The Dead Tracks dr-2

by Tom Weaver

  And I wouldn't look back.

  Chapter Forty

  An hour after they'd come for me at the house, a separate team had been through my office. As I opened up and walked inside, I could see mud on the carpet and damp footprints where detectives had stood at filing cabinets and been through the drawers of my desk. My computer had been left on, the screensaver — a blue cube — bouncing back and forth across the monitor. I walked around, trying to figure out if they'd taken anything, but nothing had been removed.

  I filled the percolator and then dropped into the chair at my desk. As coffee started to soak through the filter, I let my mind turn over, back to everything they'd found at the house; to the interview; to Healy hanging me out to dry.

  I'd given him Markham. He'd given me nothing.

  That wasn't how it worked.

  As soon as I left the station, I'd called Spike and asked him to track down Healy's home address and mobile number. I didn't mind how it played out: with Healy, or without him, it didn't bother me. But I was going to get what I was owed.

  Pulling my keyboard towards me, I brought up Google. Megan had disappeared on 3 April. I put the date into the search engine and punched Return. Over 115 million hits. Encyclopaedias, blogs, newsletters, press releases,

  Facebook posts, Flickr albums. I moved through the first few pages, trying to spot anything remotely connected to the case. But apart from news stories posted in the aftermath of her disappearance, there was nothing. Flipping back to the first page, I went to a site that listed every major historical event — births, deaths and everything in between - that had taken place on 3 April. I was hoping something would leap out from somewhere, a spark. But instead I got more of the same: nothing.

  My eyes drifted from the monitor to some paperwork on my desk. Hard copies of the pages from the London Conservation Trust site. I'd printed them out for reference. Alongside that was the email the LCT had sent Megan six days before she disappeared. It was dated 27-03-11.I traced a finger along the numbers and, as I did, a feeling stirred in me, as if I'd drifted close to something. A recollection. A memory. I stopped, brought the paper closer to me. Studied the numbers.

  Was there something in the date?

  I let the feeling go for a moment and did a search for the date Leanne had gone missing: 3 January 2011. It took about thirty seconds to realize it wouldn't lead anywhere. It was exactly the same story as the Google search for Megan — except there was no major press this time. Megan had ticked all the right boxes: white, wealthy, bright, beautiful. Leanne was different. Physically not quite as attractive, educationally middling, working-class background and - unlike the Carvers — with parents who didn't have a picture-postcard marriage. Leanne was mentioned once in the Evening Standard and once in the Metro. I clicked on both stories, one after the other. Both were two paragraphs long, and both had the same quote from Healy asking Leanne to come home. At the end it listed the number for a missing persons helpline.

  What am I overlooking here?

  For a second time, I stared at the printouts on my desk. The date. The way it was written: 27-03-11. That same feeling blossomed. Maybe it was something I'd seen, or heard, and not fully taken in at the time. Or maybe it wasn't even the date.

  Maybe it was the format.

  Ripping a piece of paper from my notepad, I wrote down the dates the girls had gone missing — 3 April 2011 and 3 January 2011 - then, underneath that, the numerical equivalent: 03 04 11;03 01 11. I leaned back in my chair, rolled my pen back and forth across the desk. Listened to the clock on the far wall ticking over. The whole time I didn't take my eyes off the numbers. There was something in the date.

  Something I'd missed.

  I leaned forward, pressing a finger against the date of Megan's disappearance: 03 04 11. Grabbing the pen, I scribbled out the zeros and the year: 3 4.

  Three and four.

  Or thirty-four.

  Then it hit me. I pulled my phone across the desk and went to the photos. There, right at the top, was the last one I'd taken: the wall in the police station, the first time I'd been in. slightly blurred, Megan's picture looked out at me, pinned to a board in the CID office. Next to that was the map and more photographs. And then seven stickies, running in a vertical line, a separate number on each.

  I could only make out three of them, the first, sixth and seventh: 2119, 3111 — and 34. They hadn't been numbers. They'd been dates.

