Tom Weaver - The Dead Tracks

'Your husband was an inspector,' I said.

'You know your police stripes.'

'Was he a detective?'

'Yes. He worked for Thames Valley before he moved to the Met. That's when we came up to London.'

'He was a cop the whole time you were married?'

'The whole time,' she said, pouring milk into her cup. After she was done, she lifted a necklace out from her top. There was a small silver angel dangling from the end, a long spear in one hand. 'This is St Michael.'

The patron saint of policemen.'

'Right .' She smiled. 'I'm impressed.'

'I got to know the police pretty well as a journalist.'

'It was Frank's. I was going to bury him with it, but in the end preferred the idea of keeping it close to me. It seemed…' She slowly stirred her drink. 'It just seemed right.'

I nodded that I understood.

A thin smile worked its way across her face. 'Sometimes I still buy his favourite food when I go to the supermarket. I still leave the key in the wall out back, just in case he comes home. I guess… I guess I can't accept he's gone.'

'Do you mind if I ask what happened to him?'

She frowned. Looked at me for a moment. Then, as she blinked, her eyes filled up. She wiped them and sat back on the sofa, both hands wrapped around her coffee cup. They told me he was part of a task force looking into Russian organized crime. There was some link up with… is it SOCA'

I nodded. The Serious Organized Crime Agency. In my previous life as a journalist, I'd had a couple of contacts inside the National Criminal Intelligence Service, which later became part of SOCA. At the time it came into being in 2006, the media labelled it 'the British FBI', but as few of its officers had the power to arrest, and most of their work was surveillance and co-ordination, they were closer to the MI 5 model.

She shifted, sadness welling in her eyes. 'A couple of weeks after the funeral, one of his friends came here.'

'Off the record presumably?'

'Oh yes, definitely. I think he felt sorry for me. The way in which things had been… communicated. I mean, I tried to find out what happened to Frank in the weeks after his death, but the official version his bosses gave me, it just never…'

'Never felt right.'

'It just felt like there were gaps still to be filled.'

'How do you mean?'

She shrugged. 'They told me they were closing in on a big figure in one of the Russian gangs, and they'd been given a tip-off that he might be at a warehouse in Bow.'

'And was he?'

'I don't know.'

'They didn't tell you?'

She shook her head. 'No.'

'Because they wanted to contain the case?'

'Right. But I knew enough about police work to understand that. I didn't want to know the details of the investigation, I just wanted to know what had happened to Frank, and who killed him.' She took a few moments to find her feet again. 'All they told me was that he and another officer were shot in the chest.'

'By who — this Russian guy?'

'They said it happened fast.'

'So they didn't know?'

Her voice wavered. 'Officially, they said they didn't.'

'And unofficially?'

She paused for a moment. 'Frank's friend said the big figure they were after was a man called Akim Gobulev.'

Gobulev. The Ghost.'

She glanced at me. 'You've heard of him?'

'He's been on SOCA's most wanted list for the entire time it's been in existence.'

'Why do they call him "The Ghost"?'

'Because no one's even sure if he's alive.' 'Oh.'

'The NCIS used to joke that Gobulev was either buried somewhere, or had the power to turn invisible. They pinned stuff on him — trafficking, prostitution, drugs, money-laundering - but no one has seen him in years. The only evidence he even exists is an entry in a computer at Heathrow over a decade ago. He landed on a flight from Moscow - and then vanished into thin air.'

'Frank's friend said they were closing in on him.'

'Really?'

'That's what he said.'

'Gobulev was the guy at the warehouse?'

She picked up her cup of coffee again. 'No, I don't think so. He said he'd heard from some guys on the task force that this Gobulev man had had surgery.'

'What kind of surgery?'

'I'm not sure. But they'd found his surgeon.'

I sat forward in my seat. 'And that was who was in the warehouse?'

'Yes.'

'Gobulev's surgeon killed Frank?'

Yes,' she said again. 'His friend said the task force didn't know much about the surgeon, but they went to that warehouse to get him — and then use him to get Gobulev.'

'What else did he say?'

'I think that's all he knew.'

'Did he know the surgeon's name?'

She shook her head. 'No.'

She quickly wiped a tear away with a finger; but then a second one followed, breaking free and running down her cheek.

'I'm really sorry, Jill,' I said gently.

Eventually she looked up, an apologetic expression on her face. She was conscious of embarrassing me, but couldn't do anything to stop herself crying. I watched her for a moment, studying her, turning things over in my head.

'Look, I'll tell you what: I'll make a few calls for you and see if I can find out anything more. I can't promise anything.'

'David, you don't have to —'

'It's fine. I have another case, and that one has to take precedence. But after I'm done with that, I'll ask around for you, okay?'

She nodded, choked up on tears.

'It might be… it might be painful, some of it.'

'I know,' she said gently. 'But it can't be any more pain- fill than not knowing.'

I got back from Jill's at four o'clock. The rubbish bin I always kept at the front of the house had been tipped over, black bin liners spilling out across the pathway — and the sliding door at the front porch was open. I tried the front door.

It was still locked.

Backing out, I did a quick circuit of the house. Nothing was out of place. No sign of any disturbance. I often left the porch door open, without ever noticing; and, as I got back around to the front, a cat darted out from the shadows, across my lawn and out on to the street. It had some food in its mouth, removed from a hole in one of the spilt bin liners. I put the bags back inside the bin, and headed to bed.

Chapter Twelve

After staying out until 4 a.m. the previous night, I slept late. By the time I was showered and fed, it was almost midday. I headed into the office.

I didn't use it anywhere near as much as I once did. At the start, it had been a way to separate my home life from my work life. A way to legitimize my career. Now Derryn was gone, it was just an expensive inconvenience, and I was thirty days away from watching the lease lapse. Once that happened, I'd work out of the house permanently, and another little piece of my previous life would have washed away.

Swivelling in my chair, I looked up at the corkboard behind me. A wall full of the missing. Right at the top was Megan Carver. I stood and pulled the picture out, then sat down again and studied her. What's going on, Megan? What's your mum hiding? I turned gently in the chair, tracing the shape of her face; letting my mind turn over.

A couple of seconds later, my phone burst into life.

I looked at the display, NUMBER WITHHELD. Pulling it towards me, I switched to speaker phone.

'David Raker.'

No response.

'David Raker,' I said, louder.

No sound at all. No static, no background noise.

I sat forward in my seat. 'Hello?'

Just silence.

'Hello?

'Mr Raker…' A soft voice. Female. 'It's Kaitlin.' 'Kaitlin?'

'You said to call you if I…'

I glanced at the photograph of Megan. Things have changed. , I should have said. But then I remembered the way Kaitlin had been when I'd gone to the school, and realized a part of me wanted to find out what she had to say.