The David Raker Collection

by Tim Weaver

  Suddenly a horrible realization moved like an oil slick inside her: He was using the liquid to prepare my skin for surgery. And he’s cutting into my face right now.

  Sona grabbed one of the scalpels. Come on then, you bastard. She tried to force adrenalin through her body, tried to kick-start some sort of response, but she was halfway across the room when she heard movement.

  Fast footsteps echoing in a corridor beyond the nearest door.

  Then static.

  She stopped, frozen to the spot. No footsteps any more. Just static. She transferred the scalpel from one hand to the other and held it up in front of her, in the vague direction of the door. Waited. Waited. Then she realized the static was coming from inside the room. She glanced to her left, high up into the corner. Hidden in the darkness was a speaker, built into the wall, painted the same uniform white to disguise it.

  ‘Ssssssssssona.’

  A voice from the speaker.

  And then in front of her the door handle began to turn.

  Heart shifting in her chest, she stepped sideways and forward, so she was behind the door as it opened towards her. Swallowed once. Twice. The third time she almost coughed. She was so frightened now her throat felt like his fingers were already closing around it. She clamped a hand to her mouth, trying to stop any sound, any whimper, any breath that might force its way up and form a noise. Next to her, the door continued opening. Don’t make a sound. It inched towards her. Don’t make a –

  It stopped.

  She looked down. The edge of a black shoe was in view. Nothing else.

  The ECG screamed. The static bristled. But all she could hear was her heart in her ears, thumping against her ribs, the noise so fierce it swamped everything else. From somewhere she summoned enough strength to raise the scalpel up, her fingers drained of colour, and hold it out in front of her, ready to use. She waited for him to come into the room.

  Waited.

  Still he didn’t move. Then, from the speaker in the corner of the room, the static got louder for a second. Crackling. Reverberating. Changing pitch and tone.

  ‘Where are you hiding, Sona?’

  His voice, coming from the speakers above her, and next to her on the other side of the door. A wave passed through her legs, the fear temporarily paralysing her muscles. She stepped further back, towards the wall, to prevent herself from falling completely. The movement made the smallest of noises; a squeak as the ball of her bare foot slid across the polished floor.

  It was enough.

  The door swung towards her so fast she barely even had time to register it. Within a second, it smashed into her face, the hard wood of the door pounding against her cheekbone. She stumbled back, trying to keep the scalpel up in front of her, desperate not to let her guard down. For a brief second, her brain told her she should be feeling pain in her face now – but instead she felt nothing.

  He came around the door at her.

  He was in pale blue medical scrubs, a cap and a face mask. She could see his eyes, flashing bright blue inside, and a wire, coming out from under the mask, down under the scrubs. In the split second it took her eyes to flick from the wires back to him, he clamped a hand on her throat and squeezed.

  Static.

  He forced her down towards the ground. She looked up at him. At his eyes. They were narrowed, focused on hurting her. He pushed her down to the floor, her legs giving way beneath her. He was showing her he was in charge. Forcing her to make short, sharp choking noises as her lungs tried to push air up through her throat. His thumb pressed against her windpipe harder. She was bordering on the edges of a blackout.

  Survival instinct kicked in.

  Nerves fired. Muscles tightened.

  She gripped the scalpel as tightly as she could and jabbed it into the back of his right hand. He yelled out, his cry initially dulled by the mask, but drowned out a second later as it screamed from the speakers in a distorted, broken copy of his reaction. Both hands released her. The sound died down. A wail of agony replaced by feedback and static.

  Sona scrambled to her feet, headed around him and out of the door. A long grey corridor. Concrete walls. Strip lights all the way down. She looked both ways. The corridor turned at a right-angle to her left. All she could see around the corner was darkness. To her right was a heavy iron door, huge rivets tracing its circumference.

  She headed left.

  ‘You fucking bitch!’

  She could hear him but not see him as she ran, his voice coming through a speaker in front of her, high up on the wall. But then: footsteps.

