Tom Weaver - The Dead Tracks

'Did you try calling her number?'

'Her mobile's off. The phone in the house just keeps ringing.'

I glanced at Healy. He flicked a look back.

'Did you check for break-ins?'

'Back and front.'

'Nothing?'

'Zero.'

Shit. I looked at Healy again and this time he wasn't even attempting to disguise his interest. He'd shifted in his seat to face me.

'Who was the other guy?' Tasker said.

'What do you mean?'

'The other guy. I'm know I'm old, but I didn't need someone there to hold my hand, Raker. I can babysit with the best of them, I promise you.'

'What are you talking about?'

A confused pause. 'I assumed you sent him.'

Who?'

When I turned up at the house, some other guy's already in the back garden. He flashes a warrant card at me. Tells me he'll take care of things.'

'A cop?'

'Yeah. You didn't send him?'

'No. Who was he?'

'I don't know. Didn't tell me his name.' The line drifted. I could hear a car horn in the background. 'Thing is…'

'What?'

'I could have sworn to you it looked like he'd just come out of the house. Like he'd been inside, taken care of something and then locked up again. He looked shifty. On edge. I let the feeling go, because I thought he was with you.'

Dread thickened and twisted in my chest. What did he look like?'

'Medium height, dark hair.'

'Anything else?'

'He had this weird tic.'

'Tic?'

'Kept fiddling with his wedding band.'

And then it hit me like a sledgehammer.

The first time they'd taken me to the station, when Davidson and I had waited in the parking lot as Phillips went to his car to get his mobile phone .

'Was he Scottish?'

'Yeah.'

'Did you see what he was driving?'

'Yeah,' Tasker said. 'A red Ford Mondeo.'

The same car Phillips had.

And the same car that had been watching Jill's house.

Chapter Sixty-four

We waited for dawn — sleeping in ninety-minute shifts — to help make navigating the woods easier. And at five- thirty, as the clouds started to thin out and the first smudges of daylight stained the sky, we left the car and headed for the fence. About twenty yards down, some of it had begun to rust, the wire mesh dissolving into a flaky brown crust. In the boot of the car, Healy kept a toolbox and had brought a pair of pliers with him. He dropped to his knees at the fence and started to pick away at the mesh, folding it up and creating a hole. After five minutes, he'd created a space big enough for us to get our hands in and peel back.

A minute later, we were inside.

The woods were as thick on the northern edge as they were on the south. Except here there was no path. Between the tree trunks, we could see further in, where a fuzzy grey light had settled in an opening about eighty feet away. I led us across the uneven ground, thick undergrowth against our legs, dew-soaked leaves brushing against our faces. At the opening, the canopy thinned out and the sky was starting to colour.

Healy swatted a low-hanging branch away from his face and stepped in beside me. Ahead it was gloomy: lots of trees trunks side by side, and barely any room to make out what was between them. 'I see what you mean about this place,' he said quietly, and I wasn't sure if he was talking about how thick everything was — or the feeling that pervaded the woods. Just like the first time, the temperature seemed to drop the further in we got, and there was a constant noise in the background: a wind passing through the leaves.

Except, every so often, it sounded like someone speaking.

We carefully moved on in a southerly direction. The foliage was getting thicker and the light was fading, daylight blocked by the canopy and the network of tree trunks and branches. Eventually it got so dense we had to stop and double back. We came around in the same direction but further down, where small arrows of morning light managed to break through from above and angle down.

That was when we hit the wall.

It seemed to appear from nowhere. I'd imagined it being a grey-white colour, laid in the last ten to twenty years. Instead it was almost black, stained with age, mud and moss, and looked at least forty years old. Chunks of it had fallen away. There was a little graffiti, but not much - as if even kids on a dare didn't venture this far in. I placed a hand against it. Dust and a sticky sediment, like sap, clung to the skin of my fingers. I looked up. There were huge fir trees above us and mulched pine cones at our feet.

Crack.

We both turned and looked back in the direction we'd come. Healy glanced at me and then back into the gloom.

'What the hell was that?' he said quietly.

I didn't reply, waiting for it to come again. But it didn't. Instead, a disconcerting hush settled around us, all other noise briefly drifting away, until the only thing I could hear was Healy breathing next to me. Something was out of kilter here. I'd been to places where death clung to the walls and the streets and the people left behind. But I'd never been to a place like this. I was no believer in ghosts. But whatever had happened here, whatever lay buried, something of it remained above ground.

Turning, I grabbed the top of the wall and hauled myself up.

At the top, I peered over.

Directly below was the river, just as Sona had described it. Probably slightly more than six feet across, but not much. The current flowed surprisingly fast, sloshing and gurgling as it moved off to the right. On the other side of the water was the rough path she'd fallen into the water from. It looked like it might once have been a wall; maybe a property boundary. Bits of red brick remained embedded in the mud and gravel. Beyond the path, on the other side of the water, huge trees rose out of the earth, like thick forearms reaching for the clouds. Then hidden between them, surrounded by nature, was what remained of Ovlan Road. And the house Sona had described.

Four walls. No roof. A dark, empty interior.

Clambering up on to the top of the wall, I waited for Healy to do the same. He was bigger, slower, but seemed to move pretty smoothly. 'Looks like we're going to have to make a leap for it,' I said, turning to him. He didn't seem keen.

I aimed for a patch of grass slightly to the left, and just about hit it. The impact was hard, but not painful. I stood and looked back at Healy. He was sizing it up. A foot either side of the space I'd hit and he'd be landing on brick or stones and breaking an ankle. He glanced at me and then back to the patch he wanted to land on. Then he leapt across the river. As he landed, I heard a hard slapping noise: skin, bones and cartilage impacting against the ground. Mud kicked up, gravel spat away.

'You okay?' I said.

He nodded, moved gingerly. 'I'll survive.'

Now we were closer to the house it looked even bigger and more ominous than before. The opening in its front was a mouth. The windows that remained were eyes. Blackened moss ran from the bricks and was speckled around the entrances, like the house had coughed up its memories. Trees loomed, almost leaning in, as if drawn to the building. And there was a sudden lack of sound again. The river. The rustle of the leaves.

But nothing else.

In my jacket pocket was Healy's torch. I flicked it on and shone it into the darkness of the house. The cone of light swept across the interior. There were two windows upstairs, both long since smashed through, huge branches reaching in from trees lining the rear of the building. Some of the original wooden floors remained, but they'd been chipped and scuffed, broken by falling branches and pieces of masonry. Rubble was scattered everywhere: stone, concrete, wood, tiles.

Further inside it was even colder. And now there was a noise. Very distant, but clearly audible. I turned to Healy.