David Raker 01 - Chasing the Dead (10 page)

‘You know him?’

She took a moment more, then handed the photo back to me. ‘No.’

‘You sure?’

‘Course I’m sure.’

In my top pocket I had a list of names, taken from the pad in the apartment at Eagle Heights. I unfolded it.

‘You got any regulars with names like these?’

I’d rewritten the names on a separate piece of paper, one under the other. She read down the list and shrugged. ‘Probably.’

‘You do or you don’t?’

‘How the fuck am I supposed to know?’ she said. ‘This ain’t exactly the Ritz, I know, but this place gets busy. Lotta people comin’ and goin’.’

I took the list back. ‘I’ll take that as a no.’

‘For someone who’s not a copper, you ask a lot of questions, Magnum.’

‘Just interested,’ I said, and looked around the pub again.

Something didn’t feel right about what Jade had said. Either she knew when Evelyn left or she didn’t. And there was something else too. Her eyes had moved when I’d first handed her the picture of Alex, and her skin had flushed. I’d read books back when I

I turned back to her. She looked suspicious now, unsure about what I was doing. Maybe it was a natural suspicion, built up from her hours working in here. Or maybe she really was lying to me, and was starting to think I’d seen through it.

Suddenly, the door to the pub opened. We both looked round as a couple of old men came in talking. One of them laughed and glanced towards the bar.

‘Morning, Jade. Are we too early?’

She looked at me, then back to them.

‘No, Harry.’

They shuffled up to the bar. One of them slid in at a stool and started fiddling in his pockets for change; the other stood next to him and eyed up the beers on tap. When they were finished, they both glanced at the photograph of Alex, and then at me.

‘Morning,’ Harry said.

I nodded at both of them, then turned to Jade. ‘Is Alex Towne alive?’

For a second I thought I saw something in her face, before she moved to the back of the bar and picked up two empty pint glasses.

‘Jade?’

The two men looked between us.

She started filling one of the glasses, pulling on the pump and looking straight at me – as if proving she

‘You okay, Jade?’ Harry said.

She nodded.

The old men looked between us again, trying to figure out if I was bothering her. They probably already knew what I’d found out in the ten minutes I’d been talking to her: Jade couldn’t be pushed around, and wouldn’t be intimidated – at least not while she was inside the safety of the pub.

I scooped up the notepad and the photo and left. But that wasn’t the end of it. I’d be back at seven when she came off her shift – and this time she wouldn’t see me coming.

St John the Baptist church was in Redbridge, a depressing pocket of London close to the North Circular. Ugly, fading tower blocks cast shadows across the streets; melting snow ran from holes in the flyover; black exhaust fumes disappeared into the sky. As I parked the car, half-hidden behind an Indian takeaway, the church’s triangular roof rose out of the grey.

Despite the setting, it was an attractive, modern building: all cream walls and exposed beams. A huge crucifix hung above the door, beautifully carved from wood. Christ looked down from the centre of the cross, a glimmer of hope in his face.

The main doors were locked, so I walked around to the back. A door marked
office
was partly open. Through the gap, I could see an empty room, with a series of desks and a bookcase at the back. I glanced along the side of the church. Further down was a small annexe. The door to that was open too.

I headed for it.

The structure was about fifteen feet by twenty feet; really just a glorified shed. There were no windows, and its exterior hadn’t been treated properly, so the wood was still a raw orange colour. Inside it was sparse: a couple of posters, a desk, a power lead for a

‘Morning.’

A voice from behind me.

It was a young guy, a silver laptop under his arm, dressed in a casual shirt and a pair of jeans. Early thirties, blond shoulder-length hair, parted in the centre, and the eyes to match: big, bright, alive. He smiled as he stepped forward.

‘Morning,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for the minister here.’

‘Well, it must be your lucky day,’ he replied. He took another step towards me and held out his hand. We shook. ‘Reverend Michael Tilton.’

‘David Raker.’

‘Nice to meet you. You’re not a Bible salesman, are you?’

I smiled. ‘No. Don’t worry – you’re safe.’

