Tom Weaver - The Dead Tracks

'But?'

'But,' she said, and paused. She blew out some air, and it crackled down the line between us. 'If they think that there's a real and immediate danger to the life of someone connected to this case — i.e. the girl they're accusing you of taking - they can start the interview without having to wait for a solicitor. If they think Megan's alive - if the evidence they have points to that — and they think any delay will adversely affect them finding her alive, then they can start the interview once you get off the phone to me.'

I looked out through the glass to where Phillips, Davidson and Fryer had booked me in. They'd been joined by Hart now - and someone else I didn't recognize. He was wearing uniform. Early fifties but lean. On the shoulder of his shirt was his rank insignia. A crown, with red trim. Beneath that, a four-pointed star. As I studied him, he seemed to sense it and returned the look.

'David?'

I watched him for a moment more. 'So who makes that call?'

'What call?'

'To bypass the solicitor.'

'It has to be superintendent rank or above.'

Standing between Fryer and Hart, a printout of my custody report in his hands, the station's chief superintendent was still looking at me.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Twenty minutes later I was inside Interview Room 4 and the tape was rolling. There were three cups of machine coffee between us. None of them had been touched. The room was smaller than the one I'd been in before. It was all part of the play. Smaller room. Less space to breathe in. Psychologically, they were trying to secure any kind of advantage they could.

After pushing Play, Phillips introduced himself and Davidson for the benefit of the tape, and then asked me to confirm my name and address. On the desk in front of him was a thin brown Manila folder. From inside, I could see the corners of photographs poking out. His hand was flat on top, as if he were scared it might suddenly disappear. Next to him, Davidson had resumed the casual stance of the first interview: leaning back in the chair, jacket off, too-tight T-shirt, arms crossed and resting on his belly.

'Okay, David,' Phillips said, 'let's get started. I'm going to ask you a few basic questions first, all right? So… can you confirm your occupation for us?'

Davidson smirked. I looked at him. 'Something funny?'

'David?'

I turned back to Phillips, but didn't answer.

'David?'

'I'm a missing persons investigator.'

Davidson nodded. Mock sincerity. He leaned forward in his chair and dragged one of the coffee cups towards him; just to be seen to be doing something.

'So, why missing persons?' Phillips asked.

'About four months after I left the paper, one of my wife's friends asked me to look into the disappearance of her daughter.' I paused. Both of them looked at me. Phillips made no movement. Davidson shifted again. 'So I did. After that, a couple came to see me. Then another one. Then another. Somewhere after that, it became a job.'

'Are you registered?'

'With who? The ABI? No, I'm not registered. I haven't signed up for my free newsletter and quarterly copy of Investigators Journal!

'How do people hear about you then?'

'Yellow Pages, the internet, word of mouth.'

'Did the Carvers hear about you through word of mouth?'

'You'd have to ask them.'

'They didn't tell you?'

'Normally it's not that important to me.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, the people who come to me have usually had their hearts ripped out because their kids haven't come home for a month. I'm not conducting market research. I'm trying to find the most important person in their lives.'

'And do you?'

'Do I what?'

'Find them?'

I nodded. 'Always.'

'So you're good at your job?' Phillips asked.

I glanced at Davidson, but spoke to Phillips. 'I think you and I probably have different definitions of whether a person's good at his job or not.'

Davidson sat forward in his seat. Laid both hands on the table, like he was trying to hold himself back. If the tape hadn't been running, he might have said something.

'What have you found out about Megan Carver's disappearance?' Phillips asked, staring at the file, still closed, in front of him.

'Not much.'

'Care to elaborate?'

I didn't respond immediately, and when he looked up, he could see my face: Not really. 'She disappeared from her school on 3 April this year,' I said, before he could say anything that would get committed to tape and make me look unhelpful. 'I've interviewed her friends and family. I've been through her email and her phone. As of yet, I haven't found anything.'

Phillips's eyes narrowed. 'Really?'

'Really.'

'Nothing at all?'

'Nothing substantial.'

There were three things I had that the police didn't. One was Megan's link to the Dead Tracks. When they'd got into her email, and been beyond the security on the LCT's site, they would have found the map of the school car park and the message (Meet here at 2.30p.m. for a romantic woodland picnic!), but with no idea which woodland it referred to, it wouldn't have led anywhere. Because they didn't have the guy in Tiko's. If they'd picked out the man in the footage at any point during the six months since Megan vanished, then seen the message on the map, eventually they would have put it together. But without him, what they had was worthless.

The second thing was the youth club. They had that too — they just hadn't gone deep enough. They'd almost certainly interviewed Daniel Markham, but because Kaitlin never mentioned Megan's pregnancy to them, he'd probably managed to slip through the net. And if he'd talked himself out of trouble once, it was a fair bet he'd do it again. What the police had was an obvious connection between Megan and Leanne: two missing girls, both part-time workers at the same place. But if Healy was sniffing around, working his daughter's case off the books, it meant he was desperate for a lead; and that, in turn, meant police were still trying to find out who had taken Megan and Leanne. Markham was key, and — for the moment — only I knew about his relationship with Megan.

And then there was Frank White, out there in the margins of the case. They'd found dog hairs in the warehouse the night he was shot. Hairs I was willing to bet matched up with the dog I'd come across in the woods. Beyond that, though, I was still looking for what tied him directly to Megan. Perhaps I could use Healy. He wanted answers about Leanne, and I wanted to know where Frank White fitted in.

'What about Charlie Bryant?' Phillips asked, disrupting my train of thought.

'He's connected to her disappearance somehow,, but I haven't figured out how or why. I'd suggest, though, that Whoever killed him probably took Megan.'

'Why kill him?'

'Like I say, I haven't figured that out yet.'

'You must have a hunch.'

'Maybe he witnessed something he shouldn't have.'

'Like what?'

I frowned. You want me to list a few fantasy theories? Or do you just want to stick to the facts? No witnesses. No CCTV. No accounts that Megan was particularly unhappy or depressed. No sign her grades were dropping at school. As I'm sure your colleague DCI Hart has already told you, this is a complex case.' I paused. Hart. He was supposed to be the lead on the Carver investigation. So where was he? I looked at Phillips. 'Shouldn't Hart be taking this interview? He was heading up the Carver disappearance, wasn't he?'

Phillips nodded. 'Chief Inspector Hart is busy elsewhere.'

'I saw him earlier.'

'He was checking in.'

Now it was my turn to look suspicious. 'The biggest unsolved of the last twelve months and he doesn’t want a piece of it?'

Phillips sighed. 'If you must know, David, DCI Hart is currently taking a long, hard look around your house.'