The Dead Tracks (12 page)

    'I
used to come here as a boy.'

    'Are
we far from home?'

    Mark
looked up. 'Not far.'

    'It's
so quiet -'

    
Crack.

    The
same noise again. Like fallen branches snapping and breaking underfoot. And now
something else too. A sound behind it.
What is that?

    She
stared across the clearing. Where the trees began again to her right, it was
dark: hundreds of trunks gradually fading away into blackness; thick, tangled
branches preventing sunlight getting through from above.

    'Can
you hear that?'

    Mark
continued unpacking. 'Hear what?'

    She
looked back at him. 'It's like a…'

    He
glanced at the spot she'd been studying, and back to her. 'Like a what?'

    'Like
a…' She looked worried now. 'A whimpering'

    She
turned back to the woods, her eyes narrowing.

    Then
something moved.

    A
skittle of darkness darting between tree trunks. She took another step forward,
leaning slightly, trying to look beyond the initial row of trees. It moved
again. Swapping between cover, one trunk to the next.

    'There!'
she said. 'Did you see that?'

    Mark
stood and fell in beside her.

    'Something
moved in there.'

    He
was turned to her now.

    'Is
it an animal?'

    No
response.

    'Mark?'
More silence. She turned to him. 'Mark?'

    Something
flashed in his eyes, the same expression she'd seen earlier. He wanted to tell
her something important again. But it wasn't that he loved her, just - she
suddenly realized - as it hadn't been earlier. It had never been a look of
love.

    It
had been a look of regret.

    'I'm
sorry, Sona.'

    'Sorry
for wha—'

    He
grabbed her around the neck and yanked her into him. Locked his arm around her
throat and clamped a hand over her mouth. As she tried to scream, he squeezed
harder with his fingers so that no sound escaped. Then he pulled her down with
him, her legs desperately kicking out as she hit the grass. She looked up, her
eyes pleading, trying to find a trace of the man she'd known for almost six
months. Instead, he released the arm from her throat and punched her in the
side of the head.

    She
rolled over, dazed. On to her back.

    When
she opened her eyes, Mark was standing over her.

    'I
can't do this any more,' he said, looking away at something.

    And
then everything went black.

    It
was late afternoon by the time I left the Carvers' house, the sky grey and
streaked with black cloud. I opened the BMW and threw my notes on to the
passenger seat. Then I slid in at the wheel and pulled the door shut. In the
silence, I went over everything.

    All
the lies that had been told.

    And
all the lies that would still have to come.

    Carver
had led me into their house, pointing to one of the sofas. He glanced at
Caroline, a look that told her everything. He was angry and embarrassed, and
she was to blame.

    'Would
you like something to drink, David?' he asked quietly.

    'Just
some water will be fine, thanks.'

    He
nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Caroline circled the sofas and then
perched herself on one of the arms. I could see she was trying to work things
through before her husband came back. What she knew. What she should have done.
Why she didn't say anything. Eventually she looked at me, and I could see
whatever fractious relationship had begun to exist between us had just cracked
a little more.

    
Carver came back in and handed me a big glass of water and then
sat down next to his wife. There was a gap between them.

    'Was
Kaitlin sure?' he asked.

    I sat
down on the other sofa. Yes.'

    'Why
didn't she tell the police?'

    I got
out my notepad and pen and set them down on the table. On the top sheet were
the words
Megan — pregnant.
I looked up at Carver. 'Kaitlin told me she
was going to speak to the police… but then decided not to.'

    'Why?'

    'She
was hesitant on the phone, so that's what I need to find out from her. I'll
meet her and get the reasons why.'

    'Who
was the father?'

    'Again,
I don't know.' I paused, thought about it. 'Megan's friends never talked about
any serious relationships. You haven't either. If she slept with someone, I
think we can assume it was a guy no one had met.'

    Carver
flinched a little, as if the idea of his daughter sleeping with anyone was like
a punch to the throat. Then, for the first time, he glanced at his wife.

    'And
you knew about this?'

    'No,'
she said.

    'I
need you to tell me the truth.'

    'I
am
telling you the truth,' Caroline replied, desperation creeping into her
voice. She looked at me, then shifted on the sofa, turning inwards to face her
husband. 'She never told me she was pregnant. I
swear
to you.'

    'But
you knew anyway?'

    'I
could tell something was up. She was complaining of headaches, of feeling tired
all the time. At first I just thought she'd been studying too hard. You know
what Meg was like. But then, after she went missing, I was going through some
of her things…' She paused. Looked at me again. 'I found some pregnancy tests
hidden in one of her drawers.'

    'Bloody
hell, Car - and you didn't think to
tell
me?'

    'I
didn't know what to do.'

    'Our
daughter was
pregnant.'

    'I
know.'

    You
should have told the police.'

    'I know!'
she shouted.

    'So
why didn't you?'