‘Ah good!’ he said, and stepped past me into the annexe. ‘Sorry about the mess in here. I’ve got a youth pastor starting in a few weeks and I’m trying to get things in shape before he arrives. Except, at the moment, it’s just a dumping ground for all my stuff.’

He set the laptop down then slid a small heater out from under his desk and turned the dial all the way up to ten. He closed the door.

‘Pretty humble surroundings, huh?’

There was only one chair, but a couple of removal crates were lying in the corner. He dragged the crates across towards me.

I sat down. ‘This place looks new.’

‘Yeah, it is,’ he said. ‘We finished it in October. It’s a temporary home for my youth pastor while we raise some money to build an extension on the church.’

He sat down at his desk and glanced at his laptop. On-screen, I could see a password prompt.

‘Well, I won’t take up too much of your day, Reverend Tilton,’ I said, and got out the photograph of Alex.

‘Call me Michael, please.’

I nodded, placing the picture down on the desk in front of him. ‘I’m looking into the disappearance of someone who might have visited you here at one time.’

‘Okay. This is him?’

‘His name was Alex Towne.’

Michael picked up the photograph and studied it. ‘I’m trying to think,’ he said. ‘I’m sure I haven’t seen him around – not in the last couple of months, anyway.’

‘It won’t have been in the last few months.’

‘Oh?’

‘Here’s the real killer: it would be more like six years ago.’

Michael looked up to see if I was being serious. ‘Really?’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

He looked at the photograph again. ‘How old is he?’

‘He’d be about twenty-eight now.’

‘I’m not sure he came to this church regularly. It could have been just once, it could have been a few times. He had some connection with your church – but I haven’t been able to figure out what yet.’

He gritted his teeth. ‘I remember most of the youth quite clearly – I used to be the youth pastor here myself – but…’

As he continued looking at it, I took out the birthday card.

‘This is the connection,’ I said, flipping it over so he could see the sticker on the back. ‘It was a card he bought here, and it says it was made by a woman called Angela Routledge. Is she still around?’

His expression dropped. ‘Angela died a couple of years ago.’

‘Anyone else who might remember selling these cards?’

Michael thought about it – but not for long.

‘Angela ran the card stall on her own. She did it all on her own. Got the materials, made the cards, did everything herself. She was an extraordinary woman. She raised a lot of money for us. It’s because of people like her that we have blessings like this.’

He meant the annexe.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said, picking up the photograph again. ‘Can I borrow this photograph for a couple of minutes?’

‘Sure.’

‘I used to draft in a friend of mine for the youth

‘You can borrow my phone if you like.’

‘No, it’s fine. I left my mobile inside, and I should probably lock up the church if I’m going to be out here.’ He pointed at the picture. ‘What did you say his name was?’

‘Alex Towne.’

He nodded. ‘I won’t be long.’

He stepped past me and headed towards the church.

I sat for a while on the edge of the crates, looking out through the door. Snow slid down the roof of the main church and spilled out over the drainpipe.

My phone started ringing.

‘David Raker.’

‘David, it’s Spike.’

‘Spike – what you got for me?’

I could hear him using a keyboard. ‘Okay, so the mobile phone was bought in a place called Mobile Network, three weeks ago. It’s on an industrial estate in Bow. I’m guessing it’s some kind of wholesaler, working out of a warehouse.’

‘Okay.’

‘You got a pen?’

I looked around. There was one on Michael’s desk.

‘Yeah – shoot.’

‘The phone’s registered to a Gary Hooper.’

‘Hooper?’

‘Yeah.’

I wrote
Gary Hooper
on the back of my hand.

‘That’s great.’

‘I’ve got a statement here too.’

‘Perfect.’

‘Looks like the phone’s hardly been used. There have only been three calls on it in the past three weeks. Do you want me to read the numbers out?’

‘Yeah.’

He read them out, and I wrote them under
Gary Hooper
.

The first two numbers I didn’t recognize. The third I definitely did. It was the number for Angel’s.

‘Spike, you’re the magic man. I’ll get you the money later.’

‘You got it.’

I killed the call, and immediately tried the numbers I didn’t recognize.

