Tom Weaver - The Dead Tracks

'What research?' I said again, fists clenched.

'I guess it's a Marilyn Monroe thing' He flashed a smile again. 'Or maybe they remind me of my mother.'

'Why would you say that?'

'Isn't that what we're all about?'

'"We're"?'

'Serial killers.' Another smile drifted across his lips. 'Come on, David. You know as well as I do that a serial killer has got to stick to his MO. It's so important. Well, the women ticked all the boxes for me. Blonde. Good, strong features. A few flaws — but nothing that couldn't be rectified with a quick…' He used his free hand to simulate the slash of a knife. They were feminine. Pretty. Slim - but not all skin and bone. I don't like them like that. I like them with a bit of shape. If I wanted skeletons, I'd dig them up.'

'Where did you meet them?'

He looked at me. Still, except for his eyes, which moved across my face. 'I met them around and about. Feisty little Isabelle I met at a workshop I was attending.'

'A medical workshop?'

'No. I was learning how to make masks. Kind of a part- time vocation. After all, I didn't have a day job, and there were only so many Ferraris I could buy with all that dirty money.' His eyes sparkled. 'One of the consultants that I shadowed during my year of specialist training put the idea into my head. Weird little man, he was. He used to order in purpose-made latex masks to put on to dummies, so that we'd always have to look at a face when we were talking about cutting into something. He thought it would be a way of humanizing everything; even mounds of plastic. If you always had to look at a face, you'd always tread more carefully. Except I didn't give a shit about any of that. I just kept looking at the masks and thinking how it would feel to become someone else.'

'So why Sykes?'

'I found him interesting.'

'Because he killed thirteen women?'

'No, because people are still scared of him, even now. You go down to Hark's Hill and mention his name to the old-timers, and they'll fill their pants on the spot. You mention him to the kids that live around there and they might not have heard of him, but they'll know one thing: there's something wrong with that place. I mean, you've been there, David. You've felt it, right?'

I didn't say anything.

He smiled. 'Of course you've felt it. He buried thirteen women in those woods, and no one could find them. And as long as no one found them, that place never lost its power. And all they could do in the end was put up a concrete wall and a fence at one end and let nature take over everywhere else. Try to forget about the bodies, and the house he'd been born in, and the ghosts that wander through that place.' He paused and leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. 'But I didn't forget about them. I had to find those bodies.'

'Why?'

'Let's call it a psychological advantage. Find the bodies, and Sykes has no hold over that place any more. He's no longer the daddy.' He paused. Winked, ' I am.'

'You're fucking nuts.'

'Am I?'

'Listen to yourself.'

'I'm listening.' He cupped his free hand to his ear. 'Oh, I think I sound great, David. I mean, I'm the man who found Milton Sykes's victims. The police should be thanking me. I solved a hundred-year-old mystery.'

'How did you know where they were?'

He leaned forward. Brushed a finger against his broken nose. 'The dog found them.'

'The greyhound?'

'I discovered it wandering around the woods early on. Then it started following me around; bugging me. And then it started digging in that area of the woods day after day after day, and finally it brought back a thigh bone.'

'And you rewarded it so well.'

'I did, didn't I?'

'Cigarette burns, transplanted skin, cutting out one side of its face. Most dog owners just give their pets Pedigree Chum.'

He smiled. 'Some days it annoyed me. Some days I felt sorry for it.'

'I doubt that.'

'It had skin cancer. I took some skin from one of the women's thighs and transplanted it on to the dog. Not very scientific, I'll admit, but what the hell - the girl was already dead.' He shrugged. 'See? Even I can be a nice guy.'

Thirty seconds passed. Neither of us spoke; just looked at one another. Eventually he broke the silence.

'Interesting area, Hark's Hill,' he said. 'A whole other world under the surface of the woods, and most people don't even know it's there. Or they've just forgotten. That's where Sykes took Jenny Truman, you know. He convinced her to leave with him, then smuggled her into the tunnels that fed out from the factories.' He stopped. A flash in his eyes. 'It was a ready-made hiding place. That boarded-up door next to the air vent? That leads all the way to the old munitions factory on the other side of the woods. I brought everything down through there. The supplies. The tools. The equipment. And when I was finished, I welded it shut.'

More silence. We looked at each other. He had the same blank expression on his face again; no hint of emotion, no clue as to what he was thinking. He pushed a strand of dark hair away from his eyes and then sniffed gently, as if inhaling something sweet.

'Why leave the necklaces behind?' I asked.

'Because it was fun.'

'It was what got you caught.'

'Was it?'

'If it hadn't been for the necklaces, no one would have tied the women to each other, or to you. You gave yourself away.'

He shrugged. 'I wasn't far off finishing my little project.'

'Meaning what?'

'Meaning the necklaces were a vital component of what I was doing. I liked the idea of leaving something for the police to find. A little calling card. Something to tease them and test them. But it wasn't going to last for ever. One more after Jill, then my research was done.'

'You were just going to walk away?'

He smiled. 'Not exactly.'

'Then what?'

'I hadn't decided yet.'

I studied him. He was running the finger of his free hand along the edge of the table, the skin making a crackling noise as it caught on the chips in the surface.

'How many have you killed?'

He sighed, running his finger along the table in the opposite direction. 'I don't know, David,' he said, looking up at me. 'How many have you?'

There was a hint of a smile on his face. The coffee had been sitting on the table next to me the entire time, steam curling up from its surface. I took it and sank a few mouthfuls. Then I placed it down and leaned forward, hands flat to the desk.

'Is Aron Crane even your real name?'

He shrugged and sat back. 'Names, numbers, they're not important, David. They don't matter. A name is just a piece of paper. You can give yourself whatever name you want, and it won't make any difference to who you are, or what you do. A name's just a vehicle getting you from one place to another. Another little stage.'

'So Aron Crane was just a stage?'

He nodded, gazing at me, wanting me to look away, as if it would be a victory. But that wasn't going to happen. He wasn't going to win. Not now, not ever.

'Why bring Markham in?'

He sighed. 'I'm sure you know why.'

'You used him after things went wrong at the warehouse in Bow.'

'Correct!' He slammed his unchained right hand down on to the table. Then, suddenly, he was still. Straight- faced. Eyes on mine. 'There were cops undercover in the Russians, and Drayton's operation was getting a little… leaky too. Sooner or later they were going to move on me. Frank White got in the way, and so did that other stiff, so I killed them and went on my way.'

'As easy as that.'

'Anything's easy when you do enough of it.'

His eyes widened again and then he leaned back in his seat, the handcuffs locking into place.

'Where did you find Markham?'