    'It
was an unopened box,' she said. 'The cellophane wrapping was still on it. It
didn't mean anything'

    'She
was
seventeen
, Caroline.'

    She
didn't reply.

    'Since
when do seventeen-year-olds buy pregnancy kits just to be on the safe side? She
was
ten
years
away from starting a family. You should have told
me. You should have told someone.' He glanced at me, then back to her. 'I
defended you.'

    'I
know.'

    He
sat back on the sofa. Both of them fell silent. I gave them a couple of seconds
to cool off, thinking about what might have happened if Caroline had said
something to the police.

    'Okay,'
I said eventually, sitting forward. We need to make sure of a couple of things
now. Firstly, the police can't know about this. At least, they can't know about
the fact that Caroline suspected something. If they think you were withholding
information, this whole thing goes down the toilet. I'll bring this information
to them - but only when we're ready. I'll say I found it out for myself.
That'll give us the time we need to try and dig a little deeper.'

    Carver
nodded. 'What else?'

    'Kaitlin
never told us anything. We need to protect her in the same way we're protecting
you. We need to find out what's going on here, and why she remained silent. We
can't do that if DCI Hart is parking himself on the case again.'

    They
both nodded this time. I looked between them.

    'Lastly,
I need to know that you have both told me absolutely everything you know about
Megan. Every fact. Every detail. I'm not here to judge your daughter. I'm here
to find her. I don't care what she's done, or who she's been out with, or
mistakes she might have made. All I care about is finding her. So if there's
anything else you think I need to know, I need you to tell me what it is now…'

    Carver
turned to his wife. She looked back, as if she understood the gesture. When she
shook her head, he faced me again.

    'There's
nothing else,' he said quietly. 'Please, David, find our daughter.'

    As I
left the Carvers, I knew it was too late to call Kaitlin, especially at home.
It was just after 5 p.m., which meant one or both of her parents would probably
be around, and I didn't want to arouse any suspicion. But I definitely needed
to speak to her; to find out more about what Megan had told her. And I needed
to find out where Charlie Bryant fitted in as well.

    Once
I was back home, I showered, had some dinner and then took the pile of DVDs
from Tiko's through to the living room. I dropped the first one into the disc
tray. Seven months of footage. Two hundred and fourteen days. Nineteen hours a
day. That meant there was over four thousand hours of video to get through.
Even with a team of twenty, that would still mean two hundred hours each. It
would have been quicker to put in a call to Kaitlin or Lindsey and ask them
what nights they went, but — as that was out of the question until the morning —
I decided first to concentrate on weekends, specifically Friday and Saturday
nights; the nights Megan was most likely to be out.

    I hit
Play.

    October's
footage - six months prior to Megan's 3 April disappearance — stuttered into
life. It was in colour and pretty decent quality, but it was also on a time
lapse of three seconds, which gave everything an alien, staccato feel.

    The
footage began on a Wednesday, so I fast-forwarded to the Friday. As the club
was open all day, there was a constant stream of people coming in and out. The
younger crowd — late teens and early twenties — started arriving after eight. I
got to closing time at 3 a.m. with no sign of Megan. An hour and a half later,
I'd finished the weekends in October altogether and found nothing. No sign of
Megan. No sign of her friends.

    I
thought for a moment about going back over the week days in October just in
case I'd missed her. But then, on the second disc — November - Megan, Kaitlin
and Lindsey arrived in Tiko's. It was 11 p.m. on the first Friday of the month.

    They
moved in a line through the crowds, Kaitlin leading. Men watched them, their
eyes mostly fixed on Kaitlin, but a few watching Megan and Lindsey too. When
they got to the bar, the girls waited. Talked to each other. In one frame Megan
was leaning into Lindsey saying something; in the next Lindsey's head was back,
laughing. The girls ordered drinks, then moved up the winding staircase to the
second floor.

    The
position of the camera wasn't great, but I could still see them, their heads
visible in the crowds. Sweeping disco lights, choppy because of the time lapse,
passed from side to side. People danced around them. The girls remained in the
same position, next to a set of three sofas, all occupied. They returned to the
bar three times to get more drinks. Then they moved back downstairs for good,
to the dancefloor, and stayed there until they left at two o'clock.

    I
fast-forwarded it on twenty-four hours, but they didn't return on the Saturday.
Then I remembered something James Carver had told me:
When they all got
paid, they'd often go into the city.
Assuming they got paid at the end of
the month, that probably meant the last few days of one, or the very beginning
of the next.

    I
skipped on three weeks to the last weekend in November.

    Nothing
on the Friday, but on Saturday they returned to Tiko's. Eleven o'clock, just
like before. They stuck pretty much to the same routine. In through the crowds.
Up to the bar. Up to the second floor, in the same position next to the sofas.
Five trips back to the bar, before ending up on the dancefloor permanently. The
other discs — December, January, February and March — all followed exactly the
same pattern.