  She glanced over her shoulder. He emerged from the doorway, his eyes immediately fixed on her. Blood ran from his hand down the front of his medical scrubs and on to his trousers. But he didn’t care now. Above her, static hissed out of the speaker, and then, whispering, his voice travelled down to her: ‘There’s nowhere to run.’

  She turned and broke into a sprint again. As the corridor kinked left, it opened out into another, shorter one. A couple of crates leaned against one wall. No lights above her. There were three glass panels on her left and more concrete walling on the right. At the end was a door, about forty feet away, connecting the corridor she was in with a better-lit room beyond.

  ‘Where you going, Sona?’

  She passed under another speaker.

  ‘You’ve got nowhere to run!’

  She heard his footsteps behind her, but this time didn’t look back. Just kept her eyes on the door at the end of the corridor. Never letting up. Never dropping the pace. Ignoring the pain that was starting to emerge in her cheeks and across her forehead. Ignoring the screaming voice inside her that said she was never going to get away from him.

  Then, as she passed them, she realized the glass panels were windows.

  The first window belonged to a room she recognized. White walls. White ceiling. She could see the table, and the cards perched on top, pointing to the water and the place where the medical gown had been. In the corner of the room were her clothes. Left there in a pile. Everything but her underwear.

  She pounded on.

  The next room was exactly the same, except empty.

  Then she got to the third room.

  A woman was sitting on the floor in the opposite corner, legs up to her chest, face buried in her knees. Her hair covered her shoulders and arms, disguising some of the bruises on her skin – but not all of them. Sona slowed a little: an automatic reaction.

  There’s more like me.

  A noise from behind her. She looked back.

  He’d closed on her.

  In front of her, she could suddenly see a brightly lit room beyond an open iron door. The room was about thirty feet square, with a thick fire door on the far side. ‘Help me!’ she screamed as she ran into the room. ‘Somebody help me!’ Through two thin glass panels on the fire door, she could see steel cabinets and the outline of the hole he’d kept her in.

  She ran back, grabbed the heavy iron door and started pushing it closed. It cranked and juddered as it swung inwards. He was getting closer. Twenty feet, maybe less. She pushed harder, pain suddenly flaring in her face. In her nose. Her lips. Her cheeks. Then the door stuck.

  He was ten feet away.

  Shut.

  Eight feet.

  Shut.

  Six feet.

  ‘Shut!’ she screamed.

  The door shifted and swung shut against the iron frame. She glanced around the room for something to jam against it. It looked like a submarine door – huge, bulky and intricate – but there was no revolving lock mechanism, which meant all he had to do to open it again was push from the other side. Halfway across the room was a metal pipe – like a piece of scaffolding – propped against the wall. She went to grab it.

  Then the door started squealing.

  He was pushing from the other side.

  She grabbed the length of pipe, placed one end against a kink in the floor and then forced the other end into a space about halfway up the door. It would hol
d for a while. But not long.

  ‘Sona?’

  She froze to the spot. Turned slowly. There was no one else in the room. But on the far wall, above the fire door, she could make out another speaker. She frowned. Took a step towards it.

  ‘Sona?’ the voice said again.

  She stepped closer to the speaker. Watched it for a moment. Through the glass panels in the door she could see more of the hole she’d been kept in. Plastic containers were piled up in the corner of the room, and a ladder was against the far wall, out of sight. That was how he’d got down into the hole in the first place.

  ‘You need to stop running.’

  She looked up at the speaker again. His voice sounded soft now, almost caring. Tears filled her eyes. ‘Let me go,’ she said quietly. ‘Just … let me go.’

  ‘I will,’ came the reply.

  ‘I mean it!’

  ‘So do I.’

  She glanced back at the door, then at the speaker. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  No reply this time.

  ‘I don’t believe you!’ she screamed, and tears started rolling down her face. She was scared, desperate. She wiped the tears away, trying to compose herself.

