Tom Weaver - The Dead Tracks

Healy studied me, then turned back to the warehouse, 'What?' I said.

'You think it's her?' He was still looking at the warehouse, at the men removing boxes from the back of the lorry. When I didn't reply, he turned to face me again. 'Do you think it's Megan?'

I glanced down at the metal container. 'It could be, yeah.'

'So the other one…'

'Would be her baby.'

He'd probably seen worse. The darkness in men; the moments in life when murderers and rapists and abusers reached into the earth and pulled a little piece of hell out with their hands. I'd been there too. Walked through blood. Stepped over bodies. Flashes of time when, for a second, you realized humanity had vanished, and no rules remained. We'd both known worse than a heart cut from what housed it. But things changed when a child was involved. And, in this case, maybe not even a child: an unborn baby. Healy carried on massaging his chest.

'Are they preserved in that stuff?'

I looked at him. 'Formalin? I'd imagine so. I'm guessing Drayton sourced all those weapons for the Russians, and the chemicals came in with the guns. That was the currency the Russians paid Glass with: the formalin.'

When I looked at Healy again, his mouth had flattened and his eyes seemed to project his thoughts: Leanne and the formalin, and whether he could bear to imagine the rest.

In the warehouse, someone started closing the rear doors of the lorry. The noise carried across the street towards us; a huge metal clang. We both turned and watched as the driver came around the front and disappeared inside the office door. Two minutes later, he re-emerged, got into the cab of his lorry and pulled out. The lorry was gone within thirty seconds.

Inside we could see people milling around. There was a wall of misty-coloured windows at the back of the warehouse. What little light the day could muster shone through them, turning everyone inside into silhouettes. I counted five people. Possibly six. The interior was hard to make out other than that, but it looked cavernous and empty.

'I hope you know what you're doing here,' Healy said, pressing his fingers against his chest again. 'You're out on bail, remember.'

In the rear-view mirror, a blue Nissan appeared at the top of the street, heading down towards us. 'I know,' I said, watching the car. It slowed up as it got to the warehouse, and bumped up on to the pavement outside. Healy heard the noise and turned to look.

'That's him,' he said.

'Drayton's son?'

'Yeah.'

'What do you know about him?'

Healy shrugged. 'Only what I've heard. I remember Phillips saying he thought the kid might be hiding something. But you know what Phillips is like.'

Drayton's son got out of the car. A couple of the people inside the warehouse waved to him, and then he disappeared through the office door.

'You ready?' I asked.

Healy looked at me. 'Let's do it.'

Chapter Forty-eight

The office was small and plain. There was a counter running most of the length of the room to our left, and a window behind it, looking out on to the warehouse. The place was a mess: invoices and paper pinned to the walls, a Page Three calendar, receipts, even photographs of the family. There were three worn seats, none matching, and a circular table in the waiting area. Everything smelt of food. Drayton's son was standing behind the counter, leaning on it as he wrote something down. He looked up as Healy approached. I could see his brain ticking over, trying to decide if he recognized him. I stood at the door the whole time.

'Luke Drayton?'

He studied Healy, then glanced at me. 'Do I know you?'

Healy fiddled around in the pocket of his jacket and got out his warrant card. When he laid it on the counter, he kept a couple of fingers pressed against the wallet. I could see what he was doing: the tips of both fingers were covering his name.

'We're with the Metropolitan Police.'

Drayton looked between us. ' Again? '

'We've got some more questions.'

'About what?'

'About your father.'

Drayton rolled his eyes. 'We told you everything we knew the first time you came. And the second. And the third. Do you want me to make something up — is that it?'

Healy took a step towards Drayton. Leaned on the counter.

Didn't say anything.

'Dad screwed us,' Drayton continued. 'He destroyed the reputation of this business. Everything I told you the other times you people came to see me, it still stands. I hope he rots in hell. I hope he never finds peace, wherever he is.'

Healy nodded. 'Sounds like you miss him.'

Drayton frowned, and shook his head.

I left them at it, let the door close behind me, then made my way around the side of the warehouse. At the back was a concrete yard surrounded by a five-foot wall topped with barbed wire. I peered over: a small forklift truck; two cars and a van; a few unmarked barrels; and a massive pile of cardboard boxes, covered with a rain- sheet. Two men were milling around the boxes. One was holding a clipboard, marking something off. A second was adding more boxes to the pile from a stack inside — presumably part of the delivery earlier.

I followed the path around the property and at the end was a stream, probably feeding in from the Royal Albert Dock. It ran the length of all seven warehouses and disappeared into a knot of trees at the end. I could see that the back wall of the yard was topped by three lines of barbed wire instead of one. No entrance. No way over unless you wanted to tear your skin to shreds.

Heading back up the path to my original position, I looked over the wall again. The only person left in the yard now was the guy with the clipboard. He was standing to the right of the pile of boxes, running a finger down a printed list. The boxes were all different heights and sizes, and stacked in a series of towers.

From inside the warehouse, the man who'd been carrying the boxes appeared again. He held a huge cube-shaped cardboard box in front of him, his arms barely stretching halfway along each side. He wobbled as he walked, slowly edging around the pile, careful not to knock anything. About three-quarters of the way along, side-on to where I was looking in, he reached down and placed the box in a space on the pile. The movement brought his weight forward, and the t— of his boot knocked against the bottom of one of the boxes underneath. It shifted. Turned slightly. Beneath the box, a line appeared, carved into the concrete floor.

The man crouched, placed a hand on either side of the box and then manoeuvred it back into position, over the line. Within a couple of seconds, it was in its original position and there was nothing visible on the concrete floor except tyre marks and dust.

We got back into the car. Healy kept his eyes on the warehouse.

'He knows something,' he said.

'What did he say?'

'Nothing.'

'So what makes you suspicious?'

'I'm not sure,' he said, and looked at me. 'Maybe you've just got me paranoid. But if he is weaving a story, he's a bloody good liar.'

The windows of the car creaked in the wind. 'Anything around the back?' he asked. I nodded. We need to come here again when it's dark.'

'Why?'

I could see through to the rear doors at the back of the warehouse, and the yard beyond. 'Because there's a trapdoor hidden out the back.'

Chapter Forty-nine

There was a coffee shop just off the East India Dock Road. Healy found a space a couple of streets away, the Dome — framed by grey skies and drizzle — across the water from us. We were about to go inside when, a little way up the road, I saw someone I recognized: Aron Crane. There was no Jill with him this time, and he was dressed in a suit.

I told Healy I'd see him inside. Aron looked deep in thought, his eyes fixed further out to where the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf needled the low-hanging cloud. Twenty feet short of the coffee shop, he spotted me.