The Dead Tracks (59 page)

    'But
here's the thing, Aron: this whole project of yours, it's
insane.
You're
a psychopath. I'm sure there's a shrink somewhere that will find you
fascinating; the fact you can kill without remorse, yet still retain some sort
of positive emotional connection to someone. But to me, you're black and white.
There's no mystery. You're just another worthless piece of shit.'

    Silence.

    I
held his gaze for a long time, and then he turned away from me. His left hand,
chained to the table, wrapped around the metal ring. The handcuffs jangled
against the surface. He seemed to drift off. But seconds later he moved in his
seat, the handcuffs jangling for a second time. He released his hand from the
ring. Looked at me. Shrugged.

    But
said nothing.

    I got
to my feet. His eyes followed me but his body was completely motionless. I
walked across the room and buzzed the intercom. The door opened inwards. In the
corridor, a uniformed officer was waiting to escort me to the viewing room next
door. When I looked back, Crane was staring up at me from under the ridge of
his brow, a hint of a smile back on his face. A real one this time. Lips
turning up. Eyes widening, like they were trying to suck in all the light in
the room.

    'We're
done,' I said to him.

    A
sliver of tongue passed along his lips.

    'Are
we?' he said quietly.

    The
holding cell was small and cold. The white walls looked like they'd been
painted recently, but the ceiling — a creamy-beige colour — was peeling all
along the middle and in the corners of the room. There was one bunk screwed to
the wall and one metal toilet screwed to the floor.

    Aron
Crane was sitting on the edge of the bed. His clothes had been bagged and taken
off somewhere. Now he sat in a dark blue sweater, a pair of black trousers and
a pair of black rubber-soled slip-ons. At the door to the cell, a uniformed
officer was standing guard. Crane saw part of his head and the white cotton of
his shirt when the porthole slid across. Occasionally, other policemen would
look in, some in uniform, some in plain clothes.

    Everyone
wanted to see Dr Glass.

    He'd
been sitting there for an hour when the door clunked and opened. Two officers
were standing in the doorway. One of them was holding a set of handcuffs. They
entered and told him to stand, then the one with the handcuffs placed them
around his wrists, clicked them into place and led him out. They were taking
him back to the room he'd faced Raker in earlier that day.

    
Raker.

    Crane
had underestimated him. He thought he could use him, the fact he had sore
points. Weaknesses. But Raker was perceptive and clever. He'd used Crane's wife
as bait and tried to get inside his head, tried to force Crane to react. But
that was okay. Raker might have messed with the project before it was finished,
but Crane had plans for him.

    Revenge
would come.

    They
turned a corner and moved into the interview room, sitting him down at the
table. They chained him to the metal ring, welded to the surface, and then
left.

    Silence.

    They would
find out about Phedra eventually. He knew that. If they looked hard enough,
they would find what was left of her body. And they would find the body next to
it as well. They would realize that the inscription on his chain - PC — were
her initials, and that the chain had been hers.

    But
they would never find out what happened.

    Because
even he wasn't sure now. He'd moved it around in his head so much, some days he
remembered it being an accident and some days he didn't. Some days she was carrying
a tray across the decking on the top of their house and stumbled. And some days
she was screaming at him, telling him she was two months away from giving birth
and she needed him to
care,
and he pushed her. The one thing that was
clear was looking over the edge of the roof and seeing her on the grass below
him, flat on her back.

    Looking
up at him as her life ebbed away.

    Two
plain-clothes policemen entered. One was Hart, the other was Phillips. Hart
asked Crane if he was all right. Crane gave no reply. He'd spoken little to
them since they'd brought him in; only to tell them he wanted Raker to ask the
questions. Now they were going to try again.

    'Mr
Crane,' Hart said, 'we need to know where Jill White is.'

    
He
studied Hart.
You look like a skeleton.

    'Mr
Crane?'

    
You
look like you should be buried in the ground
.

    'Mr
Crane, we really need you to -'

    'I
want to make a phone call.'

    They
looked at him. Inside he felt himself smiling. He'd stunned them into silence.
Hart glanced at Phillips and back to Crane. 'You want a solicitor now?'

    Crane
nodded.

    'We
can appoint you one.'

    'I
have my own.'

    'Okay,
we can call him for -'

    'No,'
Crane said. 'I'll call him.'

    They
looked at him. Hart leaned forward. Phillips started turning his wedding band,
eyes fixed on Crane. Why now?' Phillips asked.

    'Because
it's my legal right.'

    'Yeah,
but why now?'

    'Because
it's my legal right.'

    More
silence. Hart glanced at Phillips, but Phillips was looking at Crane, his head
tilted as if trying to work out what made him tick. Crane stared back, the two
of them holding each other's gaze. He could tell Phillips had something about
him. In many ways he wasn't dissimilar to Raker: they both observed, and watched
for the rhythms of conversations - and the things that were out of place.
Finally, Phillips stopped turning his wedding band and slowly started to nod.

    'Then
it looks like you get to call your solicitor,' he said.