  A scratching sound.

  Crank.

  She turned to face the door. He was still pushing at it. It shifted a little, the length of pipe bending against the floor. Then, from somewhere above her, she could hear rain.

  She looked up.

  Six feet above, a circular hole had been cut out of the ceiling. A manhole. Fixed to one side of the hole was a drop-down ladder. She looked around her. On a wall next to the glass-panelled door were three switches. Two were for lights, presumably the room she was in, and the room with the hole. The other was set apart on its own.

  Sona moved to it. Flicked the switch.

  With a clunk, the ladder started dropping down, whirring metallically. When one part of it had extended its full length, the second part continued downwards. It stopped in front of her, two feet off the floor of the room.

  ‘Step on that ladder and I will kill you.’

  She glanced at the speaker.

  ‘I will hunt you down and I will cut you into pieces. I mean it. I will carve you open if you put one foot on that ladder.’

  She put her foot on the ladder.

  ‘You stupid bitch!’ A crank. The pipe at the door wheezed as he pushed, bending some more. He smashed his fists against the other side, hammering at it like a drum. ‘You are dead! You are fucking dead!’

  Halfway up the ladder, she paused briefly and looked down into the room. Above, the rain continued to fall. Below, the door edged inwards even more, and she glimpsed the pale blue of his medical scrubs.

  ‘You will remember me,’ he said from below her.

  She pushed at the manhole cover above her. It moved away from the hole. Rain fell out of the sky and down past her, to the room below. She placed a foot on the next step. Then the next. Lifted her head up above the lip of the manhole.

  ‘Every day, when you look in the mirror, you will remember me.’

  And then she hauled herself out – and she ran.

  PART FOUR

  51

  By six o’clock it was getting dark and we were sitting in the shadows of an alley opposite the warehouse. In the office, framed in the glass panel of the door, we could see Luke Drayton still behind the counter, writing something. The warehouse itself was closed up now, the huge delivery doors pulled shut and padlocked.

  ‘How big was the trapdoor?’ Healy asked.

  I shrugged, keeping my eyes on Drayton. ‘Difficult to tell. Most of it was covered by boxes. It looked like a circular manhole cover. No bigger than two and a half feet across.’

  We fell into silence again. Ten minutes passed. Twenty. Thirty. At six-forty, Drayton was still at the counter, writing. He had a calculator on one side of him now.

  ‘Maybe he lives down the hole,’ Healy said.

  I smiled. Occasionally I’d look at Healy and see a brief glimpse of the man he once was. A different person, not built on revenge and regret, but on better qualities; on compassion and humour. I liked that Healy, and I wondered how long it would take him to reclaim that side of himself – and if he ever would.

  A couple of minutes later, Healy’s phone started ringing, buzzing across the dashboard towards him. He picked it up and looked at the display.

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘What?’

  He didn’t answer and flipped it open. ‘Healy.’

  Even with the rain, I could immediately hear the voice on the other end. ‘Healy, it’s Phillips. Where are you?’

  ‘I’ve got the day off.’

  ‘It’s not marked on the board.’

  ‘I told Moira.’

  ‘It’s not marked on the board,’ Phillips said again.

  ‘So I’ll mark it up tomorrow.’

  A pause. Healy glanced at me.

  ‘You got any idea where David Raker is?’ Phillips asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘David Raker.’

  Healy paused again, looked out through the windscreen to where Drayton was still in the same position at the counter.

  ‘Raker?’ he said. ‘He’s the guy you brought in, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Why would I know where he is?’

  ‘Davidson says he found you and Raker alone yesterday.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So why were you alone with him?’

  ‘Because Davidson had left him, and I didn’t think it would look good if one of our best leads in the Carver case wandered out of the station, never to be seen again.’

  ‘You don’t have any cases of your own?’ Phillips asked.

  ‘Listen –’

  ‘No, you listen,’ Phillips fired back. ‘I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, but whatever it is it’s against the law, understand?’

