Tom Weaver - The Dead Tracks

Slowly, I opened it.

It was a small room. Maybe ten feet by ten feet. The curtains were partially drawn but - through the gap - I could see down to the side of the house. Inside it was warm, suffocating, and there were more flies at the glass and more insects crawling through the carpet. The family dog was in the corner of the room, a gaping wound in its side. In front, lying exactly parallel to one another, were Charlie Bryant and his father.

They were both dead.

His father was face down, arms tied behind his back with duct tape. Blood had spread out beneath him. Now It was dry and the carpet fibres were rigid. His skin had a green tinge to it, and there were maggots wriggling out from beneath his face.

Across from him was his son.

Charlie faced up to the ceiling, his chest awash in blood. Somehow, in death, he seemed younger than seventeen. I stepped further into the room. His legs were over to one side, bent in an A-shape. He'd been tied at the ankles as well. His mouth was slightly open, almost in a cry for help. And his eyes were the same.

Begging his killer to stop.

Chapter Seventeen

I called the police and waited for them at the front. They arrived ten minutes later. Once the whole place was cordoned off, the scenes of crime officer asked me to retrace my footsteps in and out of the property. When a route was established, tents were erected at the side and the rear, and it became the route everybody used. No one deviated from the line. Despite the rain, they wanted to try to preserve as much evidence as they could.

After that, a uniform walked me out to the front of the house, where a second officer was standing with a clipboard, recording anyone entering and leaving. At the front gate, police tape flapped, twisting and whipping in the wind. 'Here,' one of them said and handed me an umbrella. I put it up. 'Someone will come for you in a bit.'

Fifty minutes later, two CID officers emerged from the side of the house. One was in his late thirties, dark hair, slim and lithe, dressed smartly in a black raincoat, black suit and salmon tie. The other was bigger, older and greyer, in his early fifties. He hadn't made such an effort: a dirty brown jacket, jeans, a thick red woollen top and a pair of white trainers. The younger one led the way towards me. He had the air of a man in charge.

'Mr Raker?'

I nodded. He was Scottish.

'I'm DCI Phillips,' he said, and pointed to his partner.

'This is DS Davidson. We need to have a chat. We can do it here, in the middle of this mayhem, or we can do it back at the station, where I can offer you a cup of coffee and something to eat.'

He spoke softly, in a controlled tone, and had his hands laced together at his front in an almost respectful gesture, the fingers of his right occasionally turning the wedding band on his left. But I could see it for what it was: an act. He was trying to tell me he was a reasonable man. Someone I could trust and confide in. But a different man existed beneath the surface.

'Mr Raker?' he repeated.

'Am I under arrest?'

Beside Phillips, Davidson snorted. I glanced at him. He wasn't as good at the drama as his partner. He stood slightly back, his stance more aggressive. Small, dark eyes. Arms folded. Head tilted, as if he was looking down his nose at me.

'Arrest?' said Phillips, and briefly turned to his partner. "Why would we want to arrest you? You haven't done anything wrong, have you?'

When I didn't reply he seemed to realize his usual methods weren't going to work on me. Maybe we were interested in the same things. Maybe we'd both read the same books. I'd spent years trying to understand people better; trying to find ways to see past the lies. The politicians, the celebrities, the headline-makers. He'd probably done the same. Trying to get inside the heads of the worst humanity could dredge up.

'Why don't you follow me?' he asked quietly, eyes lingering on me.

I was half tempted to say no and walk away, but refusing would make me look suspicious. I wasn't legally obliged to go, but I didn't need them digging around in my case and I definitely didn't need them thinking I had something to hide. They'd want to bag what I was wearing, so I told them I'd go with them once I got some spare clothes from the BMW.

After I was done, it was a quiet, fifteen-minute journey to the station. Davidson sat in the back with me while Phillips drove. Neither of them said anything. As we moved south through Camden, I began to put things together in my head. A plan. An approach. I imagined how they would come at me. I doubted they seriously thought I was the killer, but, at the moment, I was their only lead.

The station was an old 1970s building, with a horrible industrial look. Part factory, part prison block. Phillips pulled into a parking bay and killed the engine. Two spaces down I noticed a sign had been nailed to the wall: RESERVED FOR DCI HART. Jamie Hart. The lead on the Megan Carver case.

This isn't coincidence .

They would have discovered the link between Charlie and Megan months ago. The only question now was: How much did they know beyond that?

Wait there a second,' Phillips said to Davidson as we were getting out. 'I left my phone in my car.' Davidson nodded and we both watched Phillips move across the car park to where a battered red Mondeo was parked. He flipped the locks, fiddled around in the glove compartment and then returned to us with his mobile phone. 'Okay,' he said. 'Let's go.'

The two, of them led me inside to a small, cramped waiting area, with a raised front desk that looked down over everything. The custody sergeant — early sixties, with silver hair and half-moon glasses - was sitting there, filling in some paperwork. His eyes flicked up to watch as we approached.

'Aren't you dead yet?' Davidson said. It was the first time he'd spoken. He had a broad East End accent.

The sergeant smirked. 'You'll be dead before me, Eddie. I mean, just look at what you're wearing. No way the fashion police are going to take that lying down.'

Phillips burst out laughing.

'Who have we got here?' he asked, looking at me.

'He's just here for a chat,' Phillips replied.

The sergeant nodded, reached for a button under the desk and then went back to what he was doing. A code- locked door to our left buzzed, and we moved through into a thin corridor. On my right was a big, open-plan office, 'CID' printed on the door. Further down the corridor, in front of me, were four interview rooms. Phillips pointed towards Room i.

As he opened the door, two strip lights flickered into life above us. The inside was stark. White walls, a dark blue carpet, no windows. A table, two chairs on one side, one on the other. Everything was bolted down, and there was a crash bar midway up the wall on all four sides of the room in case anything kicked off and one of the officers needed to raise the alarm. Next to the door was an intercom. Once the door had locked shut, that was how you got back out. Not exactly the cosy chat Phillips had promised.

'Do you want a drink?' he asked.

'Black coffee.'

He nodded, then disappeared.

Davidson watched me from the open doorway as I sat down. He didn't look like the type for polite conversation, so I drummed my fingers on the table as we waited in silence. It seemed to annoy him, which I liked. Phillips re- emerged after ten minutes with three cups of coffee and pushed the door closed. It was on a slow spring and took an age to click shut. Neither of them moved until it had. Once it locked, there was a gentle buzz, both of them sat down and we began.

Chapter Eighteen

In the business, this was called a Voluntary attendance'. I wasn't under arrest, so I didn't need a solicitor, and I could get up and leave whenever I wanted. But even here there were rules. Number one was covering your ass. The first thing Phillips did was pass a form across the table towards me that confirmed I was here voluntarily. I read it over and signed it. Davidson slouched in his chair, resting his coffee cup on his belly.