The Dead Tracks (58 page)

    'I
discovered it wandering around the woods early on. Then it started following me
around; bugging me. And then it started digging in that area of the woods day
after day after day, and finally it brought back a thigh bone.'

    'And
you rewarded it so well.'

    'I
did, didn't I?'

    'Cigarette
burns, transplanted skin, cutting out one side of its face. Most dog owners
just give their pets Pedigree Chum.'

    He
smiled. 'Some days it annoyed me. Some days I felt sorry for it.'

    'I
doubt that.'

    'It
had skin cancer. I took some skin from one of the women's thighs and
transplanted it on to the dog. Not very scientific, I'll admit, but what the
hell - the girl was already dead.' He shrugged. 'See? Even
I
can be a
nice guy.'

    Thirty
seconds passed. Neither of us spoke; just looked at one another. Eventually he
broke the silence.

    'Interesting
area, Hark's Hill,' he said. 'A whole other world under the surface of the
woods, and most people don't even know it's there. Or they've just forgotten.
That's where Sykes took Jenny Truman, you know. He convinced her to leave with
him, then smuggled her into the tunnels that fed out from the factories.' He
stopped. A flash in his eyes. 'It was a ready-made hiding place. That
boarded-up door next to the air vent? That leads all the way to the old
munitions factory on the other side of the woods. I brought everything down
through there. The supplies. The tools. The equipment. And when I was finished,
I welded it shut.'

    More
silence. We looked at each other. He had the same blank expression on his face again;
no hint of emotion, no clue as to what he was thinking. He pushed a strand of
dark hair away from his eyes and then sniffed gently, as if inhaling something
sweet.

    'Why
leave the necklaces behind?' I asked.

    'Because
it was fun.'

    'It was
what got you caught.'

    'Was
it?'

    'If
it hadn't been for the necklaces, no one would have tied the women to each
other,
or
to you. You gave yourself away.'

    He
shrugged. 'I wasn't far off finishing my little project.'

    'Meaning
what?'

    'Meaning
the necklaces were a vital component of what I was doing. I liked the idea of
leaving something for the police to find. A little calling card. Something to
tease them and test them. But it wasn't going to last for ever. One more after
Jill, then my research was done.'

    'You
were just going to walk away?'

    He
smiled. 'Not exactly.'

    'Then
what?'

    'I
hadn't decided yet.'

    I
studied him. He was running the finger of his free hand along the edge of the
table, the skin making a crackling noise as it caught on the chips in the
surface.

    'How
many have you killed?'

    He
sighed, running his finger along the table in the opposite direction. 'I don't
know, David,' he said, looking up at me. 'How many have you?'

    There
was a hint of a smile on his face. The coffee had been sitting on the table
next to me the entire time, steam curling up from its surface. I took it and
sank a few mouthfuls. Then I placed it down and leaned forward, hands flat to
the desk.

    'Is
Aron Crane even your real name?'

    He
shrugged and sat back. 'Names, numbers, they're not important, David. They
don't matter. A name is just a piece of paper. You can give yourself whatever
name you want, and it won't make any difference to who you are, or what you do.
A name's just a vehicle getting you from one place to another. Another little
stage.'

    'So
Aron Crane was just a stage?'

    He
nodded, gazing at me, wanting me to look away, as if it would be a victory. But
that wasn't going to happen. He wasn't going to win. Not now, not ever.

    'Why
bring Markham in?'

    He
sighed. 'I'm sure you know why.'

    'You
used him after things went wrong at the warehouse in Bow.'

    'Correct!'
He slammed his unchained right hand down on to the table. Then, suddenly, he
was still. Straight- faced. Eyes on mine. 'There were cops undercover in the
Russians, and Drayton's operation was getting a little…
leaky
too.
Sooner or later they were going to move on me. Frank White got in the way, and
so did that other stiff, so I killed them and went on my way.'

    'As
easy as that.'

    'Anything's
easy when you do enough of it.'

    His
eyes widened again and then he leaned back in his seat, the handcuffs locking
into place.

    'Where
did you find Markham?'

    'He
came to my attention when I first started following Megan. I'd been watching
her for a while. She seemed…' He leaned forward again, whispering. 'She seemed
like my type — know what I mean?' He winked. 'I needed to step back after White
snuffed it, and Markham seemed to fit the bill. He was friendly with Megan, she
trusted him — plus his wife was a fucking nutcase, which meant he had a soft
centre.' Eyes narrowed, face straightening. 'People you love tend to be your
weakness.'

    Something
flashed in his eyes, and then it was gone again.

    'After
Frank White died, there was a lot of coverage about him on the news. I mean,
kill a copper and it's the A-bomb dropping, right? Interviews with the people
he'd shared an office with, his family, friends - then eventually Jill. The tearful
widow. I liked the look of her straight away. She fitted the bill. So I started
getting my morning coffee from the same place as her. After a week of giving
her the eye, she eventually said hello. After a fortnight, we were chatting.
After a month, I had her in the palm of my hand. I can be really quite charming
when I want to be.'

    'Why
not get Markham to bring her to you?'

