The David Raker Collection

by Tim Weaver

  pffffffff

  Her eyes snapped open.

  The hole was bricked in dark colours all the way up, so there was no definition to her surroundings. No chinks of light. She couldn’t even see her own hand in front of her face. Everything vanished in the darkness, and all that remained was sound: a very gentle rumble now, reverberating through the floor of the room above and down the walls of the hole; and the rhythmic beat of the rain.

  She lay there with her eyes open. As she counted the time in her head – thirty seconds, a minute, two minutes, five minutes – the rain started to get harder. At ten minutes, she could feel herself getting tired again. Her eyes drifted closer together. She opened them and stared into the darkness for another sixty seconds. Then she closed them, too tired now to fight the onset of sleep.

  pffffffff

  She moved quickly, sitting up on the mattress. What was that? The sound had been closer this time. She expected to be able to see something, maybe just the smallest mark against the darkness. But there was nothing. No light. No shapes. Everything was black. She reached out in front of her, to where the sound had come from. Leaned a little way forward. Pressed her other hand against the floor for support.

  And then it came to her.

  She realized what the sound had been.

  Static.

  Torchlight erupted from the corner of the hole, blinding her briefly. She brought a hand to her eyes, automatically reacting, but a leg kicked her supporting arm out from under her and she fell forward, hitting her face against the floor. It dazed her for a moment, white dots flashing in front of her. When she rolled on to her back, he was standing above her, a foot either side of her body, a smile cutting across his face.

  Behind him, propped against the wall, was a ladder.

  He’d come down, into the hole, and she hadn’t even heard him.

  She tried to wriggle away from him, getting as far as she could, but he placed a boot on her throat and pinned her to the floor. Static from the speakers in the room above.

  ‘This is the beginning,’ he said.

  Even up close, it was hard to make out his features clearly. He’d turned the torch away from himself, shining it to the left. Shadows cut across him, little pieces of the night clinging to every fold and crease in his face.

  ‘This is where you give me my life back.’

  In the blink of an eye, the man took his foot off her throat and lifted her up off the floor of the hole. She went to fight him, went to kick or punch or bite, but he was too quick. He punched her in the side of the head – a fast, efficient jab, right at the corner of the eye – almost hissing at her as he moved.

  And then she toppled sideways on to the mattress and blacked out.

  PART THREE

  36

  They took me to the same station as before, but this time I wasn’t going to be walked straight into an interview room. The same custody sergeant that had greeted my arrival the first time was perched at the front desk, looking down through his half-moon glasses. He glanced at me, then at Phillips and Davidson, and buzzed them in. The three of them led me in the opposite direction to the interview rooms, through two sets of doors, into the custody suite. Behind me, Phillips pushed a metal gate shut until it locked. Davidson moved off to my left. The sergeant slid in behind a desk, introducing himself as Fryer, and asked Phillips to undo my cuffs. Up front, he told me my rights. Every couple of sentences, he paused to ask if I was clear. They hated the Police and Criminal Evidence Act more than any of the men and women they arrested. Anything missed, any mistakes, and a solicitor would dismantle the case.

  Fryer produced a camera from under the counter. Police liked to get the pictures out the way in case, for any reason, injuries were sustained inside the station later on. He took three photographs. Once he was done, he invited me across to a table where the fingerprint kit sat. The whole time, Davidson watched. I glared at him, but he just stared at me blankly.

  Next, Fryer asked Phillips to go over his account of the arrest. It was the reason Davidson had been taking notes. Except Phillips didn’t need them. He’d committed pretty much everything to memory. When he was done, Fryer turned to me and asked if I had anything to add; in effect, he was asking me if I wanted to dispute Phillips’s account. I shook my head.

  The rest of the booking in took twenty minutes. I emptied out my pockets and everything was logged, gave them my belt and shoelaces, then Fryer reminded me of my rights again, and asked me if I wanted to call anyone or inform a solicitor. This time I said I wanted to make a call, and Phillips directed me to a room behind the booking-in area. It was small with reinforced glass panels, one table and one chair – both bolted down – and a telephone on the wall. They left me there. I watched them go, and then dialled Liz’s mobile. After three rings, she picked up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Liz, it’s David.’

  ‘David,’ she said, and sounded pleased to hear my voice. ‘How are you? I popped over yesterday, but you must have been out.’

  ‘Liz …’

  She immediately sensed something was up. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m under arrest.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The police turned up at my house earlier …’ I paused. ‘They’ve made a mistake. They’ve somehow tied me to the disappearance of Megan Carver. I don’t know how, but … Look, I don’t want to talk about it too much over the phone. I just need your help. Can you get here?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she said. ‘The only thing is, I’m not in London.’

  My heart sank.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m up in Warwick seeing Katie.’

  I remembered her walking down the drive to her car before eight that morning. Warwick was eighty miles away. An hour and a half on a clear run. Except Sunday night on the motorways into London wouldn’t be a clear run. Even if she left now, it would probably take her a couple of hours. If I was unlucky, even more.

