The Dead Tracks (60 page)

    'DCI
Hart.'

    'We
ready?' he said to Phillips.

    'Yeah,
we're ready.'

    'Okay.
Let's do it.'

    He
gestured to one of the uniformed officers to open the rear doors of the van.
The two SFOs fell into a position either side, the H&Ks across their chests
pointing down at an angle to the floor.

    A
hush seemed to settle across the scene.

    The
Mercedes' doors clunked open.

    Aron
Crane sat just inside the van. His wrists were handcuffed. From our position it
was hard to see his face as shadows from the interior cut across him. Then he
raised his head and the orange glow from the street lamps and the blue flash of
the police sirens bloomed against his skin, and he was frozen for a moment in
an eruption of colour. His eyes glinted. He scanned the crowd in front of him,
looking for someone. And then, when he stopped, I realized who.

    
The
piece of shit is looking for me
.

    As he
was being helped out of the van, our eyes met. He nodded once and then looked
away. The team heading towards the alley fell in around him and started moving.
Phillips and Hart walked me towards the group, slipping in behind Crane, with the
dog team bringing up the rear. Crane glanced back over his shoulder and
pinpointed me immediately. This time a hint of a smile broke out on his face.

    And
then we headed into the Dead Tracks.

    On
the other side of the factory beds, everybody stopped. We'd reached the gate.
No one had said anything on the way over. We'd walked in silence through the
crumbling remains of the buildings and the dumping ground around it. Police
torches had swung from left to right, and for brief moments the flashlights had
reflected in the windows remaining in the factory shells and in the shards of
shattered glass at our feet. But once we were off the concrete and facing the
woods, the darkness got thicker and the light shone off into the night and
didn't come back again.

    We
filed through the gate one by one. Crane looked back at me from the other side,
and in the glow of a passing flashlight nodded again. Phillips noticed and
looked at me, as if some kind of secret message had passed between us. This was
all working perfectly for Crane: he was creating conflict between people on the
same side, and he hadn't even uttered a word.

    Up
front, one of the dogs barked. Everyone stopped.

    Phillips
moved ahead of the pack and joined the handler. The two of them began talking
as the spaniel on the end of the leash looked towards a swathe of black on our
right. Behind me, the second dog, a German shepherd, was gazing in the same
direction as the spaniel, its nose out in front sniffing the air. Phillips
turned around and told one of the uniformed officers to shine his flashlight
into the undergrowth. A second later, a patch of thick, tangled bush was illuminated
beyond two great big chunks of oak tree. No sign of anything. Just tall grass
swaying gently in the breeze, and light drizzle passing across the circle of
torchlight.

    We
moved on.

    The
woods were incredibly dark. The canopy was fully covering the path now, keeping
out any brief glimpse of moonlight and any synthetic glow from the street
behind us. All we had were six flashlights — two up front, two at the sides,
two attached to guns - passing back and forth across the path and what grew at
its edges.
I should have brought one
, I thought. Once again I was
relying on other people when the only person I trusted was myself.

    A
little way down, one of the officers must have seen something reflect back at
him. He stopped. About twenty- five feet further along, caught in the light
from his torch, I could see the first of the abandoned railway lines, cutting
across the trail.

    We'd
been walking for about ten minutes when the dogs started barking again. Both of
them this time. They were facing right, into the woods, noses out, eyes fixed
on something. Three of the uniformed officers shone their lights into the
undergrowth. The trees, leaves, grass and bushes were freeze-framed for a
second, rain coming down harder now.

    Phillips
went up ahead again and chatted to the same handler as before. This time there
was no breeze and everyone could hear what they were saying.

    'Could
it be an animal?' Phillips asked.

    'Might
be,' came the reply, but the handler didn't sound convinced. The dogs were so
highly trained they could smell human blood. They'd been inside collapsed
buildings and followed trails to survivors. They could sniff out drugs and guns
and explosives. They weren't going to be disturbed by a hedgehog. Everyone was
thinking the same, and a couple of them looked to Crane, as if momentarily
seeking assurance. He wasn't even turned towards the noise. He just faced
ahead, into the darkness.

    A
couple of the officers carrying torches moved off the path and into the
undergrowth as far as they could. Grass fell under their feet and then sprang
back up again around them. Beyond the tree trunks, cones of light moved left
and right.

    'Anything?'
Phillips asked from the trail.

    'Nothing,'
one of them shouted back.

    They
reappeared about a minute later, dew shining on their trousers and stab vests.
Crane looked back at me for a moment and smiled.

    'You
got something to say?' I asked him.

    Everyone
glanced at me, then at him. The smile was gone. It had lasted long enough for
me to see but no one else. Most of the officers' eyes were back on me now.

    'Calm
down, Mr Raker,' Hart said from in front of me. 'And you -' pointing at Crane
'— keep your bloody eyes on the path.'

    About
five minutes further on, we hit the clearing I'd found a few days before. The
spot where Markham had left Megan for Crane to find. The rain sounded heavier
as it fell through the gap in the leaves.

    'Pitter
patter, pitter patter,' Crane started saying. A few of us looked at him. His
head was down, handcuffed wrists together in front of him. Titter patter,
bang,
pitter patter,
bang'

    Phillips
stepped towards him. 'What did you say?'

    Crane
looked up. 'Sorry?'

