Tom Weaver - The Dead Tracks

'David, I don't know…' She paused. 'I don't know what you're asking me.'

'Frank's name came up in relation to Megan, and I'm trying to work out why. Because Megan is the case I'm working at the moment. The one I told you about. I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm just trying to find the connection.'

'I swear to you, I didn't know they were connected.'

All I had to go on was her voice. The tiny movements in it; the rise and fall of the words. She was either telling the truth or she was a flawless liar.

'I was struggling to cope,' she said. 'That's why I came to the support group. It's been nearly a year, and it's just not getting any easier. I thought the group might help.'

'Did you know I attended the group?'

'No.'

'Had you heard of me before?'

'Absolutely not.'

I paused for a moment. 'Okay.'

'That's the truth, I swear.'

'I believe you,' I said, but wasn't sure if I was committed to what I was saying. Even if she was telling the truth, something was out of kilter somewhere. 'I just needed to be sure.'

'I understand.'

Now she sounded like she was lying. I'd offended her by suggesting she'd arrived at the group with an ulterior motive. Some hidden agenda.

We said goodbye, her voice quiet and distant, and then I turned to the file again, flipping back to the start. I worked it hard: every line, every entry, every detail. But, after twelve pages, the second read-through was the same as the first. No connections. Not to people, not to events and, most importantly, not to the girl I was trying to find.

Then, on page thirteen, I found something.

Midway down, one of the techs had recovered a series of grey hairs. DNA tests revealed that they didn't belong to anyone present at the scene - because they weren't even human. They were from a dog.

A greyhound.

No one recalled seeing a dog at the scene, and the warehouse was kept locked up so wouldn't have been home to any strays - which meant someone brought the hairs with them. Police would have assumed they'd come from a living room somewhere, or a kitchen. But I knew instantly they didn't come from a house.

They came from the Dead Tracks.

Chapter Thirty-five

As I moved into my road, I could immediately tell something was up. People were standing at the top of the street in the pouring rain looking down towards my house. Blue light painted the buildings and flashed in the windows. Crime-scene tape fluttered in the breeze. An officer was stationed just behind the tape. He watched me approach, eyes narrowed, trying to get a fix on who I was, and what I might want. As I continued my approach in the car, he looked like he was about to tell me to turn around. Then he got a glimpse of my face and recognition sparked in his eyes. He looked behind him. There was a crime-scene van and three cars parked outside. Two were marked. One, a Volvo, wasn't, but had a lightbar flaring on the front dash. As I stopped the car short of the tape, the officer shouted something and two men emerged from my driveway.

Phillips and Davidson.

I got out of the car. 'What the hell is this?'

Neither of them said anything. Phillips led the way, a long black coat trailing behind him like a cape. Davidson followed, a cup of takeaway coffee in his hands, the merest hint of a smile on his face.

'David,' Phillips said.

We were either side of the crime-scene tape. Phillips looked back at the house. A crime-scene tech was coming down the driveway now, carrying a shoebox. It was one of the ones I'd had stacked in the spare-room wardrobes; full of stuff belonging to Derryn that I hadn't yet sorted through. It was inside an evidence bag.

'Where's she going with that?'

Phillips didn't reply. Davidson shrugged.

I glared at Phillips. 'Everything in there belongs to my wife'

'Calm down, David,' he replied.

'Calm down?'

'Calm down.'

'I want that box back now.'

'Listen to me,' Phillips said, and his eyes flicked to the crowd at the end of the road. Automatically, I turned and looked towards Liz's house. It was dark. No one home. I didn't want her to see this. 'Just calm down,' he said again, 'before you make this worse.'

'What are you doing in my house?' I said, ignoring him. 'Have you even got a warrant?'

Phillips felt around in the pocket of his coat and brought out a piece of paper, sealed inside a waterproof sleeve. He held it up.

'Did you lie on oath to get this?'

He didn't reply, just handed it to me.

I looked at it. In the lack of light it was difficult to see the specifics, but I spotted my name at the top and a signature at the bottom.

'Who the fuck signed off on that?'

'I need you to come with me,' Phillips replied.

'Why would I do that?' There was definitely a smile on Davidson's face now. I looked at him. "You got something to say to me, fat man?'

He shrugged, still smiling.

Phillips audibly sighed. 'Okay, David, we're going to have to make this official.'

Davidson now had a pad in his hands and — despite the rain - was busy writing down what I'd just said. Even as the rage boiled in me, I knew I had to cool off to avoid saying something I'd regret. But when I looked again at the tech loading the shoebox into the back of the van, anger fired in me for a second time. I ducked under the tape. The uniformed officer made a move towards me. Phillips noticed and held up a hand.

'David,' he said.

'You better have a damn good reason for being here.'

Phillips nodded. 'David Raker, I'm arresting you on suspicion of the abduction of Megan Carver. You do not have to say anything —'

' What ?'

'— but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, anything which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be used in evidence. Do you understand what I've just said to you?'

You've got to be kidding me.'

'Do you understand, David?'

I glanced at the two of them. Davidson was still writing. Phillips looked between me and the PC standing to my side.

'David?'

I stared at him.

'David, do you understand — yes or no?'

Behind him, Davidson continued writing.

'Yes or no?'

I looked at him. 'Yes.'

He nodded at the PC again. I heard the metallic rasp of a pair of handcuffs and then felt the officer come up behind me. He guided my arms around to my back and sat them at the base of my spine. Cold, wet metal fed around my wrists and locked into place. In front of me, Davidson made a point of forcibly adding a full stop on to the end of whatever he was writing.

'This is crazy,' I said.

Phillips placed a hand on my arm. Time to go.'

This is the Beginning

She had a mattress and two blankets for when she slept. An hour after his second visit of the day, when he would throw down the liquid for her face and the cotton wool to apply it with, the lights would go out, plunging the room into total darkness. The lights would come on again the next day, for the first visit, when he came with her food. With the lights out, all she had was silence.

Some nights, early on, she would yell at the top of her voice, trying to get someone to hear her. When a week passed, she started trying to reason with him when he came in. At ten days, she told him the mattress was uncomfortable. Finally, at two weeks, she changed tactics when he came in with her food.

'I'm going to kill you, you bastard!'

She only tried once.

After she screamed at him, he paused. Straightened. Looked down at her. A smile broke out on his face; a thin line, like a slash from a knife. As it formed, his mouth peeling open, she realized it wasn't a smile at all. It was a warning. He was telling her that, even if she never slept again, she wouldn't see him approach. He'd do what he wanted to her, come for her when he needed her.