The Dead Tracks (29 page)

    And
then she toppled sideways on to the mattress and blacked out.

    They
took me to the same station as before, but this time I wasn't going to be
walked straight into an interview room. The same custody sergeant that had
greeted my arrival the first time was perched at the front desk, looking down
through his half-moon glasses. He glanced at me, then at Phillips and Davidson,
and buzzed them in. The three of them led me in the opposite direction to the
interview rooms, through two sets of doors, into the custody suite. Behind me,
Phillips pushed a metal gate shut until it locked. Davidson moved off to my
left. The sergeant slid in behind a desk, introducing himself as Fryer, and
asked Phillips to undo my cuffs. Up front, he told me my rights. Every couple
of sentences, he paused to ask if I was clear. They hated the Police and
Criminal Evidence Act more than any of the men and women they arrested.
Anything missed, any mistakes, and a solicitor would dismantle the case.

    Fryer
produced a camera from under the counter. Police liked to get the pictures out
the way in case, for any reason, injuries were sustained inside the station
later on. He took three photographs. Once he was done, he invited me across to
a table where the fingerprint kit sat. The whole time, Davidson watched. I
glared at him, but he just stared at me blankly.

    Next,
Fryer asked Phillips to go over his account of the arrest. It was the reason
Davidson had been taking notes.

    Except
Phillips didn't need them. He'd committed pretty much everything to memory.
When he was done, Fryer turned to me and asked if I had anything to add; in
effect, he was asking me if I wanted to dispute Phillips's account. I shook my
head.

    The
rest of the booking in took twenty minutes. I emptied out my pockets and
everything was logged, gave them my belt and shoelaces, then Fryer reminded me
of my rights again, and asked me if I wanted to call anyone or inform a
solicitor. This time I said I wanted to make a call, and Phillips directed me
to a room behind the booking-in area. It was small with reinforced glass
panels, one table and one chair—both bolted down - and a telephone on the wall.
They left me there. I watched them go, and then dialled Liz's mobile. After
three rings, she picked up.

    'Hello?'

    'Liz,
it's David.'

    'David,'
she said, and sounded pleased to hear my voice. 'How are you? I popped over
yesterday, but you must have been out.'

    'Liz…'

    She
immediately sensed something was up. 'Are you okay?'

    'I'm
under arrest.'

    
'
What
?

    The
police turned up at my house earlier…'I paused. 'They've made a mistake.
They've somehow tied me to the disappearance of Megan Carver. I don't know how,
but… Look, I don't want to talk about it too much over the phone. I just need
your help. Can you get here?'

    'Yes,
yes, of course,' she said. 'The only thing is, I'm not in London.'

    My
heart sank.

    'Where
are you?'

    'I'm
up in Warwick seeing Katie.'

    I
remembered her walking down the drive to her car before eight that morning.
Warwick was eighty miles away. An hour and a half on a clear run. Except Sunday
night on the motorways into London wouldn't be a clear run. Even if she left
now, it would probably take her a couple of hours. If I was unlucky, even more.

    'David,'
she said, and her voice was suddenly quiet and controlled. 'What is it they
think you've done?'

    'Abducted
Megan.'

    She
paused. '
Did
you abduct her?'

    'No.
Absolutely not.'

    I
heard her exhale softly. 'Okay. Listen. I'm going to ask you a couple of
questions. Don't leave anything out.' She stopped. Let that last sentence
settle. She was reminding me of the times she'd helped me out before when both
of us had known I'd left some of the truth buried. 'So, first: do you think
Megan's dead?'

    'She's
been gone six months.'

    'Is
that a yes?'

    'Statistically,
there's a good chance, just because of the time she's been missing. I've got no
evidence to support that. And neither have they. But the case is still active.'

    'So
if the case is still active, they're working from the assumption that she could
just as easily be alive?'

    'Right.'

    'Because
here's the thing. You are entitled to free legal advice. They'd have told you
that already. The police
have
to provide that as part of PACE. You can
go that route and, because it's a Sunday evening and a solicitor won't
magically appear at the station in five minutes flat, that will delay any
interview taking place for a while. And it will give me some time to get back.'

    'But?'

    
'But,'
she said, and paused. She blew out some air, and it crackled down the line
between us. 'If they think that there's a real and immediate danger to the life
of someone connected to this case — i.e. the girl they're accusing you of
taking - they can start the interview without having to wait for a solicitor.
If they think Megan's alive - if the evidence they have points to that — and
they think any delay will adversely affect them
finding
her alive, then
they can start the interview once you get off the phone to me.'

    I
looked out through the glass to where Phillips, Davidson and Fryer had booked
me in. They'd been joined by Hart now - and someone else I didn't recognize. He
was wearing uniform. Early fifties but lean. On the shoulder of his shirt was
his rank insignia. A crown, with red trim. Beneath that, a four-pointed star.
As I studied him, he seemed to sense it and returned the look.

    'David?'

    I
watched him for a moment more. 'So who makes that call?'

