by Tom Weaver
'Maybe you never asked her.'
He pursed his lips. He looked like he was trying to figure out where I was going with this. Whatever conclusion he came to, it had temporarily altered the dynamic. For a moment, both of them had lost forward motion. Now they were on the back foot.
'Who was the guy?' Davidson asked.
'Kaitlin didn't know. Maybe that's why she didn't mention it. I mean, why would she report as suspicious someone who made Megan happy?'
'Because we asked her if Megan was dating'
'They may not have even dated officially.'
Silence now. Phillips began turning his wedding band again, and Davidson was watching me like I was a waxwork in his least favourite part of the museum.
'Megan's parents didn't know about it,' I continued, 'and they knew about the other guys she'd dated. If she went out with this guy, it was on the quiet. Even Megan's friends might not have known. I think Kaitlin was speculating that they dated, rather than knowing for sure.'
'And Kaitlin will back this up?' Phillips asked.
I nodded. 'One hundred per cent.'
Listen to me, Kaitlin, I'd said to her when she'd first mentioned the youth club, and the guy who'd got Megan pregnant. If, for whatever reason, the police come calling, don't tell them about the pregnancy… The first thing we need to do is protect you… Tell them about the youth club, and that you think she might have been seeing someone there, but leave it at that, okay?
Eventually I'd expected the police to take an interest in what I was doing. Maybe not this way, but when you worked the periphery of an unsolved, you stepped on toes and you pissed people off. I didn't want to involve Kaitlin. She was just a kid, and a scared one at that, but I had to rely on her not telling them about the pregnancy and being convincing enough to steer the course of the interview, and the evidence, away from me.
There was an added problem too: the youth club. They'd see it had been broken into over the weekend. And although I'd been careful not to leave prints, and the pictures I took from the club were next to the spare wheel in the back of the BMW, not lying around at home, it would open up another line of enquiry, adjacent to the Carver disappearance - and the seams would come apart a little more. The only thing I could do was continue pushing back at them. Because I wasn't about to go down for this. Not now. Not ever.
I turned to Phillips. 'Did you get an anonymous tip-off?'
'When?'
'Today. Is that the reason you were at my house?'
The two of them looked at each other. Phillips turned back to me. 'I'm not at liberty to discuss that.'
I nodded at the photographs. 'Put the photo of that woman's face through your labs and see if you can find any of my prints on it.'
'Maybe we put the photos through forensics,' Phillips said, voice taut, eyes fixed on me. 'Maybe we find your prints, maybe we don't. But you're mixed up in this somehow, we both know that. And when I find out how, I will bring you down.'
I didn't reply. He was as angry as I'd seen him, colour prickling in his skin. The lead I'd given them for the youth club hadn't been enough. It had stalled the interview, but it hadn't stopped it. They'd filed it away as an interesting line of enquiry, but it hadn't changed anything. I was in this up to my neck.
Then I thought of something.
Something Phillips had said in the first interview. The only reason I can give you is that, by you sticking your nose in here, you're jeopardising a parallel investigation. 'Have you officially tied Leanne Healy's disappearance to Megan's?' I asked.
There was a long pause. 'Leanne Healy?'
'Colm Healy's daughter.'
'I know who she is.'
'She worked at the youth club. The same one as Megan. Even if you didn't know about the man Megan might have met there, you would have seen that the youth club connected Megan and Leanne.' Another pause. Davidson turned away from me. A flicker of something. Next to him, Phillips didn't move. 'So is her disappearance being tied to Megan's?'
Nothing from either of them.
Then Phillips: 'David, you don't know what you're talking -'
'They're both blonde. They both look vaguely similar. They both worked part-time at the same place. They both disappeared and never came home.'
Davidson glanced at Phillips. Phillips looked back.
'No,' he said. 'We're not tying the two together.'
'Really?'
'Really.'
'You must know something about Leanne then.'
'Why would you say that?'
'Because you'd link them otherwise.'
'Would we?'
You know you would. You'd have two girls. And then you'd have a pattern.' I looked between them. I was building the theory as I went, adding together everything I'd learned as I tried to push back at them. 'And, eventually, you'd have more.'
'More what?'
'More women. If there's a pattern, there's a man responsible. And if he's magicked two of them into thin air, you can bet he'll do it again and again until he's stopped.'
Phillips shook his head and started turning his wedding band. 'This isn't CSI, David. You don't get a Hollywood ending'
A parallel investigation.
I looked between them again. I'd given them the youth club. I'd told them I knew about Leanne. Now it was time to make a leap of faith.
'So where Does Frank White fit in?'
Davidson's eyes flicked to me and then away. A moment of surprise, followed by a ripple of alarm. Phillips stopped turning his wedding band momentarily. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' he said evenly.
'You remember him though, right?'
Phillips nodded. 'Of course I remember him.'
'They're linked.'
'Who are linked?'
'Frank White and Megan.'
'Everyone's linked according to you.'
'Something happened at that warehouse the night he was murdered. You dig far enough in, and you'll find a connection to Megan.'
