Tom Weaver - The Dead Tracks

'He came to my attention when I first started following Megan. I'd been watching her for a while. She seemed…' He leaned forward again, whispering. 'She seemed like my type — know what I mean?' He winked. 'I needed to step back after White snuffed it, and Markham seemed to fit the bill. He was friendly with Megan, she trusted him — plus his wife was a fucking nutcase, which meant he had a soft centre.' Eyes narrowed, face straightening. 'People you love tend to be your weakness.'

Something flashed in his eyes, and then it was gone again.

'After Frank White died, there was a lot of coverage about him on the news. I mean, kill a copper and it's the A-bomb dropping, right? Interviews with the people he'd shared an office with, his family, friends - then eventually Jill. The tearful widow. I liked the look of her straight away. She fitted the bill. So I started getting my morning coffee from the same place as her. After a week of giving her the eye, she eventually said hello. After a fortnight, we were chatting. After a month, I had her in the palm of my hand. I can be really quite charming when I want to be.'

'Why not get Markham to bring her to you?'

'I was getting itchy feet watching him do all the fun stuff. Plus, he couldn't keep up with my… appetite. To be honest, he was a whiney piece of shit. I had to treat him like a child, just to get him to understand all the rules and regulations. Cutting him to pieces did us all a favour, believe me.'

He paused. Made a show of clearing his throat.

'I saw you going into the Carvers' house about a week and a half back. Let's just say, I'd been keeping a close eye on everything to do with Megan. Making sure I was still insulated. As long as the investigation rumbled on, everything was fine.' He nodded sideways at the one-way mirror and then dropped his voice — but loud enough so it would be picked up in the next room. 'They didn't have a clue who I was, David. Not a clue.'

That's why he came to the support group. To keep me close .

'So you were watching me?'

'Basically, yes. When Jill started to trust me, I floated the idea of the support group, so I could actually meet you. But then I realized I needed to know more about you, your skills. So I persuaded her to play on your conscience and get you to look into Frank's death.'

'Why take the risk?'

'It wasn't a risk. Everything you said to her got back to me. Much better than stumbling around blindly trying to work out what you did and did not know. Just that one evening at the support group was enough to get the measure of you. Which is probably just as well. I mean, let's face it, that group is where ambition goes to die.' He winked again and smiled. 'No offence intended, of course, David. I'm sure it's helped you get over seeing your wife lose her hair and her dignity.'

Fire flared in me, shooting up through my throat and into my muscles. I wanted to put my fist through his face. I wanted to feel his bones breaking. But instead I let a tremor pass along my hands and out through my fingers. I met his blank expression. There was no smile on his face now, just a featureless gaze.

'Where's Jill?'

No response. No movement in his face. It was like he could no longer hear me.

'You're not in control any more, Aron. Where is she?'

'I broke into your house, David,' he said, as if he still hadn't heard me, continuing in a voice devoid of all emotion. 'When I was in there, I saw some of the pictures of her. Your wife. She was a good-looking woman, Derryn. You know, before. Blonde hair. Nice figure. Not bony and boyish. You and me, we have the same taste.'

'We don't have the same anything'

'Really?

'You're a fucking animal. And if it wasn't the difference between me going to jail or walking away from here, I'd put you in the ground.'

His eyes widened. 'Oooh, David. Such bravado.'

I didn't reply this time. Didn't take the bait.

'Anyway,' he continued, picking an imaginary hair off the arm of his jumpsuit, 'it is what it is. You play a good grieving widower. It suits you. Women love that sort of thing. I bet your lawyer in there gets all wet watching you play the strong, sensitive type.' He took a long, deep breath, looking down at the table. Then he raised his head again and a smile broke out. 'How Does it feel to fuck her after years of banging away on the same woman? Is she different?' He licked his lips for effect. 'Is she tighter?'

'Let me ask you something,' I said, leaning towards him.

A movement in his eyes. He hadn't got the reaction he'd wanted. But he kept a half-smile on his face; telling me he was still in control. I looked at him. I think I know why you kept Megan alive now. I think I know who the hearts belong to .

'Where's your wife buried?'

He leaned back in his chair.

'Because here's my theory, Aron, or Dr Glass, or whatever the fuck your name is. This is your shot at redemption. You're trying to get her back. I think you killed the one person you ever really loved.'

He attempted to force any emotion from his face. But something remained; a light burning away. I'd hit on something.

'Maybe you killed her to satisfy your "appetite". Or maybe you killed her by accident. But now you wish you hadn't, and all these women - the way they look, the way you're cutting them up — they're just replacements for her.' I leaned in even closer. Thing is, though, it doesn’t matter how many women you kill, how many times you cut them up and try to make them like her, the one you really loved, she's not coming back. Take it from someone who knows.'

His smile shattered. I'd got at him. I'd guessed right.

'Was your wife pregnant when she died?'

He twitched, like he'd been prodded with a taser.

'Were those their hearts I found?'

He laid both hands down on the table in front of me.

'Megan looks exactly like your wife, doesn’t she?' I asked him. 'One or two minor adjustments and you have her back. A little younger maybe, but you'll put up with that. That's why you went to the trouble of creating the website, inventing the LCT, why you told Markham he could never call her or email her. Because you didn't want to risk this one. Ultimately, Megan was all that mattered.'

He was quiet. Breathing in and out.

'And all the others: they were like the corpses you used to practise on in medical school. Tissue and bones. Mannequins. Nothing more. They were your research. Your little project. You cut into their faces and their noses so that you wouldn't mess up when the time came to do it on the one that really mattered. And you finally found her. Megan. The fact that Markham got Megan pregnant was just terrible luck for them — but for you, it was probably like some kind of a sign. Because in seven weeks' time, not only was the project finally over and Megan all sliced up how you wanted her, not only would you have your wife back, but you'd have your unborn child back too.'

There was nothing in his face now. He'd managed to wipe it clean.

'But here's the thing, Aron: this whole project of yours, it's insane. You're a psychopath. I'm sure there's a shrink somewhere that will find you fascinating; the fact you can kill without remorse, yet still retain some sort of positive emotional connection to someone. But to me, you're black and white. There's no mystery. You're just another worthless piece of shit.'

Silence.

I held his gaze for a long time, and then he turned away from me. His left hand, chained to the table, wrapped around the metal ring. The handcuffs jangled against the surface. He seemed to drift off. But seconds later he moved in his seat, the handcuffs jangling for a second time. He released his hand from the ring. Looked at me. Shrugged.