. 'In the woods?'
He was half joking. But then he saw my face.
'You think it's in the woods?'
'There's no fencing and no warning signs at the south entrance,' I said, nodding at the diamond-shaped danger markers. 'Why are there here?'
'Because it's dangerous this side.'
'So maybe the house had a postal address on Ovlan Road, but it wasn't on Ovlan Road. Maybe it was inside the boundaries of the woods.'
He shook his head. 'Where the hell did you pluck that from?'
'I'm making an assumption here, Healy, okay? Feel free to step in any time you think you might have a better idea.'
Silence settled between us. I'd never met anyone in my life who pissed me off more and had me feeling sorry for him in equal measure.
'The house was all broken,' Healy said quietly. I looked at him and saw what this was: his apology. That's what Sona said earlier. The house was all broken.'
I nodded. 'No floors. Trees through the roof, through the windows. Where Does that sound like to you?'
Healy glanced at the fencing. 'It sounds like here.'
'It's been a century since Sykes died. About the same since the factories started hitting the buffers. That means at least seventy years in which the boundaries of the woods could grow out to this point, uncared for, and untouched. That's enough time for things to disappear. Big things.'