Tim Weaver - Vanished

‘How do you even know it’s Sam?’

‘It’s Wren. It’s his voice.’

‘That’s been verified by forensics?’

‘Initial tests say yes. We’ll know for sure tomorrow.’

‘So why did he call himself Leon Spane?’

‘He’s protecting his identity.’ He looked at me. ‘Plus it’s a cute little touch.’

‘In what way?’

‘Spane might be connected to the Snatcher.’ I waited for Healy to expand on that, but he didn’t. ‘Anyway, that doesn’t matter for now. What matters is that it’s Wren.’

I’d come back to Spane. But for now I returned to the voicemail message: the Met reckoned Sam had called Drake on the evening of 12 June. The mobile phone records that Spike had got for me only ran up until 1 June, and Sam had made zero calls from the time of his disappearance until then. So why suddenly use it on 12 June?

‘I’m still having a hard time seeing this,’ I said.

The smile fell from Healy’s face. I’d touched a nerve; unintentionally, but I’d done it all the same. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want obstacles put in his path. He was able to control himself against men he hated, against those who had an agenda against him, because he was determined not to arm them with anything they could use. But against me, against a man who had no reason to come at him, no agenda, he didn’t have to maintain the facade any more.

‘You’re having a hard time seeing this?’ he said, grimacing. ‘We’ve got Erion’s number on Wren’s computer and his voice on Drake’s mobile phone.’

‘What’s Sam’s connection to the other two Snatcher victims, though?’

‘You struggling to understand my accent or something?’

I held up a hand, trying to cool him.

‘Wren knows Erion and he knows Drake,’ Healy said. ‘He’s been in contact with both of them. What’s the next logical step? That he knows Wilky and Symons.’

I didn’t say anything.

‘Give me a fucking break, Raker. You know what this means.’

‘It’s an assumption.’

‘You’d make the same one.’

I couldn’t argue with that. If Sam knew two out of the four victims, if he’d been in touch with them, then it was only a very small step to Wilky and Symons.

‘This just doesn’t feel like Sam.’

He snorted in derision. ‘This is a murder investigation, not some carnival sideshow. Cases aren’t built on how you feel . This isn’t the fucking magic circle.’

‘I wouldn’t have pegged Sam for a killer.’

‘ Sam .’

I frowned. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Maybe you’re getting too cosy with him,’ Healy said, and sank some of his coffee. ‘You ever thought of that? You need to separate out what you think is the truth – what you want to be the truth – from what is actually the truth.’

‘Is there anything else linking him to the crimes?’

‘Anything else but his own voice ? I don’t know how you’ve found it in your vast experience of working murders, but generally they’re not standing there with their dicks out holding the murder weapon when we arrive on the scene. This is as good as it gets.’ Healy glanced at me, his hackles rising again. ‘And here’s another thing: the Snatcher’s a planner. He watches these guys for weeks, he gets to know their routines, he doesn’t leave room for error. He even takes out all the lights leading into and out of the building. Every single one. I couldn’t get my head around why there was no lighting in the places he took them from. Then I realized every one was the same. He sweeps the building before the night he takes them, and then he walks them out in total darkness.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘What’s my point?’ He smirked. ‘My point is, I chatted to Julia Wren and she said your mate Sam was working late at work all the time. So what’s the betting he wasn’t at work? What’s the betting he’s out there getting a hard-on, picking himself a new victim?’

‘Or he could really have been working late.’

He shook his head. ‘You live in fantasy land, Raker. Your guy is the best lead we’ve had in almost a year of trying to track down this arsehole. We’ve got him all over two of the vics, he fits the profile like a glove and, all of a sudden, he’s mysteriously disappeared and no one – not even David Raker – can find him. The only thing batting against all that is this whimsical shit you’re spinning about some kind of gut feeling.’

‘He’s been missing six months.’

‘So?’

‘So he hasn’t disappeared “all of a sudden”. And why take two of them and then disappear yourself in order to take the next two – and then leave a voice message on the latest victim’s phone and be careless enough to lose it on the Underground? The Snatcher’s left no trace of himself until now. There’s no sense in him suddenly deciding to leave his name and number on Drake’s phone.’

‘Sense? What, you think this guy is lucid ? You think he’s logical? What’s logical about shaving people’s heads and killing them? He’s a nutjob.’ He paused; regained his composure. ‘You get close to people on a case. I know that. I’ve done the same. Sometimes it’s hard to accept what they’ve done when you get attached to them.’

‘I’m not attached to him.’

‘It sounds to me like you are.’

I went to answer, went to fight my corner again, when I stopped. Had I become too attached to Sam? Had I bought into his life too much, failed to process the truth out there on the periphery of his life? He was a fraud. He’d lied to everyone important to him. And he’d been leading a double life – which was exactly what the Snatcher had been doing. I looked at Healy and saw the way he was studying me. I backtracked through our conversation and then back even further, to the people I’d spoken to, the lies I’d unearthed.

And then something emerged from the dark.

It was weird , Robert Wren had said to me when he’d told me about Sam going to see the prostitute I now knew to be Marc Erion. He said the guy lived in this place where there were no lights. He said he got to his door, on to the floor this guy was on, and all the bulbs were out. It was completely black … And when he got to the flat , Wren went on, he said it felt like someone was there. Sam meant there, in the corridor with him.

Had Sam told another lie? Or was there something more at play here?

‘I’m not attached to him,’ I said again.

‘Whatever.’

‘Do you even value my opinion, Healy?’

‘You looking for an ego massage?’

‘ Do you?’

He just stared at me.

‘Or is this simply about getting one over on the cops you hate?’

‘It’s not about that.’

‘Then what’s it about?’

There was a sudden kind of sadness to him and, for the briefest of moments, I saw a flash in one of his eyes; the same one as earlier. He was definitely hiding something. He looked away, and when he turned back he’d composed himself and there was nothing in his face. No emotion. No expression. Just a blank.

‘Healy?’

‘It’s about getting the guy respon–’

‘Responsible for these crimes, blah blah blah. Look, if you value anything I did for you last year, if any of that meant anything , you owe it to me to –’

‘I don’t owe you shit.’

I paused. This was how Healy’s anger played out: indiscriminate and damaging. But even though I knew that, even though I’d dealt with this over and over the October before, it still stuck in my throat. It provoked me and irritated me, and – in my most uncontrolled moments, moments I tried to contain – it made me want to hurt him back.