    'I
was getting itchy feet watching him do all the fun stuff. Plus, he couldn't
keep up with my…
appetite.
To be honest, he was a whiney piece of shit.
I had to treat him like a child, just to get him to understand all the rules
and regulations. Cutting him to pieces did us all a favour, believe me.'

    He
paused. Made a show of clearing his throat.

    'I
saw you going into the Carvers' house about a week and a half back. Let's just
say, I'd been keeping a close eye on everything to do with Megan. Making sure I
was still insulated. As long as the investigation rumbled on, everything was
fine.' He nodded sideways at the one-way mirror and then dropped his voice —
but loud enough so it would be picked up in the next room. 'They didn't have a
clue who I was, David. Not a clue.'

    
That's
why he came to the support group. To keep me close
.

    'So
you were watching me?'

    'Basically,
yes. When Jill started to trust me, I floated the idea of the support group, so
I could actually meet you. But then I realized I needed to know more about you,
your skills. So I persuaded her to play on your conscience and get you to look
into Frank's death.'

    'Why
take the risk?'

    'It
wasn't a risk. Everything you said to her got back to me. Much better than
stumbling around blindly trying to work out what you did and did not know. Just
that one evening at the support group was enough to get the measure of you.
Which is probably just as well. I mean, let's face it, that group is where
ambition goes to die.' He winked again and smiled. 'No offence intended, of
course, David. I'm sure it's helped you get over seeing your wife lose her hair
and her dignity.'

    Fire
flared in me, shooting up through my throat and into my muscles. I wanted to
put my fist through his face. I wanted to feel his bones breaking. But instead
I let a tremor pass along my hands and out through my fingers. I met his blank
expression. There was no smile on his face now, just a featureless gaze.

    'Where's
Jill?'

    No
response. No movement in his face. It was like he could no longer hear me.

    'You're
not in control any more, Aron.
Where
is she?'

    'I broke
into your house, David,' he said, as if he still hadn't heard me, continuing in
a voice devoid of all emotion. 'When I was in there, I saw some of the pictures
of her. Your wife. She was a good-looking woman, Derryn. You know,
before.
Blonde hair. Nice figure. Not bony and boyish. You and me, we have the same
taste.'

    'We
don't have the same anything'

    'Really?

    'You're
a fucking animal. And if it wasn't the difference between me going to jail or
walking away from here, I'd put you in the ground.'

    His
eyes widened.
'Oooh,
David. Such bravado.'

    I
didn't reply this time. Didn't take the bait.

    'Anyway,'
he continued, picking an imaginary hair off the arm of his jumpsuit, 'it is
what it is. You play a good grieving widower. It suits you. Women
love
that sort of thing. I bet your lawyer in there gets all wet watching you play
the strong, sensitive type.' He took a long, deep breath, looking down at the
table. Then he raised his head again and a smile broke out. 'How Does it feel
to fuck her after years of banging away on the same woman? Is she different?'
He licked his lips for effect. 'Is she
tighter?'

    'Let
me ask you something,' I said, leaning towards him.

    A
movement in his eyes. He hadn't got the reaction he'd wanted. But he kept a
half-smile on his face; telling me he was still in control. I looked at him.
I think I know
why
you kept Megan alive now. I think I know who the
hearts belong to
.

    'Where's
your wife buried?'

    He
leaned back in his chair.

    'Because
here's my theory, Aron, or Dr Glass, or whatever the fuck your name is. This is
your shot at redemption. You're trying to get her back. I think you killed the
one person you ever really loved.'

    He
attempted to force any emotion from his face. But something remained; a light
burning away. I'd hit on something.

    'Maybe
you killed her to satisfy your "appetite". Or maybe you killed her by
accident. But now you wish you hadn't, and all these women - the way they look,
the way you're cutting them up — they're just replacements for her.' I leaned
in even closer. Thing is, though, it doesn’t matter how many women you kill,
how many times you cut them up and try to make them like her, the one you
really loved, she's not coming back. Take it from someone who knows.'

    His
smile shattered. I'd got at him. I'd guessed right.

    'Was
your wife pregnant when she died?'

    He
twitched, like he'd been prodded with a taser.

    'Were
those their hearts I found?'

    He
laid both hands down on the table in front of me.

    'Megan
looks exactly like your wife, doesn’t she?' I asked him. 'One or two minor
adjustments and you have her back. A little younger maybe, but you'll put up
with that.
That's
why you went to the trouble of creating the website,
inventing the LCT, why you told Markham he could never call her or email her.
Because you didn't want to risk this one. Ultimately, Megan was all that
mattered.'

    He
was quiet. Breathing in and out.

    'And
all the others: they were like the corpses you used to practise on in medical
school. Tissue and bones. Mannequins. Nothing more. They were your research.
Your little project. You cut into their faces and their noses so that you
wouldn't mess up when the time came to do it on the one that
really
mattered. And you finally found her. Megan. The fact that Markham got Megan
pregnant was just terrible luck for them — but for you, it was probably like
some kind of a sign. Because in seven weeks' time, not only was the project
finally over and Megan all sliced up how you wanted her, not only would you
have your wife back, but you'd have your unborn child back too.'

    There
was nothing in his face now. He'd managed to wipe it clean.