  ‘David,’ she said, and her voice was suddenly quiet and controlled. ‘What is it they think you’ve done?’

  ‘Abducted Megan.’

  She paused. ‘Did you abduct her?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  I heard her exhale softly. ‘Okay. Listen. I’m going to ask you a couple of questions. Don’t leave anything out.’ She stopped. Let that last sentence settle. She was reminding me of the times she’d helped me out before when both of us had known I’d left some of the truth buried. ‘So, first: do you think Megan’s dead?’

  ‘She’s been gone six months.’

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘Statistically, there’s a good chance, just because of the time she’s been missing. I’ve got no evidence to support that. And neither have they. But the case is still active.’

  ‘So if the case is still active, they’re working from the assumption that she could just as easily be alive?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Because here’s the thing. You are entitled to free legal advice. They’d have told you that already. The police have to provide that as part of PACE. You can go that route and, because it’s a Sunday evening and a solicitor won’t magically appear at the station in five minutes flat, that will delay any interview taking place for a while. And it will give me some time to get back.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But,’ she said, and paused. She blew out some air, and it crackled down the line between us. ‘If they think that there’s a real and immediate danger to the life of someone connected to this case – i.e. the girl they’re accusing you of taking – they can start the interview without having to wait for a solicitor. If they think Megan’s alive – if the evidence they have points to that – and they think any delay will adversely affect them finding her alive, then they can start the interview once you get off the phone to me.’

  I looked out through the glass to where Phillips, Davidson and Fryer had booked me in. They’d been joined by Hart now – and someone else I didn’t recognize.
He was wearing uniform. Early fifties but lean. On the shoulder of his shirt was his rank insignia. A crown, with red trim. Beneath that, a four-pointed star. As I studied him, he seemed to sense it and returned the look.

  ‘David?’

  I watched him for a moment more. ‘So who makes that call?’

  ‘What call?’

  ‘To bypass the solicitor.’

  ‘It has to be superintendent rank or above.’

  Standing between Fryer and Hart, a printout of my custody report in his hands, the station’s chief superintendent was still looking at me.

  37

  Twenty minutes later I was inside Interview Room 4 and the tape was rolling. There were three cups of machine coffee between us. None of them had been touched. The room was smaller than the one I’d been in before. It was all part of the play. Smaller room. Less space to breathe in. Psychologically, they were trying to secure any kind of advantage they could.

  After pushing Play, Phillips introduced himself and Davidson for the benefit of the tape, and then asked me to confirm my name and address. On the desk in front of him was a thin brown Manila folder. From inside, I could see the corners of photographs poking out. His hand was flat on top, as if he were scared it might suddenly disappear. Next to him, Davidson had resumed the casual stance of the first interview: leaning back in the chair, jacket off, too-tight T-shirt, arms crossed and resting on his belly.

  ‘Okay, David,’ Phillips said, ‘let’s get started. I’m going to ask you a few basic questions first, all right? So … can you confirm your occupation for us?’

  Davidson smirked. I looked at him. ‘Something funny?’

  ‘David?’

  I turned back to Phillips, but didn’t answer.

  ‘David?’

  ‘I’m a missing persons investigator.’

  Davidson nodded. Mock sincerity. He leaned forward in his chair and dragged one of the coffee cups towards him; just to be seen to be doing something.

  ‘So, why missing persons?’ Phillips asked.

  ‘About four months after I left the paper, one of my wife’s friends asked me to look into the disappearance of her daughter.’ I paused. Both of them looked at me. Phillips made no movement. Davidson shifted again. ‘So I did. After that, a couple came to see me. Then another one. Then another. Somewhere after that, it became a job.’

  ‘Are you registered?’

  ‘With who? The ABI? No, I’m not registered. I haven’t signed up for my free newsletter and quarterly copy of Investigators Journal.’

  ‘How do people hear about you then?’

  ‘Yellow Pages, the internet, word of mouth.’

  ‘Did the Carvers hear about you through word of mouth?’

  ‘You’d have to ask them.’

  ‘They didn’t tell you?’

  ‘Normally it’s not that important to me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, the people who come to me have usually had their hearts ripped out because their kids haven’t come home for a month. I’m not conducting market research. I’m trying to find the most important person in their lives.’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Find them?’

  I nodded. ‘Always.’

  ‘So you’re good at your job?’ Phillips asked.

  I glanced at Davidson, but spoke to Phillips. ‘I think you and I probably have different definitions of whether a person’s good at his job or not.’

  Davidson sat forward in his seat. Laid both hands on the table, like he was trying to hold himself back. If the tape hadn’t been running, he might have said something.

  ‘What have you found out about Megan Carver’s disappearance?’ Phillips asked, staring at the file, still closed, in front of him.

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Care to elaborate?’