They both looked at me. I couldn't decide if it was disbelief or panic in their faces. I decided it was panic. I was on to something.
'His death is connected to Megan, isn't it?'
Phillips started collecting up the photographs, feeding them back into the Manila folder. He looked at me. We ask the questions around here, David.'
'Is it something to do with the surgeon?'
A brief pause. Then Phillips leaned over, spoke into the recorder to confirm the time and the fact that he was taking a break - and they both got up and left.
Chapter Thirty-nine
As they were walking out, I requested a toilet break. Phillips asked Davidson to show me where it was, and disappeared through a security door that connected the interview rooms to the main office. Davidson didn't say anything, just led me past the other doors into an L-shape kink in the corridor. There were two further doors around the corner: one for men, one for women. 'I'll wait here,' he said.
Inside, it was cold and sterile. Old metal-framed windows, with iron mesh over the glass. China basins screwed to the floor. No soap. No hot water. Grey-green cubicles minus the toilet seats. Basically nothing you could rip off and use as a weapon. There was the overpowering stench of urinal cake and, as I moved into one of the cubicles, I realized I could see my breath in front of my face. It couldn't have been more than five degrees.
After about half a minute, I heard Davidson start talking to someone. Above the traffic noise from outside, and the constant gurgle from the cistern, I could only make out a few words, but it sounded like Davidson was asking a uniform to stand guard.
I flushed and walked across to the basins. As I was washing my hands, I heard another voice. Male. Low. Almost a whisper.
He was sending the PC off on an errand.
A couple of seconds later, I watched the door open in the mirror above the basin. It squeaked on its hinges. A foot appeared. Then a face.
Colm Healy.
He looked at me, our eyes meeting in the reflection. Then he
glanced over his shoulder, out into the corridor again. Ran a hand through his red hair and rubbed one of his eyes. He had the chewed nails of a man who sat up all night unable to sleep — and the yellowing fingertips of a smoker.
I swivelled to face him, flicking my hands dry.
'We've got ten minutes tops, so I'll spare you the small talk,' he said. 'I don't believe you did it. I've read your file. I've heard about you. No record. No blips on the radar. Two years back, your wife dies. And now I'm supposed to believe you're on some kind of… of what? Revenge mission? No. You're not this guy. So you're going to tell me what I want to know, and then I'll help you out in return. Okay?'
'You said all you needed to say last time.'
'Yeah, well…' He faded off. Stood there with his hand on the door. 'That guy you had in that photo you showed me. Milton Sykes. Who is he really?'
I shrugged. 'I don't know.'
'Why's he look like Sykes?'
I shrugged again. 'I don't know.'
'Well, let me give you a head start,' he said. 'I'm gonna give you enough credit to assume you've read up about Sykes.'
I nodded, trying to figure out where he was headed.
'So you remember how the police pinned the murder of Jenny Truman on him, right?'
I went to nod again. Then stopped. He was talking about her dress. I'd overlooked the connection, forgotten it in the blur of the last couple of hours.
'They found her dress behind a board in his kitchen,' I said.
'Bingo. And now they've found Megan's blouse behind a board in your kitchen. I think we can safely assume whoever's pinned this on you has a hard-on for Sykes. He looks like him, and now he wants to be like him.'
'Maybe the guy wants to be like Sykes. Maybe he's somehow involved in Megan going missing. But I don't think he's the man who took her.'
'Why?'
'Because the man who took her worked at the youth club.'
He stopped. Studied me. Looked outside into the corridor then pushed the door shut as far as it would go without fully closing it. 'Is that the lead you gave Phillips and Davidson?' He could see the answer in my face: yes. He rolled his eyes. 'Why?'
'Because I was screwed.'
He shifted on the spot. Looked out through the door again, then back to me. 'How do you know this Sykes guy didn't work at the youth club?'
'Because if he did, why isn't he on their records? For a place like that, you have to pass CRB checks. And if he did that, his picture and his details would be on file at the youth club. But he isn't anywhere near the place.'
'So if it's not him, who is it?'
I didn't answer. Eyed him. Why should I even trust you?'
'Because I'm your only friend inside this house. And you're gonna need a friend. Even if you get bail tonight, the evidence won't go away.'
'Forensics won't find anything.'
'You sure?'
'My prints aren't on the photos.'
'Maybe they're not,' Healy said, glancing out to the corridor again. 'Or maybe they are. Maybe the blood in that blouse is yours. Maybe Whoever's setting you up has been hunting around in your soap and put one of your cock hairs inside the doll. Who the fuck knows? If he's good enough to set you up, he's good enough to finish the job. You wanna wait around to find out — or do you want to try and finish this before you get flushed for something you didn't do?'
'Finish it?'
He looked at me, but didn't say anything.
'What are we finishing, Healy?'
His eyes drifted outside to the corridor again. He was nervous. On edge. It looked like he was about to say something, but then he just cleared his throat.
'Why aren't they linking Leanne to Megan?'
He frowned. 'What do you mean?'
'We both know you're still working her case on the quiet. You're still trying to find out what happened to her. Why aren't they tying Leanne to Megan?'