  The first one - 2119 - was four digits. They'd included the year after it, so they'd know all the others followed in sequence, through 2010 and into 2011. I turned back to the computer and this time typed '2 November 2009 missing' into Google and hit Return.

  Four links down I found what I was looking for. It was a missing persons site, profiles of men, women and kids decorating the front page. Picture after picture. Face after face. So many missing people, all of them lost somewhere - or worse than lost. The Google search had taken me straight to the page corresponding to the people who'd vanished on 2 November 2009. I was thirty-two pages and almost three hundred profile pictures in. And bang in the centre was the woman I was looking for.

  In her photograph, she was smiling at the camera, her blonde hair cascading down her face in long, thin strands. She was pretty. Slim but not skinny.

  And she looked like Megan and Leanne. I clicked on her profile.

  Missing | Case Ref: 09-004447891

  Isabelle Connors

  Age at disappearance: 28

  Isabelle has been missing from Finchley, north London, since 2 November 2009. She was last seen in Lemon Street in Islington getting into her car after a work function. She later spoke to a friend on the phone to confirm she had got home. It is believed she disappeared that evening or the next morning as she failed to turn up to work, where she was employed as a graphic designer.

  There is great concern for Isabelle as her disappearance is out of character. She is 5 ft 8in tall, of slim-to- medium build with blue eyes and blonde hair. When last seen she was wearing a pair of blue jeans, black heels, a white vest and a long black coat.

  Another missing woman. And she was the same as Megan and Leanne. Same hair. Same eyes. Same shape. The only difference was their age. I looked away and tried to picture the list of numbers on the wall of the office. Tried to recall the second, third, fourth or fifth stickies. I'd taken the dates in, but not realized their importance. They were just a random list of numbers then. A blur among the maps and the photographs and the paperwork.

  I slowly started tabbing back through the pages, closely examining every female picture. Six pages later, I found her. Blonde. Blue eyes. She'd disappeared on 8 January 2010.1 looked at the picture on my phone: although it was blurred, I could instantly make out what looked like 8110. The second number on the wall.

  Missing | Case Ref: 09-0044479 5 8

  April Brunei

  Age at disappearance: 45

  April has been missing from Hackney, east London, since 8 January 2010. Her whereabouts remain unknown.

  She called friends on the evening of 7 January to say she couldn't join them for a drink as she was feeling unwell. There is growing concern for April as her disappearance is out of character. She is 5 ft 6in tall, of slim build with blue eyes and blonde hair. She was last seen at work that day, where she was employed as an accountant.

  In the pit of my stomach, there was a growing sense of unease. Four missing women now, and it was obvious there were three more to come. It took me ten minutes to find them, and another five to scan their profiles. Jayne Rickards, thirty-three; 4 April 2010. She had been number 44. Kate Norton, twenty-nine; 12 July 2010. She had been number 127. Erica Muller, twenty-three; 4 October 2010. She had been 410. All slim-to-medium, with blonde hair and blue eyes. All gone.

  And all connected.

  Chapter Forty-one

  The pub was small, with low lighting and ambient music. A series of booths, decked out in black leather and walnut, ran along one side, next to windows that looked out over Camden
High Street. I found a seat right at the back with virtually no lighting and only a partial view in and out. The barman said, as it was so quiet, he'd come to my table. I ordered two beers and waited.

  Ten minutes later, Healy arrived.

  He squinted and scanned the room. Then his eyes fell on me. He cast a glance around him - making certain there were no faces he recognized — and made his way across. He slid in at the booth without saying a word.

  I pushed one of the beers towards him. He scooped it up and emptied it in about half a minute. When he was done, he swivelled in his seat, trying to catch the barman's eye. 'Just do me a favour,' he said when he'd finally put his order in for a second. 'Keep your eyes on the door. Because if anyone even vaguely familiar comes in, we're both in the shite.'