On the first, an answerphone kicked in after three rings. ‘Hi, this is Gerald. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.’ I hung up and wrote the name
Gerald
down.

As I was putting in the second number, Michael returned. He placed his phone down on the desk and turned to me. His expression said everything.

‘Sorry,’ he said, handing me the photograph of Alex. ‘My friend doesn’t know him either. It’s hard to describe how your guy looks over the phone, but I could probably list every member of our youth group over the past seven years, and Alex… well, he isn’t one of them. I’m really sorry. I hope I haven’t spoiled your day.’

I glanced down at his phone. On the display it said:
LAST CALL: LAZARUS – LANDLINE
. He smiled at me again, then scooped up the phone.

‘Is there anything else?’

‘No, that’s fine,’ I replied. I shook his hand and stepped out into the snow. ‘Thanks for your help.’ And then I headed back to the car, letting the cold bite at my skin.

The traffic was terrible as I made my way back into the centre of London. The deeper I got into the city, the slower things became, until finally everything ground to a halt. I watched the snow continue to fall, settling in thick mounds on chimneys and street lights, road signs and rooftops.

Nothing moved but the weather.

After a while, I popped my phone in the hands-free cradle and punched in the second number. It clicked and connected, but no one picked up. I left it for about a minute and, when it was obvious no one was home, reached over to end the call.

Then someone answered.

A voice I recognized.

‘St John the Baptist.’

It was Michael Tilton.

I posted the Polaroid of Alex to Cary, and then made my way back towards Soho. By the time I was parked, it was almost seven o’clock – and the end of Jade’s shift. After buying myself a coffee I found a spot in the shadows, across the street from Angel’s. I didn’t want to scare her, but if she saw me straight away, she’d probably disappear back inside. That was her safety net.

Laughter sounded nearby.

A couple, dressed in business suits, stumbled into a nearby restaurant. Opposite, a group of teenaged girls giggled and stopped outside the pub. They looked at each other. One played with her hair; another adjusted her skirt. Then they all reached into their bags for fake ID.

From inside, probably fresh on the evening shift, came one of the barmen, emptying an ice bucket into the gutter. I backed up, further into the shadows. He registered the movement and glanced across the street, eyes narrowing, head tilting. He lingered for a second more, as if trying to satisfy his curiosity, before disappearing back inside.

The street quietened. More snow started to fall.

I sipped at the coffee.

Right at me.

Our eyes locked for a split second and he seemed to hesitate. But then he tagged on to the group again, breaking into a jog and eventually passing them. When he was clear, he looked up ahead to where the road split.

Something stirred in me. A memory.

By the time he started disappearing west, parallel to Chinatown, it had come to me:
the guy who broke into my car at the cemetery
.

He looked back, saw I was still watching him, and quickened his pace. I tossed the coffee aside and followed. He turned right at the end of the street, then started moving through the crowds working their way

He glanced back again, bumped into someone and then upped his pace, disappearing into a crowd of tourists. I headed after him, to where the group – gathering around a tour guide – were blocking the pavement. He emerged the other side and crossed the street.

Then he broke into a run.

Forcing my way through the crowd, I could see him barging through another group of tourists further down. One of them stumbled as he pushed past. Her husband called after him. But when he looked back, it wasn’t to apologize. It was to see how close I was.

I tried to move faster, put my head down for a second, and lost him. He’d gone behind a theatre queue. I crossed the street. There was a back alley close to the queue, black and narrow. Steam hissed out of a vent high up on one of the walls. As I got closer, he burst out from a knot of people about halfway down, glanced at me once, then disappeared into the alley.

The darkness sucked him up.

When I got to the mouth of the alley, I could only hear the echo of footsteps at first. Then he emerged from the shadows, partially lit by a window above. I started down the alley after him. He was a long way ahead of me, almost on to the next street. He stopped when he got there. Looked back. And then disappeared out of sight.

I looked at my watch. Ten minutes past seven.

A thought hit me. Maybe this was the point: they were luring me away from Angel’s so I couldn’t get at Jade. Tricking me. Manipulating me. Maybe the barman had glimpsed me in the shadows out front after all, and gone in and raised the alarm.