The Dead Tracks (50 page)

    'He
knows we're here,' I said. 'He'll have tracked your phone.'

    We
darted through the darkened arch linking the courtyard and the road, and then
watched as Hart and Davidson emerged from the Focus. They didn't speak, but
they were moving with a purpose. They'd picked up our trail faster than I
thought.

    Hart
led the way, Davidson following gingerly. They were an odd pairing, in a
different time, they may almost have been comical. It was hard to imagine
Davidson ever being slim. Stocky would have been the best he'd been called, but
middle age had robbed him of even that. Hart was the polar opposite: gaunt,
almost painfully so, like his skeleton was the only part of him. No muscle. No
sinew. Just bone.

    We
backed up and returned to the courtyard. Immediately right, on the opposite
side to the safe house, was a long patch of shadow. We moved into it, crouching
- and waited. Thirty seconds later they appeared, heading off to their left. We
watched them disappear out of view.

    And
then Healy made a break for it.

    I
tried to grab him, tried to pull him back, but he was already off, using the
darkness as cover. It was a stupid, desperate move. He didn't want to get
caught, not now, not by them — but if he'd waited another couple of minutes, we
would have been in the clear. I glanced in the direction of Hart and Davidson.
Healy had been quiet — but not quiet enough. Gravel scattered. A loose paving
slab rocked in its bed. The two detectives came back into view—and saw him.

    'Healy!'
Davidson shouted.

    They
both broke into a run, Hart immediately moving faster. I glanced at Healy. His
bulk was holding him back. He was built for strength, not pace. He stumbled.
Lurched towards one of the walls inside the archway. When he looked back, he
could see they were gaining. Could see they'd be on him before he even got to
the car. He looked frightened, angry and guilty. Eyes wide. Breath rasping.

    He
was watching his plan collapse.

    
I've
got to do something.

    I
stepped out of the darkness, just as Hart was about to pass me. He slowed up,
stopping about five feet from where I was standing. Davidson was three or four
seconds behind. I held up both hands. 'It's okay.'

    Hart
glanced at Healy. I looked back over my shoulder and saw him slowing up, then
come to a stop. When I turned to Hart again, he was staring at me.

    'It's
not okay, David.'

    'Raker?'
Healy's voice.

    'Take
the car and do what you have to do, Healy,' I said, without taking my eyes off
Hart. Davidson was alongside him now, but could hardly breathe. He was almost
doubled over, hands on hips, his gaze flipping between Healy and me. 'Just do
what you have to do.'

    Hart's
eyes wandered back to Healy, surprise in them.

    I
looked over my shoulder.

    Healy
was moving back towards us, his eyes fixed on Hart and Davidson, hands in his
pockets. 'Healy, I said take the car and do what you have —'

    And
then he did something stupid.

    He
pulled a gun.

    It
took everyone by surprise. I hadn't glimpsed it on him at all, hadn't even
thought to look for one. And yet, in that split second, I wanted to rewind to
the moment he'd first picked me up that morning because now it made complete
sense. I should have known. Should have seen it. He was a man at the mercy of
his demons, a lonely figure hunting with no plan other than revenge. It burned
in him. Fed on him. And now he stood facing two of the men he saw as culpable,
the weapon out in front of him, his finger drifting across the trigger. Guns
express their owners: they either show your opponent you are in control - or
they show him you are completely out of it.

    'Back
up, Hart,' Healy spat.

    Hart
took a step back with his hands up in front of him. His eyes drifted between
the two of us. 'For fuck's sake, Healy,' Davidson muttered from beside him.

    'Healy,'
I said gently.

    'Shut
up.'

    'Healy,
this isn't the way to —'

    
'Shut
the fuck up
? he screamed at me.

    Hart
nodded at the gun. 'Colm, just calm down.'

    'I'm
calm,' he said.

    'This
isn't the way to find Leanne.'

    'Which
way is the way to find her then?' Healy replied.

    '
Your
way
?' He paused, snorted. 'Phillips already gave me this little talk.'

    I
watched as Hart raised his hands into the air a bit further. 'I don't know what
it feels like to lose a daughter like you have, Colm. I don't. But this isn't
the way to do it, I promise you. If you have evidence about the man who took
her, then you need to present it in the right way. This…' He stopped, looked at
the gun. This isn't the way to do it.'

    Hart
glanced at me and I knew what he was saying:
Step up to the plate, David
.
He wanted me to stop Healy. He wanted me to grab the gun and put him down. Part
of me knew it was the right thing to do. Healy was most of the way down the
slippery slope now. Unreliable and dangerous. If it wasn't Hart and Davidson
who got in the way, it would be someone else. Sooner or later, someone would
get caught in the crossfire.

    But I
realized, in that moment, I couldn't turn on him.

    In a weird
way, somewhere deep down, I felt a kinship for him, even as he waved a gun
around. He believed he'd been abandoned by the people he worked with, the
people he'd spent his life alongside — and I agreed with him. He hated Hart and
Davidson and Phillips and all the rest of them because, despite all the cases
they'd worked together, all the bodies they'd looked at and the crime scenes
they'd stood in, they'd still treated Leanne like just another victim. And some
days, he didn't even feel like they'd done that much. By not tying her fully to
the other women, they'd just left her as a faceless victim somewhere, anchored
to nothing. Part of me understood the sense of injustice he felt because of
that. And all of me understood his need to face up to what had happened to the
person he'd loved most in the world.