  I didn’t respond immediately, and when he looked up, he could see my face: Not really. ‘She disappeared from her school on 3 April this year,’ I said, before he could say anything that would get committed to tape and make me look unhelpful. ‘I’ve interviewed her friends and family. I’ve been through her email and her phone. As of yet, I haven’t found anything.’

  Phillips’s eyes narrowed. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘Nothing substantial.’

  There were three things I had that the police didn’t. One was Megan’s link to the Dead Tracks. When they’d got into her email, and been beyond the security on the LCT’s site, they would have found the map of the school car park and the message (Meet here at 2.30 p.m. for a romantic woodland picnic!), but with no idea which woodland it referred to, it wouldn’t have led anywhere. Because they didn’t have the guy in Tiko’s. If they’d picked out the man in the footage at any point during the six months since Megan vanished, then seen the message on the map, eventually they would have put it together. But without him, what they had was worthless.

  The second thing was the youth club. They had that too – they just hadn’t gone deep enough. They’d almost certainly interviewed Daniel Markham, but because Kaitlin never mentioned Megan’s pregnancy to them, he’d probably managed to slip through the net. And if he’d talked himself out of trouble once, it was a fair bet he’d do it again. What the police had was an obvious connection between Megan and Leanne: two missing girls, both part-time workers at the same place. But if Healy was sniffing around, working his daughter’s case off the books, it meant he was desperate for a lead; and that, in turn, meant police were still trying to find out who had taken Megan and Leanne. Markham was key, and – for the moment – only I knew about his relationship with Megan.

  And then there was Frank White, out there in the margins of the case. They’d found dog hairs in the warehouse the night he was shot. Hairs I was willing to bet matched up with the dog I’d come across in the woods. Beyond that, though, I was still looking for what tied him directly to Megan. Perhaps I could use Healy. He wanted answers about Leanne, and I wanted to know where Frank White fitted in.

  ‘What about Charlie Bryant?’ Phillips asked, disrupting my train of thought.

  ‘He’s connected to her disappearance somehow, but I haven’t figured out how or why. I’d suggest, though, that whoever killed him probably took Megan.’

  ‘Why kill him?’

  ‘Like I say, I haven’t figured that out yet.’

  ‘You must have a hunch.’

  ‘Maybe he witnessed something he shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Like what?’

  I frowned. ‘You want me to list a few fantasy theories? Or do you just want to stick to the facts? No witnesses. No CCTV. No accounts that Megan was particularly unhappy or depressed. No sign her grades were dropping at school. As I’m sure your colleague DCI Hart has already told you, this is a complex case.’ I paused. Hart. He was supposed to be the lead on the Carver investigation. So where was he? I looked at Phillips. ‘Shouldn’t Hart be taking this interview? He was heading up the Carver disappearance, wasn’t he?’

  Phillips nodded. ‘Chief Inspector Hart is busy elsewhere.’

  ‘I saw him earlier.’

  ‘He was checking in.’

  Now it was my turn to look suspicious. ‘The biggest unsolved of the last twelve months and he doesn’t want a piece of it?’

  Phillips sighed. ‘If you must know, David, DCI Hart is currently taking a long, hard look around your house.’

  I frowned. ‘Why?’

  Phillips ignored me and spun the folder around, so it was facing me. He slowly opened it up. Inside were five photographs, face down, one on top of the other.

  ‘Why do you think?’ he asked.

  He flipped the top picture over. Crime-scene photography. It was a picture of the doll I’d found at the youth club, sitting on my living-room table, just as I’d left it. He turned the next one over. The photograph I’d discovered inside it – the woman’s shoulders and neck – in a transparent evidence slee
ve.

  ‘Those were left for me.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In my front garden,’ I lied.

  ‘By whom?’

  I looked at him. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you know where the doll came from?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know who the female in the picture is?’

  ‘No.’

  He leaned back in his seat. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know.’

  ‘Would you rather I made up an answer?’

  Phillips shook his head. ‘No. No, I don’t want that, David. But let me remind you: you’re in trouble here.’

  ‘Because some nut left a doll on my lawn?’

  He studied me for a moment, then looked down at the rest of the photographs. A couple of fingers tapped the table. He started playing with his wedding band. Turning it. Turning it. ‘Do you know what the number two signifies on that photograph?’ Phillips asked, placing a fingertip on the scrawled two in the corner of the picture of the woman.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  He slid a finger under the third photograph and turned it over. It was another picture of a photograph, this one bagged as evidence, sitting on the kitchen counter in my house. It had been taken in the same location as the previous picture of the woman’s neck. Same subdued light. Taken either seconds before, or seconds after. In the corner was the number one, written in exactly the same way. And looking out was a woman I didn’t recognize. Not Megan, but not dissimilar to her. Blonde hair, tied up behind her head. Blue eyes open, but slightly glazed. She wasn’t dead, but it looked like she might be drugged. She was pretty, but her skin was grimy and it looked like there might be a faded bruise to the side of her right eye.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘You don’t know?’