The Dead Tracks (24 page)

    A
branch broke behind me.

    I
turned and looked back along the way I'd come. In the woods to the side of the
path, about thirty feet down, something shifted in the trees. The wind came
again, cutting across the clearing in an icy blast. The whole time, my eyes
never left the spot between the trees. But there was no other movement. No
sound. Just the
drip, drip, drip
of rain. And then, when that stopped
briefly, a pregnant hush, as if something was sitting behind the silence,
waiting to scream.

    I
watched for a few moments more, then stepped further into the clearing and began
looking around. I wasn't sure what I expected to find, but even when people
vanished, they didn't
vanish.
And yet, ten minutes later, I'd found
nothing, the light had faded a little more, and now I could hear thunder in the
distance and see steel-grey clouds moving across the sky above me.

    
Crack
.

    I
span on my heel. Exactly the same noise as before. And now something else too,
just behind it.
Is that whimpering?
Ahead, in the direction I'd come,
trees moved. Leaves snapped and turned. Rain hit the path.

    Then
I sensed something behind me.

    A
shape darted into the clearing, about twenty feet from where I was standing.
The grass moved. Left to right, then back. Whoever it was, was crouched. The
shape moved another couple of feet and then stopped again.

    The
grass in the clearing settled.

    Silence.

    'I
can see you,' I said.

    I
couldn't, but I took a step forward. My heart moved in my chest, as if it was
readjusting; readying itself for a surprise. Another step. A patch of the clearing,
about six feet in front of me, moved. Grass rustled. Shifted left and right
again.

    'I
can see you.'

    Silence.

    Then:
a scratching noise. I took a step closer, glancing down the path. Around me,
the woods suddenly seemed bigger and darker, as if awoken by the imminence of
night. More scratching. Definitely whimpering.

    Then
a dog emerged.

    It
hobbled a little, pushing between two clumps of waist-high grass either side.
It was just a silhouette against the pale green of the clearing. As the first
hint of dusk had started to settle, the brightness of the grass was the only
thing pushing against it.

    The
dog moved gingerly towards me.

    Even
as a silhouette, I could see it was shaped like a greyhound: small, narrow head;
a belly that curved up towards its hind legs; no body fat at all. It stopped
about six feet from me, its face obscured by the developing shadows. I dropped
to my haunches in front of it and held out a hand.

    'Hey
boy,' I said gently. 'Is it you who's been running around?'

    Thunder
rumbled again. I glanced up through the gaps in the canopy. In the distance,
the clouds seemed to close up, obscuring the sky.

    The
dog licked my hand.

    I
looked down at it.

    'Fucking
hell.'

    I jumped
to my feet and stumbled back, my eyes fixed on the greyhound. It took another
couple of steps towards me, its right hind leg dragging in the mud.

    And
then it was no longer a silhouette.

    One
side of its face had no fur on it at all. Flesh glistened in whatever light was
left in the woods, a sliver of teeth showing through even though its mouth was
closed. As it took another step to me, I could see there was something else in
the flesh on the side of its face: a square of pink, at odds with the red of
the sinew. It took me a couple of seconds to work out what it was.

    Skin.

    The
dog hobbled forward some more.

    'Who
did this to you?'

    It
moaned a little. But now I realized there were other noises as well: wind
passing through the trees, falling rain, grass whispering as it moved. I looked
along the path, into the advancing darkness.
Dooley might be right about
this place.

    The
dog made a soft whimpering sound.

    I
turned back to it, dropped to my haunches again and slowly made a movement
towards it, so it knew I offered no threat. But it hardly flinched. It seemed
lethargic and distant, and just looked from my hand to my face; a slow, delayed
action.

    'Who
did this to you?' I said again.

    It
turned its head slightly, grey fur matted with water. Then I saw its eyes fix
on something, over my shoulder, back the way I'd come. I turned. Trees moved,
rain spotting against the canopy. Soft sounds played in the background.

    'What
can you see?'

    Standing
up, I had a view of about thirty feet in either direction. Thunder stomped
across the sky. Five seconds later, lightning flashed, freeze-framing the
clouds. The dog whimpered and moved towards me, brushed against my leg. I
touched its head and felt my fingers run across the dried flesh of its face.
Its nose arched upwards, into the cup of my hand.

    'Come
with me,' I said to it quietly.

    It
hesitated at first and then — when I beckoned it - it followed me, its leg
stiff and dragging in the grass of the path. I moved back the way I'd come.
Around me, all I could hear now was a constant patter as rain started to hit
leaves, like hundreds of footsteps coming from every direction. A little
further on, I could see the gate again. I picked up the pace, but — as I did —
I felt the dog hesitate. I looked back. It was standing still and had turned to
face back along the path into the woods.

    'What's
the matter?'

    It
didn't move. I stepped towards it.

    '
What can you
see?' I asked.

    It
sniffed the air, as if it had picked up a scent. I dropped down and placed a
hand gently on its back. It didn't move. Rain hit my hand and ran off on to its
coat.

    'What
can you see?' I said again.

    It
whimpered once more, for longer this time. And then it started moving off, back
along the trail, its leg dragging behind it. I whistled gently for it to return
to me, but it either ignored me or couldn't hear me.

    Thirty
seconds later, it was gone.