  'I don't think anyone you know will be coming in here.'

  He studied me, a frown forming on his face. Then he looked back over his shoulder and took in the room for a second time. Four men at the bar. Two in the booth a couple down from us. Two more beyond that, hands touching on the table. He turned back to me. 'Is this a gay bar?'

  'Looks like it.'

  'Then you're probably right.'

  A silence settled between us.

  He got out his phone, placed it on the table and watched the barman bring over his drink. He scooped it up immediately. By the time he was finished, it was half empty. He pushed it aside and leaned forward. 'So, what did you call me for?'

  'I think you know.'

  He eyed me. 'Look, I couldn't say anything to you earlier. It was too risky. If they found out I was telling you about…' He stopped.

  'Telling me about what?'

  He didn't reply.

  'The five other women?'

  A flitter of surprise on his face. 'I don't know what -'

  'Save the circus act, Healy.' I reached into my jacket pocket and placed a folded piece of paper down on the table between us. He picked it up and unfolded it. In front of him were photographs of the five missing women I'd discovered on the site, as well as Megan and Leanne. 'I've found them. I know they exist. I've seen them on the wall of the incident room, so I know they're linked. Question is, why doesn’t the public know about them?'

  His eyes flicked to me but he didn't say anything.

  I leaned forward, pushing my beer aside. 'Do their families even know they've been linked? Do their families know anything.?' I paused and waited for him to answer. He didn't. 'You want to know what I really don't understand? Why you're happy to play along with this bullshit cover story when your daughter's one of them.'

  He looked up at me, his fingers resting on the beer bottle now.

  'Healy?'

  'You don't understand,' he replied quietly.

  'What don't I understand?'

  'What it's like.'

  This time I didn't respond. His eyes drifted outside, and for a moment it was like looking right into his head: the anger, the sadness, the need to hit out, bubbling away below the surface.

  'You think I don't care about my daughter?' he said finally, still studying the people passing on the street. You think I don't care about finding her? I care. I care so much it's like I'm being eaten up from the inside.' He looked at me, fire in his eyes now. 'I needed to find out what you had on Megan Carver, because I've hit a dead end. I don't know where to go next with Leanne. So that's why I needed you. But what I don't need, what I won't put up with, is you getting in the way. Because I'm going to find the person who took her - and I'm going to fucking kill him. And you aren't going to stop me, and neither are those other pricks.'

  He meant Phillips and Hart. He meant Davidson. He meant everyone.

  'So are you working her disappearance by yourself?' I asked.

  'Yeah.'

  'Why?'

  'Because no one else cares about her.'

  He turned in the booth, back towards the door, as if he didn't trust me to look out for him. Then he faced me again, his eyes focused beneath the ridge of his brow.

  'The police don't give a shit.'

  'About Leanne?'

  'About any of them.'

  'Why?'

  He went to speak and then hesitated. I'd seen it in him earlier. No mistakes. No errors. No slip-ups. He'd worked his daughter's disappearance for so long, off the books and without the knowledge of his bosses, that he'd completely insulated himself. Everything he knew, anything he'd managed to find out about her, no one else got to hear about. He finished his beer and gestured for the barman to bring him another.

  'Okay, here's how I see it,' I said, trying to jump-start the conversation. 'You've got seven women. They all look the same. They've been registered as missing persons, but they've not been linked — at least publicly. Thirty thousand people go missing in London alone each year, so I understand how they've managed to stay off the radar. But what I don't understand is why the police haven't gone public.'

  The barman brought Healy's third beer. After he had gone, Healy looked up at me and a look of disgust moved across his face. They're just one part of the jigsaw.'

  'And what's the other part?'

  He turned his beer bottle around, that same look on his face. No mistakes. No errors. No slip-ups. But then he glanced at me again, and I could see what he was thinking: it was different now. The stakes were as high for both of us. He was illegally pursuing a case under the noses of his bosses. I was out on bail for the abduction and probable murder of a teenager.