A lingering look at me. But no response.
'She worked at the same place as Megan. She even looked a bit like Megan. You know all this already. You know the youth club is what ties them together. Everyone here knows that. So why is Phillips telling me they're not linked?'
Silence. I studied him, and realized his nervousness wasn't borne out of being caught; it was out of being caught before he'd had the chance to find out where his daughter had gone. He was fuelled by anger, sadness and revenge. Later on down the line that could become dangerous. But at the moment it was helping him focus. No mistakes. No errors. No slip-ups.
'Look, I'm neck-deep in shit,' I said to him. We can both see that. So I have an agenda just like you. You want to find your girl; I don't want to go down for what they're trying to pin on me. I need to be ready for what mud they sling in my direction next. I need to be armed. You understand that, don't you?'
After a couple of seconds he nodded.
'Good.' I paused, studied him. It was going to be hard to get beneath his skin. He wasn't used to giving things up or sharing information. He looked at me and away again. He was telling me I would have to go first. And I knew, at the moment, with the situation I was in, I didn't have much of a choice. 'Daniel Markham.'
He flicked a look at me. 'What about him?'
'I think that's the guy who took Megan.'
'But we interviewed him.'
'Obviously not well enough.'
'Why him?'
'Because Megan was sleeping with him.'
A pause. 'What?'
'And she was pregnant.'
' What?' He hardly moved. Just stared at me. Then, finally, he rubbed a hand across his forehead and turned away. 'By Markham?'
'That's the assumption.'
Something flashed in his eyes. There and then gone. A moment's thought that it was Leanne and not Megan who had been pregnant. A young girl, scared and alone with a man she thought she'd known - but hadn't really known at all.
'Who told you this?'
'One of Megan's friends.'
'And she didn't think to tell the police?'
'She was warned off.'
'By who?'
'Charlie Bryant.'
'The dead kid?'
I nodded. Healy knew the case intimately: all the files, all the names, every word of every interview. He didn't need me to explain who they were or how they fitted in.
'How much of this do Phillips and Davidson know?' he asked.
'Just that Megan might have been seeing someone at the youth club. They don't know about the pregnancy.'
'Why would he warn her off telling the police?'
'I don't know yet.'
He looked at his watch. 'What have you found out about Markham?'
I thought of the flat. The emptiness of it. The message behind the bathroom cabinet. 'He's definitely involved.'
'Meaning?'
'His flat. He's not living there any more, but something's up. I can show you when I get out of here, but I need you to get what you can on him in the meantime. His CRB check came up clean, so there's nothing on record. But there must be something'
Healy nodded. His mind was turning things over. Outside in the corridor, a noise. A door opening and shutting. Healy looked out. 'Where's PC Harrison?' said a voice.
It was Davidson.
'He's gone to look for you.'
'What are you doing here?'
'Keeping an eye on your suspect.'
A short silence. I could sense the suspicion passing along the corridor. 'What the hell's taking so long?' Davidson asked.
'He's having a shit,' Healy replied.
'Tell him he's got one minute.'
'You've got one minute,' Healy shouted, looking off to his left, where the stalls ran in a line. Outside in the corridor the same sound: a door opening and then closing.
'I gotta go,' Healy said.
'What do you know about Frank White?'
A tiny movement in his face.
'Healy?'
'He was one of the coppers killed in that shoot-out down in Bow.'
Again he didn't reply, just pulled the door back and peered out into the corridor. When he saw no one was there, he pushed it closed again and looked at his watch.
'Do you want to find your daughter or not?' I asked him.
'What kind of a fucking question is that?' He shifted on the spot and looked out through the door again, then back to me. 'I'll call you. We'll meet somewhere safer.'
'This is bullshit, Healy. We had an agreement.'
He opened the door and paused.
And then he left.
About fifty minutes later, I was waiting on the front steps of the police station for a taxi. Kaitlin had come through for me. She'd told them that there was a guy at the youth club Megan had become friendly with - but that was as much as she knew. I'd been released on bail, without charge. Technically, I was out 'before charge', which meant that once forensics had finished their analysis and the police had chased down the lead at the youth club, they'd be back for me. Healy was right: I had a couple of days to try and find out the truth, or they'd be pulling my life apart and coming at me even harder.
I called Liz. She was stuck on the motorway, about ten miles out of London. When she answered, she sounded surprised and confused.
'I've been released,' I said.
She paused. 'How come?'
'On bail.'
'Yeah, but how come?'
'When you get back, when I've sorted out a few things, I'll take you for a drink,' I said to her. She didn't reply. 'And I won't leave anything out.'
Again she didn't reply, but I could sense a change, even along the phone line. She could hear my last words for what they were. A confession. I'd lied before; told her things that weren't true and hidden things that were. And all the time she'd sat at my side and defended me in front of the law, knowing there were parts of my life, decisions I'd made, that might never break the surface.
But now I was signalling a change.
I was telling her things would be different; and in a strange way, perhaps admitting that next time we were together I wouldn't pull away from her. I wouldn't have doubts. I'd take her hand, and I'd step off the cliff.
