The Dead Tracks dr-2

by Tom Weaver

  'So he could always communicate,' I said. 'He could talk to you, scare you, tell you whatever he wanted, and he wouldn't even have to be in the same room as you.'

  She nodded.

  'How did you escape?' Healy asked.

  'I woke up,' she said. 'I wasn't meant to. He'd put me under anaesthetic and was…' A pause. Cutting me open. 'But I woke up.' She peered off behind her for a moment, into the bathroom. 'Some days I look at myself in the mirror and wish I hadn't.'

  In the file Healy had given me earlier, it said she had hypopigmentation — a complete loss of skin colour - as a result of a chemical peel that had gone too deep. Phenol and small traces of croton oil had been found in her skin, both of which were used in cosmetic surgery as an exfoliant. Removing the outer layers of skin helped revitalize the face, smoothing out wrinkles in the process. But the peel had burned away too much of Sona's face and gone much too deep, eliminating colouring and freckles. He'd been preparing her skin for treatment for weeks, asking her to apply a liquid moisturizer twice daily. But the end result had gone horribly wrong.

  And that bothered me.

  Glass may have been a surgeon-for-hire but nothing he'd done so far was amateur. He was meticulous. Exact. Covered his tracks. He would know how far to go when performing a face peel, even if the end results weren't as good as you'd find for five figures at a west London clinic. So why go as deep as he did? And why perform the surgery in the first place? Did he just like cutting women up? Somehow I doubted it. A man like this had a plan. He operated on women because it served some wider purpose.

  I watched Sona run a finger across her face, over the bridge of her nose and then along the scar at her hairline. Her nose looked horrific but would recover. The scarring at her ears was a blood red, but would do the same. Her file had called the injuries 'the early stages of rhinoplasty and a rhytidectomy': a nose job and facelift. For the nose job, he'd been cutting from the inside and rasping down the hump. It explained the bruising at the bridge. For the facelift, he'd cut in along her hairline, down past the ear and around the ear lobe to the back. The idea was to separate the skin from the tissue and tighten its appearance. Except he'd never got that far because Sona had woken up. She probably knew how lucky she was. A facelift was the most complicated procedure of them all. Hit a nerve, and the next time you open your eyes it looks like you've had a stroke.

  'What happened after you escaped?'

  She turned back to me. 'I just ran.'

  'Can you describe the place he was keeping you?'

  'By that time, my face was…' She shook her head. 'It was on fire. And I was scared. I don't think I've ever felt so much pain in my life. One of the doctors at the hospital told me a deep peel like that should be performed under anaesthetic. But I woke up from mine. By the time I found my way out, I didn't feel numb any more. I felt everything. I could hardly put one foot in front of the other.'

  She looked between us, then took a moment, holding up her hand to apologize. 'All I remember about the place that he kept me was that it looked like a sewer — except there was nothing running through it. It was all dry. Cleaned out. It looked like it might have been adapted somehow, and he'd built a series of rooms inside it, with big glass windows.'

  'Rooms?'

  'There was a girl in one of them.'

  'Did you get a look at her?' Healy asked, shuffling across the sofa towards her.

  'No.'

  'Was she alive?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you see anyone else?'

  She shook her head. 'No. No one else.'

  Healy leaned back in his seat, his mind ticking over. I picked up the conversation, trying to keep the momentum going. 'So, you were underground?'

  'Yes. I escaped through a manhole cover — almost like some kind of service tunnel - into the kitchen of this old house. The walls were all decayed and cracked. Everything was a mess. There was an upstairs, but there was no floor. It was just one big room. The roof had broken too, and there was graffiti on the walls and glass all over the place.'

  'Any sign it was lived in at all?'

  'No,' she said. 'No way. It had been abandoned a long time ago.'

  'Anything else you remember?'

  There were trees overhead - in the space where the roof should have been. They were kind of crawling through the roof and into the house. But apart from that, I don't remember much. I'm sorry, I just got out of there and ran.'

