Tim Weaver - Vanished

About ten minutes later, as I was thinking about leaving, I saw the staffroom open – the same one I’d been inside before – and in the doorway appeared two faces I recognized: the woman, Sandra Purnell, who I’d chatted to last time out; and a man, one whose name I was struggling to recall, but who’d been here the first time I’d been in and talked to Pell. He’d been a ticket inspector. Eric. Edgar. Edward. Something beginning with E. I remembered seeing his photo and his name badge in the staffroom, and I remembered the conversation I’d had with him that first time. He’d been polite and helpful. In his staffroom photo he’d been immaculately turned out too – crisp uniform, styled hair, looking out through expensive half-moon glasses – and he had dressed with the same care today. I’d take that now: if he was detailed in the way he dressed, he might be detailed in his thinking too. Any hint, however small, of where Pell was, could get me a lead.

I headed over.

As I did, the woman unexpectedly reached out to the man and hugged him. I stopped and watched. He suddenly seemed quite emotional. Not tearful exactly, but lacking some colour, lips flattened, eyes downcast. When she was done, she rubbed his arm, they said goodbye to one another and she headed off towards the station entrance. He just stood there, a ticket machine slung over one shoulder, a backpack over the other. Out of the backpack spilled some clothes – a running top decorated with a square motif, a pair of well-used trainers – as well as some old, rolled-up magazines. It looked like he might have been on the way to the gym, or maybe he’d just taken the opportunity to clear out his locker.

‘Excuse me.’

He looked up. ‘Yes, sir?’ he said quietly.

‘I’m not sure if you remember me,’ I said, and I could immediately see he didn’t. ‘I came in on Thursday last week and spoke to you about this guy.’

I reached into my pocket and got out a picture of Sam. Just as I remembered him doing the first time, the man patted the breast pockets of his jacket, more out of habit than because he genuinely didn’t know where his glasses were, then took the photo from me and held it up in front of him. Although only in his early forties, he had an old way about him: he raised the photo high up into the light coming through the glass dome and perched his half-moon glasses on the end of his nose.

‘His name is Sam Wren,’ I said.

‘Oh right, yes – I remember.’

‘You definitely don’t know him?’

His eyes remained on the picture, but I could tell his mind had shifted elsewhere. Whatever he and the woman had been talking about had really got to him.

‘Is this a bad time?’

‘No, no,’ he replied, but I could tell he was being polite. He removed his glasses and slid them back into his top pocket. ‘Have you asked the other guys here? They’d know better than me. I don’t actually work out of the station.’

‘Because you’re a ticket inspector.’

‘We’re called RCIs these days,’ he said, a small smile on his face. ‘Much posher.’

I nodded, smiled back. ‘Mind if I quickly ask you something else?’

He shrugged. ‘Sure.’

‘When I came in last time, I spoke to you and another guy, Duncan Pell. Do you remember that?’

‘Yeah, I think so.’

‘Any idea where I might find Duncan?’

‘Is he in trouble?’

‘No. I’d just like to speak to him again.’

‘They tell me Duncan’s not been very well.’

‘Yeah, so I hear. Do you know where he might be?’

His eyes moved left, over my shoulder. When I followed his line of sight I could see the overweight guy from the booth had noticed us talking, and was coming over.

‘Everything all right, Ed?’ the big guy asked.

And then his name came back to me: Edwin. I turned around and the other guy was right on my shoulder.

‘Fine, yes. This gentleman was just asking about Duncan.’

Mr Big eyed me with suspicion. ‘Were you in the other day?’

‘I just want to ask him a couple of questions.’

‘You a copper or something?’

‘More like “or something”,’ I said.

It went completely over his head, but when I looked back at the ticket inspector the corners of his mouth were raised in a smile. I took a business card out of my pocket. ‘My name’s David Raker,’ I said to him. ‘If you think of anything, maybe you’d be kind enough to give me a shout. Any time of the day or night.’

He took the card. ‘Okay.’

‘I didn’t catch your name,’ I lied.

‘Edwin Smart. Ed.’

‘Thanks for your help, Ed.’

As I left the station and headed back to the car, my mind returned to the CCTV footage of the day Sam went missing. I’d been over it countless times, trying to find the join. But even though every viewing I’d had of it had been more meticulous than the last, they’d all ended up the same way: no Sam.

And yet as I walked, I felt a tiny shift in my thoughts, like I’d suddenly glimpsed the outline of a memory. Although I tried to pin down what it was, the harder I looked for it, the more of a blur it became. But as indistinct as the thought had been, something of it remained. A residual feeling. A certainty.

That the answers were still in the footage.

And they always had been.

66

When Healy finally got back to the station, he walked into the incident room to find a meeting taking place. At the front, Craw was addressing the Snatcher task force, Davidson sitting almost at her side, pad on his lap, pen in his hand. Both of them clocked the movement, Craw glancing across to Healy and then returning her gaze to the detectives in front of her; Davidson looking over, a half-smile forming on his face.

Healy moved to the back of the group and perched himself on one of the desks but he could barely hear anything Craw was saying. All he could hear was his own voice: had Sallows already sent the pictures? Did Craw already know about the hospital, about how he’d got together with Raker? And what lie could he spin to help minimize the impact?

There are no more lies worth telling if she knows.

The thought sent a bubble of bile up from the pit of his stomach, but he managed to pull himself forward, further towards the group. Davidson was swinging gently from side to side on his chair as he made notes. At the back of the group, one of the other cops looked around, saw Healy and nodded, but Healy was so distracted he didn’t even remember the guy’s name. All he could see were the decisions he’d made over the past few days, and – with absolute clarity now – how he’d become consumed by revenge. He’d wanted to show them. He’d wanted to shove their taunts and their jokes and the looks he got in the office so far down their throats they’d be choking on them. They’d used Leanne against him, they’d tried to grind him down and spit him out, and he’d become so focused on that, he hadn’t been able to see where the road was leading. Raker was the only person he could trust – even after the hospital, even after the way things had been left, that still held true in Healy’s head – but Healy knew he should never have sought Raker’s help. Not now. Not this soon.

‘Healy?’

He looked up. Craw was addressing him. ‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘Did you get all that?’

‘Most of it, ma’am.’

There were a couple of sniggers, though he couldn’t see where from, and as Craw stepped forward, in front of Davidson, Healy watched a smile form on Davidson’s face.

You’re done , he mouthed.

‘Good,’ Craw said. ‘Because you’re riding with me.’

Craw told him to head towards Highgate. She didn’t say much else. Healy drove, eyes on the road, hands on the wheel, and stared ahead, going over everything that had happened and everything that might be about to come. After about ten minutes they hit traffic in Holloway. For a while there was silence, just the sound of rain falling against the roof. Then, finally, Craw turned to him. ‘Where were you this morning?’