  Healy didn’t respond.

  ‘You know, there’s a reason you’re not part of this task force, or any other task force for that matter. And it’s because you can’t be trusted. You’re a liar, Healy.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You heard what I said. We tried getting hold of Raker and his mobile’s off. Been off all day. We went round to his house, and it looks like a mausoleum. So we go round to your place because, you know, it’s supposed to be your day off – and guess what?’

  ‘I’m out with my wife.’

  ‘Bullshit, Healy. I know you’re with Raker.’

  ‘I’m out with my wife.’

  ‘Raker’s playing you. He’s playing everyone. He sent us on a wild goose chase down to that youth club today, and guess what we found?’

  Healy didn’t reply.

  ‘Fuck all. Nothing. Just like the last time.’

  Healy glanced at me again and slowly shook his head. We’re in trouble. His eyes moved to Drayton for a second time.

  ‘I don’t know where Raker is,’ he said finally.

  Phillips blew air down the phone, the line distorting. ‘You just finished your career – you do understand that, right?’

  Healy didn’t reply.

  ‘Right?’ Phillips said a second time. He got no response. ‘You trust Raker above the people in this station? Above the people you’ve closed cases with, who stood by you and worked for free, when Leanne went missing?’

  I watched him wince at the mention of his daughter’s name. His cheeks started to flush, filling up like blood soaking through cotton.

  ‘You didn’t do anything for me. She’s not even on your radar.’

  ‘We tried to help you find –’

  ‘Don’t tell me you tried to help me find her!’ Healy erupted, eyes burning now. ‘The people who helped me, most of them weren’t yours. You and Hart – you didn’t give a shit about her. You didn’t give me anyone. No one.’

  ‘Leanne can’t officially be linked –’

  ‘Don’t tell me that she can’t be linked to this, you fu
cking prick!’ he screamed down the line. ‘That piece of shit Glass took my daughter. And you know what I’m going to do now? I’m going to find him – and I’m going to kill him.’

  ‘Healy,’ Phillips said slowly. ‘You will go to jail.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit.’

  Healy glanced at me. Then his eyes moved across the road to Drayton again, and he nodded to the office door. We’re going in now.

  I placed a hand on the door, opened it.

  ‘You’re in deep shit, Healy,’ Phillips said. ‘Deep shit. And so is your partner-in-crime there next to you, wherever the hell it is you’re hiding. But let me tell you this now, so we’re all crystal clear: we’re on to you. You get me? We’ve picked up your trail.’ Phillips paused. ‘And when we get to you, you’re both going down.’

  52

  We marched across the road towards the office, Healy in front. His face was flushed and burning with anger, his fists opening and closing, ready to push aside, pull apart and tear into pieces. ‘Healy,’ I said to him, trying to keep my voice level, trying to clear the fog that was forming inside his head. ‘Wait a second.’

  But he didn’t. He stepped up to the office door and shoved it open. It swung back so hard it hit the adjacent wall, the pane of glass clattering inside its panel. From the counter, Drayton looked up, eyes widening. He backed away from the desk.

  ‘What are you doing –’

  Healy grabbed the back of Drayton’s head and yanked him forward, smashing him down on to the counter. The side of his face made a slapping sound as his cheek hit the vinyl. He cried out in pain. Healy leaned into his ear. ‘What’s under the trapdoor?’

  ‘What?’ Drayton said, his words muffled by Healy’s hand.

  ‘You better tell me what’s in there.’

  Drayton’s eyes darted between us.

  ‘Healy,’ I said again.

  He glanced at me. ‘What?’

  ‘Calm down.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ he spat, and pulled Drayton towards him, dragging his small frame up and over the counter. Drayton hit the floor face-first, crying out, and then rolled up into a heap on the carpet as if expecting punches to rain down on him. When they didn’t, he looked up at us, blood running down one of his cheeks.