  'The other part is Frank White,' he said.

  I looked at him. 'So I was right?'

  'Yeah. You were right.'

  'How are Megan and Frank connected?'

  Your number-one fan DS Davidson works for Jamie Hart, not Phillips. Hart's in charge of a murder investigation team looking into the disappearances of the women.'

  'So it's definitely a murder investigation?'

  'We're assuming they're all dead.'

  He stopped. Realized what he'd said. He'd just committed his daughter to the ground alongside the others. A flicker of emotion in his face, and then it was gone again.

  'Where Does Phillips fit in?'

  'Phillips works in the same office as Hart, but not on the same investigation. He's SDC7 - just like White was. He's heading up a task force trying to put the cuffs on Akim Gobulev.'

  I frowned. 'Wait a second, Phillips works organized crime?'

  'Yeah.'

  'So why's he coming after me?'

  Healy glanced over his shoulder again, checking the door. And as he did, everything suddenly shifted into focus. The link between Megan and Frank White.

  'The surgeon,' I said quietly.

  He looked back at me as the connections started to snap together in my head. The links between events — and everything in between.

  'They think the surgeon's involved in the women's disappearances?'

  'They don't think he's involved,' Healy said. 'They think he's the one taking them.'

  Chapter Forty-two

  I stared at him, waiting for him to tell me it was a joke. But then I saw the anger in his face - and suddenly felt some of my own, burning in the middle of my chest. I'd been trying to peel away the layers of Megan's disappearance for six days and the whole time the police were sitting on the answers. They'd lied to me. They'd lied to the Carvers.

  They'd lied to everyone.

  'Why keep them secret?' I said, and - in that moment - I heard the timbre of my voice and saw Healy attach to it. For a second he thought he'd glimpsed a kindred spirit; someone with the same anger and sense of injustice. I realized then that I'd have to reel myself back in again. One of us had to remain in control.

  'Phillips has people on the inside and they're all coming back with the same intel. The guy's a freak. Wears a mask to meets. Surgical gloves. Bandages around his arms, so he doesn’t drop fibres or flakes of skin. And he doesn’t even get paid in cash any more. Instead it's medical supplies and hospital equipment. Scalpels, forceps, hooks, retractors, mallets, beds, gurneys. Rumour has it, the Ru
ssians even agreed to bring in an ECG for him. He changes their faces and he sews up their wounds, but only so it pays for what he's really into.'

  'The women.'

  'Right. He's a killer. And now he's got two task forces on his tail. Phillips wants him for his connections to the Russians. And Hart wants him because they think he's got seven dead bodies stored somewhere.'

  Even in the noise of the bar, the word dead seemed to hang in the air.

  'So that's the reason there's two DCIs in that place?'

  He nodded.

  'Why hasn't any of this been made public?'

  'He put a bullet in White's face, so that immediately promotes him to the top of the shitlist in every department at the Met. It's personal. But that's not what it's really about. What it's really about is Phillips getting the surgeon, squeezing him for everything he's got, and then shutting down the Russians in London.' He looked up. Turned his beer bottle. 'But go public with this prick's sideline in women, and the surgeon goes underground… and his little black book gets flushed down the U-bend.'

  It took me a second to realize what he'd just said. 'Wait a minute, wait a minute. Do you even know what you just told me?' When he didn't react, I leaned in to him. 'You're saying closing down the Russians is — what? — the bigger win?'

  'You know what I said.'

  'Yeah, you're saying it's more important that the police get their nails into organized crime than find seven missing women — one of whom is your own daughter:'

  I waited. Nothing from him again.

  'That's it?'

  'What do you want me to say?'

  'This is a conspiracy of silence. The police are sitting on their hands while those women lie dead somewhere.'

  'They can close down the Russians.'

  'Them is you, Healy. You're the police.'

  'I'm not the same as them.'

  'But you think what they're doing is all right?'