Tom Weaver - The Dead Tracks

And all she would see was a flicker in the darkness.

Sona woke. It was pitch black; the middle of the night. She rolled over on the mattress, springs popping beneath her, and pulled the blanket up to her neck. As she did, she heard something beyond the silence for the first time since she'd been taken: the gentle patter of rain. It was coming down somewhere distantly, softly, consistently. When she shut her eyes and tried to concentrate on the noise, it sounded like it was hitting a metal grate.

pffffffff

Her eyes snapped open.

The hole was bricked in dark colours all the way up, so there was no definition to her surroundings. No chinks of light. She couldn't even see her own hand in front of her face. Everything vanished in the darkness, and all that remained was sound: a very gentle rumble now, reverberating through the floor of the room above and down the walls of the hole; and the rhythmic beat of the rain.

She lay there with her eyes open. As she counted the time in her head - thirty seconds, a minute, two minutes, five minutes — the rain started to get harder. At ten minutes, she could feel herself getting tired again. Her eyes drifted closer together. She opened them and stared into the darkness for another sixty seconds. Then she closed them, too tired now to fight the onset of sleep.

pffffffff

She moved quickly, sitting up on the mattress. What was that? The sound had been closer this time. She expected to be able to see something, maybe just the smallest mark against the darkness. But there was nothing. No light. No shapes. Everything was black. She reached out in front of her, to where the sound had come from. Leaned a little way forward. Pressed her other hand against the floor for support.

And then it came to her.

She realized what the sound had been.

Static.

Torchlight erupted from the corner of the hole, blinding her briefly. She brought a hand to her eyes, automatically reacting, but a leg kicked her supporting arm out from under her and she fell forward, hitting her face against the floor. It dazed her for a moment, white dots flashing in front of her. When she rolled on to her back, he was standing above her, a foot either side of her body, a smile cutting across his face.

Behind him, propped against the wall, was a ladder.

He'd come down, into the hole, and she hadn't even heard him.

She tried to wriggle away from him, getting as far as she could, but he placed a boot on her throat and pinned her to the floor. Static from the speakers in the room above.

'This is the beginning,' he said.

Even up close, it was hard to make out his features clearly. He'd turned the torch away from himself, shining it to the left. Shadows cut across him, little pieces of the night clinging to every fold and crease in his face.

This is where you give me my life back.'

In the blink of an eye, the man took his foot off her throat and lifted her up off the floor of the hole. She went to fight him, went to kick or punch or bite, but he was too quick. He punched her in the side of the head — a fast, efficient jab, right at the corner of the eye - almost hissing at her as he moved.

And then she toppled sideways on to the mattress and blacked out.

PART THREE

Chapter Thirty-six

They took me to the same station as before, but this time I wasn't going to be walked straight into an interview room. The same custody sergeant that had greeted my arrival the first time was perched at the front desk, looking down through his half-moon glasses. He glanced at me, then at Phillips and Davidson, and buzzed them in. The three of them led me in the opposite direction to the interview rooms, through two sets of doors, into the custody suite. Behind me, Phillips pushed a metal gate shut until it locked. Davidson moved off to my left. The sergeant slid in behind a desk, introducing himself as Fryer, and asked Phillips to undo my cuffs. Up front, he told me my rights. Every couple of sentences, he paused to ask if I was clear. They hated the Police and Criminal Evidence Act more than any of the men and women they arrested. Anything missed, any mistakes, and a solicitor would dismantle the case.

Fryer produced a camera from under the counter. Police liked to get the pictures out the way in case, for any reason, injuries were sustained inside the station later on. He took three photographs. Once he was done, he invited me across to a table where the fingerprint kit sat. The whole time, Davidson watched. I glared at him, but he just stared at me blankly.

Next, Fryer asked Phillips to go over his account of the arrest. It was the reason Davidson had been taking notes.

Except Phillips didn't need them. He'd committed pretty much everything to memory. When he was done, Fryer turned to me and asked if I had anything to add; in effect, he was asking me if I wanted to dispute Phillips's account. I shook my head.

The rest of the booking in took twenty minutes. I emptied out my pockets and everything was logged, gave them my belt and shoelaces, then Fryer reminded me of my rights again, and asked me if I wanted to call anyone or inform a solicitor. This time I said I wanted to make a call, and Phillips directed me to a room behind the booking-in area. It was small with reinforced glass panels, one table and one chair—both bolted down - and a telephone on the wall. They left me there. I watched them go, and then dialled Liz's mobile. After three rings, she picked up.

'Hello?'

'Liz, it's David.'

'David,' she said, and sounded pleased to hear my voice. 'How are you? I popped over yesterday, but you must have been out.'

'Liz…'

She immediately sensed something was up. 'Are you okay?'

'I'm under arrest.'

' What ?

The police turned up at my house earlier…'I paused. 'They've made a mistake. They've somehow tied me to the disappearance of Megan Carver. I don't know how, but… Look, I don't want to talk about it too much over the phone. I just need your help. Can you get here?'

'Yes, yes, of course,' she said. 'The only thing is, I'm not in London.'

My heart sank.

'Where are you?'

'I'm up in Warwick seeing Katie.'

I remembered her walking down the drive to her car before eight that morning. Warwick was eighty miles away. An hour and a half on a clear run. Except Sunday night on the motorways into London wouldn't be a clear run. Even if she left now, it would probably take her a couple of hours. If I was unlucky, even more.

'David,' she said, and her voice was suddenly quiet and controlled. 'What is it they think you've done?'

'Abducted Megan.'

She paused. ' Did you abduct her?'

'No. Absolutely not.'

I heard her exhale softly. 'Okay. Listen. I'm going to ask you a couple of questions. Don't leave anything out.' She stopped. Let that last sentence settle. She was reminding me of the times she'd helped me out before when both of us had known I'd left some of the truth buried. 'So, first: do you think Megan's dead?'

'She's been gone six months.'

'Is that a yes?'

'Statistically, there's a good chance, just because of the time she's been missing. I've got no evidence to support that. And neither have they. But the case is still active.'

'So if the case is still active, they're working from the assumption that she could just as easily be alive?'

'Right.'

'Because here's the thing. You are entitled to free legal advice. They'd have told you that already. The police have to provide that as part of PACE. You can go that route and, because it's a Sunday evening and a solicitor won't magically appear at the station in five minutes flat, that will delay any interview taking place for a while. And it will give me some time to get back.'