The Dead Tracks (33 page)

    What
am I overlooking here?

    For a
second time, I stared at the printouts on my desk. The date. The way it was
written: 27-03-11. That same feeling blossomed. Maybe it was something I'd
seen, or heard, and not fully taken in at the time. Or maybe it wasn't even the
date.

    Maybe
it was the format.

    Ripping
a piece of paper from my notepad, I wrote down the dates the girls had gone
missing — 3 April 2011 and 3 January 2011 - then, underneath that, the
numerical equivalent: 03 04 11;03 01 11. I leaned back in my chair, rolled my
pen back and forth across the desk. Listened to the clock on the far wall
ticking over. The whole time I didn't take my eyes off the numbers. There was
something in the date.

    Something
I'd missed.

    I
leaned forward, pressing a finger against the date of Megan's disappearance: 03
04 11. Grabbing the pen, I scribbled out the zeros and the year: 3 4.

    Three
and four.

    
Or
thirty-four.

    Then
it hit me. I pulled my phone across the desk and went to the photos. There,
right at the top, was the last one I'd taken: the wall in the police station,
the first time I'd been in. slightly blurred, Megan's picture looked out at me,
pinned to a board in the CID office. Next to that was the map and more
photographs. And then seven stickies, running in a vertical line, a separate
number on each.

    I
could only make out three of them, the first, sixth and seventh: 2119, 3111 —
and 34. They hadn't been numbers. They'd been dates.

    The
first one - 2119 - was four digits. They'd included the year after it, so
they'd know all the others followed in sequence, through 2010 and into 2011. I
turned back to the computer and this time typed '2 November 2009 missing' into
Google and hit Return.

    Four
links down I found what I was looking for. It was a missing persons site,
profiles of men, women and kids decorating the front page. Picture after
picture. Face after face. So many missing people, all of them lost somewhere -
or worse than lost. The Google search had taken me straight to the page
corresponding to the people who'd vanished on 2 November 2009. I was thirty-two
pages and almost three hundred profile pictures in. And bang in the centre was
the woman I was looking for.

    In
her photograph, she was smiling at the camera, her blonde hair cascading down her
face in long, thin strands. She was pretty. Slim but not skinny.

    And
she looked like Megan and Leanne. I clicked on her profile.

    Missing
| Case Ref: 09-004447891

    Isabelle
Connors

    Age
at disappearance: 28

    Isabelle
has been missing from Finchley, north London, since 2 November 2009. She was
last seen in Lemon Street in Islington getting into her car after a work
function. She later spoke to a friend on the phone to confirm she had got home.
It is believed she disappeared that evening or the next morning as she failed
to turn up to work, where she was employed as a graphic designer.

    There
is great concern for Isabelle as her disappearance is out of character. She is
5 ft 8in tall, of slim-to- medium build with blue eyes and blonde hair. When
last seen she was wearing a pair of blue jeans, black heels, a white vest and a
long black coat.

    Another
missing woman. And she was the same as Megan and Leanne. Same hair. Same eyes.
Same shape. The only difference was their age. I looked away and tried to
picture the list of numbers on the wall of the office. Tried to recall the
second, third, fourth or fifth stickies. I'd taken the dates in, but not
realized their importance. They were just a random list of numbers then. A blur
among the maps and the photographs and the paperwork.

    I
slowly started tabbing back through the pages, closely examining every female
picture. Six pages later, I found her. Blonde. Blue eyes. She'd disappeared on
8 January 2010.1 looked at the picture on my phone: although it was blurred, I
could instantly make out what looked like 8110. The second number on the wall.

    Missing
| Case Ref: 09-0044479 5 8

    April
Brunei

    Age
at disappearance: 45

    April
has been missing from Hackney, east London, since 8 January 2010. Her
whereabouts remain unknown.

    She
called friends on the evening of 7 January to say she couldn't join them for a
drink as she was feeling unwell. There is growing concern for April as her
disappearance is out of character. She is 5 ft 6in tall, of slim build with
blue eyes and blonde hair. She was last seen at work that day, where she was
employed as an accountant.

    In
the pit of my stomach, there was a growing sense of unease. Four missing women
now, and it was obvious there were three more to come. It took me ten minutes
to find them, and another five to scan their profiles. Jayne Rickards,
thirty-three; 4 April 2010. She had been number 44. Kate Norton, twenty-nine;
12 July 2010. She had been number 127. Erica Muller, twenty-three; 4 October
2010. She had been 410. All slim-to-medium, with blonde hair and blue eyes. All
gone.

    And
all connected.

    The
pub was small, with low lighting and ambient music. A series of booths, decked
out in black leather and walnut, ran along one side, next to windows that
looked out over Camden High Street. I found a seat right at the back with
virtually no lighting and only a partial view in and out. The barman said, as
it was so quiet, he'd come to my table. I ordered two beers and waited.

    Ten
minutes later, Healy arrived.

    He
squinted and scanned the room. Then his eyes fell on me. He cast a glance
around him - making certain there were no faces he recognized — and made his
way across. He slid in at the booth without saying a word.