    'Colm,'
Hart said. 'Just put the gun down and —'

    'And
what
?
Healy said, inching towards them, one step at a time. I looked at Hart, who seemed
to acknowledge the decision I'd made with another tiny movement of his eyes.
'You're going to find Leanne for me?' Healy continued. You're going to admit
you were wrong and fit her into your investigation the same as the others?
Forget it. I don't need you now: you, Phillips, your robots back at the
station. I've found out more about her in the last day than I found out in nine
months working with you.'

    'Colm,'
Hart said, trying one last time to reel him in.

    'Don't
call me "Colm". Don't call me anything.'

    'We're
going to have to come after you.'

    'Come
after me, don't come after me, it makes no difference to me. But you better be
clear on this: I 
will
kill the bastard who took my girl. There's
not going to be an arrest. There's not going to be an interview. This isn't
going to court. There's going to be me putting a bullet in the middle of his
face and leaving his body to the fucking flies. And if you want to get in the
way, you better make sure your coffin fits, because I
swear
to you: I
will kill you too.'

    Something
moved in the faces of both Hart and Davidson, and we all knew what it was.
Healy had just crossed a line, one he didn't have a hope in hell of retreating
back across. His career — everything he'd worked for — was over. He was done.
An unspoken conversation passed across the space between us, a silent
confirmation that this was the end. And then I grabbed Healy's arm and we made
a break for the car.

    We
headed east through empty city streets, rain hammering down, street lights and shopfronts
just smudges against the night as Healy carved his way along Commercial Road.

    Our
homes would be off-limits now. Phillips and Hart had both their task forces on
our trails, and they'd have men stationed outside the places we slept. Until
this was over — whenever that was, and however it ended — we had to keep ahead
of them without being caught. We had to find Glass. If we didn't, the next time
we saw daylight was going to be when we were doing circuits in a prison yard.

    'How
much of what Sona told us tonight do the task force already know?'

    Healy
shrugged. 'Not much. That's the most she's ever talked.'

    'She
never mentioned anything about the place she was kept?'

    'She
said that it looked like some sort of sewer tonight. I remember reading that in
the statement too. But definitely nothing more. Obviously they know where she
ended up, so Phillips and Hart have had teams doing on-foot searches of the
rivers.'

    'Have
they found anything?'

    'Do
you know how far the water travels north from Bow Creek alone?'

    I
shook my head.

    'Twenty-six
miles. All the way up past the M25. She didn't get dragged down from there,
obviously, but that's a lot of walking just to be sure.'

    'Anything
apart from on-foot searches?'

    They
pulled blueprints from Thames Water. Checked the network close to both creeks
and found nothing matching her description. There are no disused sewers close
to any of the waterways we're talking about.' He looked at me. 'So she wasn't
kept in a sewer, if that's what you're thinking. He may have adapted an
existing structure, but it wasn't part of the functioning sewer system.'

    I
nodded and looked out of the window. Rain slid down the glass. Even with the
heaters blowing, I could feel the chill of the evening coming off the windows.

    'That's
good,' I said finally.

    'What's
good?'

    'That
no one's figured out where she was taken yet.'

    'How
the hell is it
good
?'

    'Because
she was taken from Hark's Hill Woods, and it seems pretty obvious that she was
kept there too. Look at all the connections to that place: Glass's obsession
with Sykes; the relationship Sykes had with the woods; Sona talking about
coming up above ground into that house, and all the trees that were growing
around it. Plus, right at the end, she talked about hearing whimpering before
Markham attacked her.'

    'So?'

    'So
it was a dog she was hearing. 
His
dog.'

    'How
do you figure that?'

    'I
went to the Dead Tracks a few days back. While I was there, this mutt emerges
from the trees. It's on its last legs. Looks like it's had its fur singed and
been badly mistreated.' I paused. It sounded crazy, even though I'd seen it
with my own eyes. 'And there was this shaved area on the side of its face where
a patch of skin had been grafted on.'

    Healy
looked at me blankly.

    'I
think Glass was using it.'

    'Using
it how?'

    'Using
it as a lab rat. Seeing if the skin would take.'

    'Why?'

    'I
don't know. But look at what he did to Sona.' I paused, seeing the disbelief in
Healy's face. You want my best guess? He was planning something big and he
didn't want to risk damaging the women.'

    He
went quiet, and we could both see why: his daughter was one of those women.
Rain filled the silence, pounding even harder against the roof of the car,
hissing as it exploded against the bodywork.

    'So
what — we're looking for a messed-up
dog
?

    I
shook my head. We're looking for the house Sona described. Wherever the house
is, the dog is — because that's where Glass is.'

    Healy
sighed. 'That place is a square mile of nothing but trees. You know how many
houses border it?'

    'Remember
what she said. We're not looking for one that's still being lived in. We're
looking for one that's barely standing. A very specific house.'