    'What
did you say?'

    'Pitter
patter, pitter patter. The rain, DCI Phillips. It's coming down hard now. We'd
better move on, or we're all going to get soaked.'

    Crane
scanned the group. Two uniforms up front, torches straying across the path. The
two SFOs either side of him. Both dog handlers up ahead now, framed in the
flashlights. Two other uniforms either side of us, one standing in the tall
grass of the clearing, one on the edge of the woods. The paramedic next to me.
Phillips and Hart next to her. Then his eyes fell on Phillips.

    Something
was up.

    In
that moment, I knew we should have been turning around and heading back the
other way. Crane was a killer and a liar. Trusting him was suicide.

    'Wait.'

    Everyone
looked around at me, including Crane. Phillips was annoyed, but edged a couple
of steps back in my direction. 'What is it?'

    'This
is…' I shook my head, glanced at Crane. 'This is wrong'

    Phillips
studied me for a moment, saying nothing. But then he turned to Crane. In the
expression on his face, I saw that he felt the same as me. But I also saw that
he wasn't going to back out. Not now. Not after getting all this signed off.
'Where's Jill?'

    'It's
not far now.'

    'You
better not be messing us around here, Crane. If this is all a joke, I'll flush you
down the toilet — you understand that, right?'

    Crane
smiled. 'It's not far now,' he repeated.

    We
all fell back into position and continued along the path. Under the canopy the
rain wasn't as hard. It fell as a mixture of intermittent droplets and drifting
drizzle, swirled around in front of us by a gentle breeze that wheezed and
groaned. About a hundred yards on, someone's radio crackled, the sound
amplified by the oppressive quiet. It was one of the SFOs'. He reached to his
belt and adjusted something on his Airwave handset. Except for the rain and the
sound of the wind, we were back to complete silence.

    Then
something cracked in the woods on our left.

    Everybody
stopped. The dogs were straining on their leashes, noses out again, staring into
the dark. 'What can you see?' one of the handlers asked. The spaniel sniffed
the air then returned to its original position, primed for whatever had made
the noise. Two uniforms moved to the edge of the woods and shone the torch in
again. Another one followed about ten seconds later.

    I
looked along the line. One SFO was facing the opposite way, into the woods on
the other side from where the noise had come. The other was watching the
uniforms examining the area. We'd bunched together, and I realized Crane was
closer to me all of a sudden. So close I could have grabbed him by the throat
and stopped this before it got out of hand. To my left, Hart was standing in
the grass at the edge of the woods; Phillips a couple of steps behind him, eyes
fixed on the dark.

    Another
crack.

    The
SFO who was watching the other way glanced over his shoulder. The paramedic
looked too, her fluorescent jacket shining in the passing torchlight. One
handler moved into the trees, then the other followed. Within twenty seconds,
Crane and I were virtually on our own, only the SFOs for company. The rest of
them were beyond the treeline, torches flashing back and forth, or were
watching on the edges of the forest.

    'Do
you remember what I said to you, David?' Crane whispered. One of the SFOs' eyes
flicked to him. His hands tightened on the barrel of the MP 5. The other one
saw his partner's movement and did the same. I nodded at them both that it was
okay, but they didn't move. They were eyeing Crane with suspicion. 'That we had
a connection?'

    I
didn't reply, but in my head I was trying to figure out what this was about,
and why he was trying to engage me in conversation. As the torches passed in
semicircles, I could see the officers' silhouettes form and then merge again
with the dark. Hart had his mobile phone out, flipping it over inside the palm
of his hand. Phillips was next to him.

    'I
shouldn't have been so cruel about your wife.'

    I
looked at him
.
What are you doing, Crane
?

    'Earlier.
I shouldn't have said those things about her.'

    'Do
yourself a favour and shut the fuck up.'

    One
of the SFOs made a move forward. I glanced at him, then at Crane, then turned
back to the woods. The beam from a torch cut out about twenty feet beyond the
tree line. A couple of seconds later it flickered back on. One of the uniforms
swore, cursing the batteries.

    'I'm
the same as you, David.'

    I
looked back at him. His face was blank: no expression, no hint of humour. He
just held my gaze. I glanced at the SFO and stepped in closer to Crane.

    'I
already told you: we're not the same.'

    'Sure
we are,' he replied, and stopped, smiling. You figured me out. My wife. The
child she was carrying. I always thought I hid it quite well. But I suppose you
must become quite attuned to loss when you spend so much time around it. These
cases you take on, they're full of it. And, of course, you have all those
memories of your wife inside your home. All the photos. The home movies. Her
music collection sitting there in the corner of the living room, untouched.'

    'Be
careful,' I warned him.

    He
looked around, eyes scanning the darkness. 'All I'm saying is, I understand. I
get you. I lost someone, you lost someone. I kill, you kill.'

    I
flashed a look at him. 'What?'

    A
smile wormed its way across his face. 'I know all about that case up north,
David. And I'm not talking about the cosy little picture you painted for the
police.'

    I
glanced at the SFOs, then back to him.

    'Oh,
come on
,' he said, and made a tut-tut sound. He dropped his voice to a
whisper. The SFOs were studying us both now. 'I saw you on the news after what
happened up there, just like everybody else. You spend enough time around loss,
you pick it up in other people.' He paused. You spend enough time around
killers, you can do the same.'