Tom Weaver: The Dead Tracks

Fifteen minutes later, he finally arrived.

He walked straight up to the reception area, a hurried, flustered look on his face — like he'd run full pelt from wherever he'd come from — and followed his secretaries' eyes across the hall to where I was sitting. He came over. 'Steven Bothwick.'

I stood and shook his hand. 'David Raker.'

'Nice to meet you,' he said, using a finger to slide some hair away from his face. He was losing what he had left, and not doing a great job of disguising it.

'I'm here about Megan Carver,' I said.

'Yes,' he replied. 'A lovely girl.'

He directed me to a door further along the corridor with his name on it. His office was small, crammed with books and folders. A big window behind his desk looked out over the football pitches. Bothwick pulled a chair out from the wall and placed it down on the other side of his desk. 'Would you like something to drink?'

'No, I'm fine, thanks.'

He nodded, pushing some folders out of his immediate way and shuffling in under the desk. He was in his fifties and barely scraping five-eight, but had an intensity about him, a determination, his expression fixed and strong.

I reached into my pocket and got out another business card. 'Just so you're clear, I'm not a police officer. I used to be a journalist.'

A frown worked its way across his face. 'A journalist?'

'Used to be. For two years, I've been tracing missing people. That's my job now. The Carvers came to me and asked me to look into Megan's disappearance for them.'

'Why?'

'Because the police investigation has hit a brick wall.'

He nodded. 'I feel so sorry for her family. Megan was a fantastic student with a bright future. When the police came here, I told them the same.' He took my card and looked at it. 'Yours is quite a big career change.'

'Not as big as you might think.' I watched him look at what was written on it — DAVID RAKER, MISSING PERSONS INVESTIGATOR - and across the desk at me.

He handed me back my card. 'So what can I help you with?'

'I've got a couple of questions.'

'Okay.'

I took out my pad and set it down on the desk.

'Her parents told me they dropped her off on the morning of 3 April, and she never came out again that afternoon. Do pupils have to sign in?'

'Well, we take a register first thing in the morning and again after lunch, yes. But only for those in years seven through to eleven.'

'That's eleven to sixteen years of age, right?' 'Right.'

'So Megan was too old?'

'Yes. Our A-level students are treated more like adults. We encourage them to turn up to class - but we won't come down on absences.'

'So say I missed a couple of days of school — would anyone notice? And who would it get reported to — you?'

Yes. If a pupil was continually missing lessons, the teacher would inform me.'

'But a few absences here and there…?'

He shrugged. They may get reported, or they may not. It depends on the student. Some contribute so little to lessons that their presence may be felt less. I guess a teacher may not, in that instance, notice them as quickly. But Megan… I think we'd have seen straight away if she'd been missing a lot of school time.'

'She was a good student?'

'In the top three per cent here, yes.'

'And never got into any trouble?'

He shook his head. 'Absolutely not.'

'I understand she had Physics and then Biology for the last two periods of the day, and that she attended the Physics part of that?' 'Right.'

'Her teacher confirmed that?'

'Yes. And the fifteen other students who were in there with her.'

'How long's the walk between classrooms?'

'No walk at all. They're in the same block. Chemistry's on the top floor, Physics on the second and Biology on the ground.'

'There's no CCTV in that part of the school, right?'

'Sadly not. We have cameras, but we can't afford to have them in every building — not on the budget we're handed.' He turned in his chair and pointed to a diagram on the wall. It was a plan of the school campus with tiny CCTV icons scattered across it. 'Those are the cameras we have. One at the entrance, one on the car park, one at reception, one outside the English and Maths block, and one trained on the playing fields.'

'Why only English and Maths?'

'It's the block furthest away from here.'

'Are there multiple entrances to the school?'

'Not really. Well, not official entrances, anyway. Some of the students live in the estates beyond the football pitches, so they climb over the fence and come across the fields. There's a rear car park behind the Sixth Form block as well, where some of the students in Years 11 and 12 park their cars, if they're lucky enough to have them. That's fenced off too, but only to about waist height.'

'So if she was going to leave the school grounds, and not be caught on CCTV, her best bet would have been jumping the fence at the back of the Sixth Form car park?'

'Correct. I think that's what the police concluded too.'

I reached down and got out Megan's Book of Life. 'Would it be possible to speak to a couple of students?'

'Megan's friends?'

'Yes.' I looked down at the pad. 'Lindsey Watson and Kaitlin Devonish?'

He nodded, picked up the phone and punched in a four-digit number. On the other side of the door, I heard a phone ring in reception. 'Linda, I need Lindsey Watson and Kaitlin Devonish sent around as soon as possible, please.' He put the phone down. 'Anyone else?'

I looked down at the pad, turned it around and slid it across the desk to him. The six people at the bottom,' I said, pointing to the boys' names. 'Are any of them students here?'

He removed a pair of glasses from the top pocket of his jacket and popped them on, studying the names for a moment. Yes.'

'All of them?'

'I recognize all of them but one.'

'Who's the odd one out?'

'Anthony "A. J." Grant.'

'You don't recognize that name?'

'No,' he replied, taking off his glasses. He got up and went to a filing cabinet at the back of the room. It had three drawers, each filled with the same Manila folders, each folder tabbed. Presumably he liked doing things the old-fashioned way. He went to G, but didn't find anything.

'He's definitely not a student here.'

'Every student in the school is in there?'

'Every current student, yes.'

I brought the pad back across towards me and put a question mark next to A. J. Grant. The other names on here —' I pushed it back towards him '— are they all in the same year as Megan?'

'Yes.'

'Is it going to be possible to speak to them?'

'Certainly — but only Lindsey and Kaitlin today. Four of them are on a field trip to Normandy. The other… Well, the truth is, I don't know where Charles Bryant is. He missed a lot of school last year because his mother died. This week is the one-year anniversary of her passing, and he hasn't been in at all. I've tried calling his father, but have had no response. I even sent one of the teachers round to his house, but no one was home. I've no idea where he is, and to be honest, I think this week he's best left alone.'

'Would it be possible to get an address for him?'

'I can't give out addresses, I'm afraid.'

There was a knock at the door. Bothwick looked up.

'Come in.'

Two girls entered. They shuffled forward, their eyes flitting between the both of us. One was beautiful: petite with a dusting of make-up, slim and womanly. The other was plainer, bigger, dressed more conservatively, but smiling.

'Kaitlin, Lindsey, this is Mr Raker. He's looking into Megan's disappearance for her mum and dad.'

I stood. 'David.'

'Lindsey,' the bigger girl beamed.

The other girl hesitated.

'Kaitlin,' she said quietly. She had an accent.