    I
paused for a moment. Tried to see into the darkness to where the dog had gone. I
hadn't really thought what I would do with it once we got back to the car, but
it needed to be looked at. It needed to see a vet. I whistled louder this time,
but the rain and the wind and the noise of the woods took the sound off into
the night. For a moment, I thought about going back for it — but then a strange
feeling passed over me.

    Like
someone was watching.

    I
gazed along the track. Eyes moving from one side of the woods to the other.
There was no movement and no sound. But the feeling of being watched didn't
disappear. It buzzed just beneath the surface of my skin even as the sounds
seemed to wash out of the trees and the dying embers of the day gave way to
evening.

    And
then, finally, the Dead Tracks settled.

    The
quickest route home would have been through the centre of the city, but instead
I headed in an arc, up through Whitechapel, Shoreditch and Finsbury, rain
popping against the windscreen like shotgun spray. By seven o'clock, I was
parked outside the youth club. It was Saturday, so I knew it would still be
closed, but it was another thirty-six hours until someone opened the doors, and
I couldn't wait that long. It felt like I had some momentum now — but, more
than that, I wanted to look around without someone standing over my shoulder.

    To
the side of the building was a thin alleyway. I made my way along it, all the
way through to a car park at the back. The entrance to it was from a road
running parallel to the one I'd parked on. Everything was badly lit: a nearby
street light was flickering on and off and there was a square of light from the
kitchen of the restaurant next door.

    The
rear doors of the youth club were set back in an alcove. I took out my phone,
flipped it open and used the light to examine the entrance. Double doors. A
cylinder lock. No handle on the outside. I backed up and examined the building.
There had been no alarm on the front and there didn't look like there was one
on the back either. But everywhere had an alarm these days. If there was no
box, it probably meant the alarm was wired up to an old-fashioned open-circuit
system; an alarm built with magnets that reacted to the doors opening, but
turned off again when they closed and the circuit realigned.

    I
looked both ways, back across the car park, then took out a couple of
straightened hairpins that I kept in the car. Picking locks was an art. You had
to get the pins in exactly the right place, and apply the right amount of
tension. You had to know the sounds and be able to feel the slightest of
movements travelling back from the pins to your hand. I avoided picking locks
if I could. Not because it was illegal, but because it was hard. As if to prove
the point, it took me twenty frustrating minutes before I heard the pins
finally falling into place.

    I
pressed the door shut for a moment while I readied myself - and then, as fast
as I could, yanked it towards me, stepped inside and pulled it shut again.
There was a brief noise: a high-pitched squeal lasting a second. I gripped the
handle and waited. Placed an ear to the door. The alarm hadn't lasted long, but
it might have been long enough to get someone's attention. I gave it five
minutes to be certain, and then flipped open my phone and directed its light
into the darkness of the building.

    Immediately
inside, on the left, was a kitchen and a serving hatch. Opposite, in a small
anteroom, were some wheelchairs. I moved along the corridor and into the main
hall. A stage to my left, a set of double doors to my right and the main
entrance in front of me. Next to the entrance, nailed to the wall, was a planner.
As I got closer, I could make out the names and photos of everyone who attended
the youth club; above that, dressed in identikit green polo shirts, were the
people who ran it.

    I
illuminated the pictures with my phone light. Neil Fletcher was at the top: the
man in charge. Caroline had mentioned his name earlier. He was in his forties,
black and grey hair, bright eyes, beard, trim. He wasn't the man in Tiko's —
but neither was anyone else on the board. There was a woman below him, then two
other men: Connor Pointon and Eric Castle. Both looked the same, without
obviously being related. Mid twenties, square jaws, same hair, genetically
good-looking. Neither fitted the age group of the man Megan had been seeing.
But I made a mental note to double-check both.

    Swinging
the light round, I walked across the hall to the doors at the far end, my
footsteps echoing, the door squeaking on its hinges as I pulled one of them
open. On the other side were toilets and an office. The office was sparsely
decorated and cold. There was a desk up against one wall, a seat pushed in
under it. A computer on the desk that looked at least five years old. Behind
the desk, right in the far corner, was a filing cabinet.

    I
opened it up. Inside were files on every kid who had ever attended the youth
club, set out by surname. I went through them, just in case, but nothing stuck
out. In the next drawer down were the files on anyone who had ever worked
there. Each had undergone an extensive Criminal Records Bureau check, which meant
— if the man Megan had met
had
actually worked at the club — he wouldn't
have had a record.

    I
pulled the files, set them down at the desk and turned the lights on. It was a
windowless office, so no one would see me from the outside.

    In
all, there were seventeen files. I went through those on the three men who
worked at the youth club first. The more I read about Fletcher, the less like a
potential suspect he seemed. Forty-eight, married with two kids — one almost
seventeen herself. Of the other two, Pointon was married, with a young
daughter; and Castle was Australian, here on an ancestral visa, and wasn't even
in the country when Megan first went missing.

    I
looked through the rest of the files.

    The
next eleven were female volunteers. Two I recognized immediately: Megan Carver
and Leanne Healy. Megan was working part-time in the evenings at the club when
she disappeared. Leanne had left two months before she vanished to concentrate
on getting a full-time job, though a couple of entries on some kind of
attendance form suggested she'd returned several times to help out. There was
nothing else to add to what I already knew.