  'Ran where?'

  'Towards the river.'

  'So the house was on the edge of a river?'

  'Yes.'

  'What did the house look like from the outside?' I asked.

  'Concrete. There were trees and vines and stuff all over the roof and the outside walls.'

  'What was around it?'

  'Not much.' She shook her head, and I could see the emotion was starting to take over. She brushed a finger to her eye. 'I was just running.'

  'To the river?'

  'Yes. As fast as I could.'

  'Anything else close to the river you remember?'

  'The river was narrow. Like, seriously narrow. More like a canal, I guess. Maybe only six feet across. On the other side there was just a concrete wall: high, with no path in front of it.' She wiped an eye again, but the memories were starting to flow now. 'On my side, there was a path, but it was uneven; full of holes and mud. But I didn't take in much after that.'

  'Why?'

  'He came after me.'

  'He chased you?'

  Yes.'

  'But he obviously didn't catch you?'

  'No.'

  'Because you fell into the river?'

  She nodded. 'I was barefoot. But that path… it was so uneven. So dangerous. I was either going to break my ankle or fall into the water - and I fell into the water.' Sona leaned forward. With her fingers, she parted her hair at the crown of her head. A blood-red line wormed its way across her skull, stitching still visible in it. 'I cracked my head open and must have blacked out for a second before I came to again.'

  'What happened then?'

  There was a current in the water. I remember him watching me as the river took me away. He ran after me at first, then when he saw I was going too fast, he stopped. Everything was fuzzy, like I was looking through gauze. I could make out trees and I remember the path finishing after a while, and there just being more concrete and more trees. Oh, and there must have been a slight bend because -' Sona paused and rubbed at the scar on her scalp '— after a while, he disappeared from sight.'

  'Anything else?' Healy asked.

  Her eyes narrowed, trying to fish for memories.

  'It's okay, Sona,' I said, keeping the expectation out of my voice. 'If that's it, if that's all you can remember, that's really good.'

  'There was maybe a warehouse,' she continued softly, 'but I just remember the current being really fast, and — as it took me away — the pain starting to seriously kick in. After that, I must have blacked out again.'

  'You were found near the Royal Docks, right?'

  She nodded. They reckon the gown he'd dressed me in blew up and acted as a makeshift buoyancy aid. The current carried me out into the Thames.'

  Out from a tributary — which narrowed it down to two possible creeks: Barking or Bow. Both opened out on to the Thames, either side of where she was found. Barking would have made for a simpler investigation: it cut through the city, bisecting Creekmouth and Beckton before roughly following the North Circular through to Ilford. Once it got to Barking itself, it moved in one, relatively straight line north. Bow Creek was different: a two-mile tidal estuary that then fed into the River Lea and became miles and miles and miles of waterways. Her vague description wasn't likely to help: the closer to the Thames you got, the more industry started tracing the path of the water. Eventually all it became was the corrugated iron of warehouse walls and brand-new property developments built on the bones of old ones. If the house was abandoned that might help — but the city's river system was a maze. It would take
months to walk it all, even if you narrowed down the distance Sona would have travelled given tidal currents.

  I turned to Healy. 'Police haven't found the location of the building yet?'

  He looked between Sona and me. Shook his head. 'No. They're not close to finding it.' In his face, I could see what he was saying to me: And that's because this is the most she's talked since she was found.

  When I turned back to Sona, she looked tired. She covered one side of her face with a hand - then her mobile phone started buzzing. It was on the sofa next to her. She looked down at it. 'It's Jamie Hart.'

  'You should probably answer it,' I said.

  'I don't think that's a good idea,' Healy replied.

  I turned to him. 'Why do you think they're calling her? Because they guessed we'd come and find her. They're probably already on their way. It's too late.' I turned back to her. 'It's fine to answer it, Sona.'

  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 looke
d 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 last 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.