    I
pushed one of the beers towards him. He scooped it up and emptied it in about
half a minute. When he was done, he swivelled in his seat, trying to catch the
barman's eye. 'Just do me a favour,' he said when he'd finally put his order in
for a second. 'Keep your eyes on the door. Because if anyone even vaguely familiar
comes in, we're both in the shite.'

    'I
don't think anyone you know will be coming in here.'

    He
studied me, a frown forming on his face. Then he looked back over his shoulder
and took in the room for a second time. Four men at the bar. Two in the booth a
couple down from us. Two more beyond that, hands touching on the table. He
turned back to me. 'Is this a gay bar?'

    'Looks
like it.'

    'Then
you're probably right.'

    A
silence settled between us.

    He
got out his phone, placed it on the table and watched the barman bring over his
drink. He scooped it up immediately. By the time he was finished, it was half
empty. He pushed it aside and leaned forward. 'So, what did you call me for?'

    'I
think you know.'

    He
eyed me. 'Look, I couldn't say anything to you earlier. It was too risky. If
they found out I was telling you about…' He stopped.

    'Telling
me about what?'

    He
didn't reply.

    'The
five other women?'

    A
flitter of surprise on his face. 'I don't know what -'

    'Save
the circus act, Healy.' I reached into my jacket pocket and placed a folded
piece of paper down on the table between us. He picked it up and unfolded it.
In front of him were photographs of the five missing women I'd discovered on
the site, as well as Megan and Leanne. 'I've found them. I know they exist.
I've seen them on the wall of the incident room, so I know they're linked.
Question is, why doesn’t the public know about them?'

    His
eyes flicked to me but he didn't say anything.

    I
leaned forward, pushing my beer aside. 'Do their families even know they've
been linked? Do their families know
anything.
?' I paused and waited for
him to answer. He didn't. 'You want to know what I
really
don't
understand? Why you're happy to play along with this bullshit cover story when
your daughter's one of them.'

    He
looked up at me, his fingers resting on the beer bottle now.

    'Healy?'

    'You
don't understand,' he replied quietly.

    '
What
don't I understand?'

    'What
it's like.'

    This
time I didn't respond. His eyes drifted outside, and for a moment it was like
looking right into his head: the anger, the sadness, the need to hit out,
bubbling away below the surface.

    'You
think I don't care about my daughter?' he said finally, still studying the people
passing on the street. You think I don't care about finding her? I care. I care
so much it's like I'm being eaten up from the inside.' He looked at me, fire in
his eyes now. 'I needed to find out what you had on Megan Carver, because I've
hit a dead end. I don't know where to go next with Leanne. So that's why I
needed you. But what I
don't
need, what I won't put up with, is you
getting in the way. Because I'm going to find the person who took her - and I'm
going to fucking kill him. And you aren't going to stop me, and neither are
those other pricks.'

    He
meant Phillips and Hart. He meant Davidson. He meant everyone.

    'So
are you working her disappearance by yourself?' I asked.

    'Yeah.'

    'Why?'

    'Because
no one else cares about her.'

    He
turned in the booth, back towards the door, as if he didn't trust me to look
out for him. Then he faced me again, his eyes focused beneath the ridge of his
brow.

    'The
police don't give a shit.'

    'About
Leanne?'

    'About
any of them.'

    'Why?'

    He
went to speak and then hesitated. I'd seen it in him earlier. No mistakes. No
errors. No slip-ups. He'd worked his daughter's disappearance for so long, off
the books and without the knowledge of his bosses, that he'd completely
insulated himself. Everything he knew, anything he'd managed to find out about
her, no one else got to hear about. He finished his beer and gestured for the
barman to bring him another.

    'Okay,
here's how
I
see it,' I said, trying to jump-start the conversation.
'You've got seven women. They all look the same. They've been registered as
missing persons, but they've not been linked — at least publicly. Thirty
thousand people go missing in London alone each year, so I understand how
they've managed to stay off the radar. But what I don't understand is why the
police haven't gone public.'

    The
barman brought Healy's third beer. After he had gone, Healy looked up at me and
a look of disgust moved across his face. They're just one part of the jigsaw.'

    'And
what's the other part?'

    He
turned his beer bottle around, that same look on his face. No mistakes. No
errors. No slip-ups. But then he glanced at me again, and I could see what he
was thinking: it was different now. The stakes were as high for both of us. He
was illegally pursuing a case under the noses of his bosses. I was out on bail
for the abduction and probable murder of a teenager.

    'The
other part is Frank White,' he said.

    I
looked at him. 'So I was right?'

    'Yeah.
You were right.'

    'How
are Megan and Frank connected?'

    Your
number-one fan DS Davidson works for Jamie Hart, not Phillips. Hart's in charge
of a murder investigation team looking into the disappearances of the women.'

    'So
it's definitely a murder investigation?'

    'We're
assuming they're all dead.'

    He
stopped. Realized what he'd said. He'd just committed his daughter to the
ground alongside the others. A flicker of emotion in his face, and then it was
gone again.