    'What
call?'

    'To
bypass the solicitor.'

    'It has
to be superintendent rank or above.'

    Standing
between Fryer and Hart, a printout of my custody report in his hands, the
station's chief superintendent was still looking at me.

    Twenty
minutes later I was inside Interview Room 4 and the tape was rolling. There
were three cups of machine coffee between us. None of them had been touched.
The room was smaller than the one I'd been in before. It was all part of the
play. Smaller room. Less space to breathe in. Psychologically, they were trying
to secure any kind of advantage they could.

    After
pushing Play, Phillips introduced himself and Davidson for the benefit of the
tape, and then asked me to confirm my name and address. On the desk in front of
him was a thin brown Manila folder. From inside, I could see the corners of
photographs poking out. His hand was flat on top, as if he were scared it might
suddenly disappear. Next to him, Davidson had resumed the casual stance of the
first interview: leaning back in the chair, jacket off, too-tight T-shirt, arms
crossed and resting on his belly.

    'Okay,
David,' Phillips said, 'let's get started. I'm going to ask you a few basic
questions first, all right? So… can you confirm your occupation for us?'

    Davidson
smirked. I looked at him. 'Something funny?'

    'David?'

    I
turned back to Phillips, but didn't answer.

    'David?'

    'I'm
a missing persons investigator.'

    Davidson
nodded. Mock sincerity. He leaned forward in his chair and dragged one of the
coffee cups towards him; just to be seen to be doing something.

    'So,
why missing persons?' Phillips asked.

    'About
four months after I left the paper, one of my wife's friends asked me to look
into the disappearance of her daughter.' I paused. Both of them looked at me.
Phillips made no movement. Davidson shifted again. 'So I did. After that, a
couple came to see me. Then another one. Then another. Somewhere after that, it
became a job.'

    'Are
you registered?'

    'With
who? The ABI? No, I'm not registered. I haven't signed up for my free
newsletter and quarterly copy of
Investigators Journal!

    'How do
people hear about you then?'

    'Yellow
Pages, the internet, word of mouth.'

    'Did
the Carvers hear about you through word of mouth?'

    'You'd
have to ask them.'

    'They
didn't tell you?'

    'Normally
it's not that important to me.'

    'What
do you mean?'

    'I
mean, the people who come to me have usually had their hearts ripped out
because their kids haven't come home for a month. I'm not conducting market
research. I'm trying to find the most important person in their lives.'

    'And do
you?'

    'Do I
what?'

    'Find
them?'

    I
nodded. 'Always.'

    'So
you're good at your job?' Phillips asked.

    I
glanced at Davidson, but spoke to Phillips. 'I think you and I probably have
different definitions of whether a person's good at his job or not.'

    Davidson
sat forward in his seat. Laid both hands on the table, like he was trying to
hold himself back. If the tape hadn't been running, he might have said
something.

    'What
have you found out about Megan Carver's disappearance?' Phillips asked, staring
at the file, still closed, in front of him.

    'Not
much.'

    'Care
to elaborate?'

    I
didn't respond immediately, and when he looked up, he could see my face:
Not
really.
'She disappeared from her school on 3 April this year,' I said,
before he could say anything that would get committed to tape and make me look
unhelpful. 'I've interviewed her friends and family. I've been through her
email and her phone. As of yet, I haven't found anything.'

    Phillips's
eyes narrowed. 'Really?'

    'Really.'

    'Nothing
at all?'

    'Nothing
substantial.'

    There
were three things I had that the police didn't. One was Megan's link to the
Dead Tracks. When they'd got into her email, and been beyond the security on
the LCT's site, they would have found the map of the school car park and the
message
(Meet here at 2.30p.m. for a romantic woodland picnic!),
but
with no idea which woodland it referred to, it wouldn't have led anywhere.
Because they didn't have the guy in Tiko's. If they'd picked out the man in the
footage at any point during the six months since Megan vanished, then seen the
message on the map, eventually they would have put it together. But without
him, what they had was worthless.

    The
second thing was the youth club. They had that too — they just hadn't gone deep
enough. They'd almost certainly interviewed Daniel Markham, but because Kaitlin
never mentioned Megan's pregnancy to them, he'd probably managed to slip
through the net. And if he'd talked himself out of trouble once, it was a fair
bet he'd do it again. What the police had was an obvious connection between
Megan and Leanne: two missing girls, both part-time workers at the same place.
But if Healy was sniffing around, working his daughter's case off the books, it
meant he was desperate for a lead; and that, in turn, meant police were still
trying to find out who had taken Megan and Leanne. Markham was key, and — for
the moment — only I knew about his relationship with Megan.

    And
then there was Frank White, out there in the margins of the case. They'd found
dog hairs in the warehouse the night he was shot. Hairs I was willing to bet
matched up with the dog I'd come across in the woods. Beyond that, though, I
was still looking for what tied him directly to Megan. Perhaps I could use
Healy. He wanted answers about Leanne, and I wanted to know where Frank White
fitted in.