    It was
almost 9 p.m. by the time I got to Derry Road. Police cars were lined up at the
entrance to the alley that led through to the Dead Tracks, the entire street
cordoned off. The taxi dropped me off at the southern end. I waited while a
uniformed officer radioed through to Phillips to tell him I'd arrived. A minute
later, he lifted the tape and I ducked under and moved along the pavement,
towards the eye of the storm. Windows were open. People were looking down.
Sirens were painting the concrete blue. There was the smell of food in the air,
drifting out from the houses, and the coolness of imminent rain.

    In
the middle of the street were two specialist firearms officers. One of them was
at the rear of their vehicle, checking a Heckler & Koch MP 5 submachine
gun, a Glock 17 holstered at his hip. The other was inside the front of the
car, on a phone, writing something on a piece of paper he had pressed to the
dashboard. Beyond was a Mercedes Sprinter police van. Two officers were
stationed outside. Spread around them in a vague semicircle were a series of
marked cars. Next to one of them, I could see Phillips and Hart talking to one
another, Hart pointing towards the closed rear doors of the police van.

    Inside
was Aron Crane.

    Hart
looked up as I approached; Phillips too. Both of them nodded. They didn't want
me here, and I didn't want to be here. But when they'd tried to question Crane
about where Jill really was, he said he'd show them — as long as I was there.
They had a look on their faces I could read as clearly as if it was printed on
a billboard: I was tied up in this somehow. But the only thing I knew for sure
was that there was something ominous about this whole thing. Something
dangerous and sinister.

    He'd
tracked Jill for months himself, while he forced Markham to lure in Megan and
Sona. I imagined he liked the idea of pursuing the wife of the man he'd killed.
It massaged his ego. His sense of power. His control. And now, for all the men
and the cars and the show of force, there was only one person directing
everything: Aron Crane.

    Phillips
told me he'd be with me shortly, and then both he and Hart turned their backs
on me, shielding their conversation. I didn't care. I didn't need to know their
strategy to know that everything about this felt wrong.

    Around
them police officers gathered. Some with dogs. Some with flashlights. The two
SFOs fell in next to the rear of the van, eyes taking in the scene. One of them
fiddled with the slide on his Glock. He removed it from its holster, checked
it, then returned it. Any moment, the doors were going to be flung open and
Crane would be sitting there, looking out. He'd love the chaos he'd created.

    Finally,
Phillips and Hart finished talking, and Hart wandered off. Phillips had the air
of the man in charge. Hart was a career cop. Solid, dependable, bright but not
a natural. He'd progressed through the ranks based on decent results and saying
the right things. Phillips was different. He could play the game, but he was
good at his job too. People would wait for Phillips to give the command.

    He
came over to me.

    'Crane
will be handcuffed throughout,' he said, bypassing any sort of greeting. 'Two
uniforms up front with flashlights, a couple more at the sides. The firearms
officers will be either side of him the whole time — and they'll also have
torches.'

    He
paused as a female officer came and asked him a question about whether he
wanted the press pushed back even further. He told her yes, and turned back to
me.

    'Have
you been in?' I asked.

    'Yes.'

    'Find
anything?'

    'No.
Crane told us the body is about twenty minutes' walk, but wouldn't tell us in
which direction.' He stopped, must have seen something in my face. We've done a
risk assessment and believe we have all the angles covered.'

    'It'll
be pitch black in there.'

    'We
wait until morning and Jill might be dead.' He was right, but it didn't make me
feel any better. 'A paramedic and two dog-support units will be coming too; one
will go out front, another will trail behind us. And that just leaves DCI Hart,
myself and you.'

    'Are
you taking forensics in?'

    'No,
they'll be on standby. We'll wait to see where he leads us, and then I'll call
Davidson.' I looked around me and spotted Davidson talking to a uniform on the
other side of the police van. 'We're already taking too many people with us.'

    Nearby,
one of the SFOs cranked the chamber on his Glock.

    'They're
a precaution,' Phillips said. 'A man with six women to his name isn't a man
worth taking a risk over.'

    
Six
we know about,
I thought, and then looked to the alley leading to the
woods. 'What about his lawyer?'

    'He
called him, but he never showed up.'

    'How
come?'

    'Crane
wouldn't say.'

    I
eyed Phillips. 'I don't like this.'

    He didn't
say anything. But in his eyes I could see what he was thinking:
I don't like
it either.
For a moment, something passed between us: a second where we
both considered backing out. But then Phillips must have cast his mind back to
the risk assessment they'd done at the station, the planning, the officers he
was taking in with him, and figured they were as prepared as they could be.
Maybe he was right. I certainly hoped he was. But that didn't settle my nerves.
Because I knew Crane now. He wouldn't lead us to Jill unless he had a way to
skew things in his favour.

    'Don't
engage him in conversation unless you have to,' Phillips said. This is a game
to him. We're not playing the game. What we want is to find Jill.'

    I
nodded. Ultimately, Jill was all that mattered.

    'Once
we've done that, we call the forensic team and we get the hell out.'

    Hart
appeared from my left. 'Mr Raker.'