The Dead Tracks

the wall.

    It had been deliberately left loose.

    Dust spilled out from around the screw heads, landing inside the cabinet. Plaster made a scraping sound behind it. And then, a couple of seconds later, the cabinet came away.

    In the space behind it was a patch of cream paint - the original colour of the bathroom - and the holes that had once housed the screws.

    In the centre was a message, written directly on to the wall.

    It said: Help me.

Chapter Thirty-three

    Back at the car, rain continued falling. I started up the engine and left the heaters running. In the pop-out drinks holder was a takeaway coffee. Steam rose from a hole in the lid.

    I grabbed my phone. On it was a picture of the message I'd found on the wall. I'd placed the cabinet back as best I could and wedged the front door of the flat shut with a folded piece of card. If someone returned to it, it would only take a second for them to realize there had been a break-in. But that was if they returned. It felt like a place that had gone a long time without being lived in.

    As I exited the photo again, the phone started buzzing in my hand. The number was withheld.

    'David Raker.'

    'David, my name's Corine. I'm a friend of Spike's.'

    'Corine — thanks for calling me.'

    After he'd translated the writing in the photograph for me, Spike had offered to put me in contact with a friend of his who had some sort of science degree. He was deliberately vague. He didn't involve the people he liked in his work.

    'Spike said you had some questions.'

    She sounded English; softly spoken with a slight northern twang. I wondered how she'd come to meet an illegal immigrant who never went outside.

    'Yeah. I was hoping you could tell me about formalin.'

    'Formalin?' She paused. 'What do you want to know?'

    'It's what they use in embalming, right?'

    'Not so much any more. Formaldehyde's kind of frowned upon these days. In fact, some European countries have banned it altogether.'

    'Because it's carcinogenic?'

    'Right. Formalin's only thirty-seven per cent formaldehyde. The rest is methanol and water. But it's still ridiculously good at what it Does. Drop an animal into a vat of it and you've got an instant tissue preserver. Just ask Damien Hirst.'

    'How's it work?'

    'Basically, the formaldehyde hardens you up. It eats away at the cell tissue, drying out the protoplasm and replacing the fluid with this firm kind of gel-like compound. So it not only solidifies the cells and maintains the shape of the skin, but disinfects the tissue at the same time. And even better than that - it's incredibly resistant to bacteria.'

    'Where would I get some?'

    'Formalin?'

    'I'm talking theoretically — and on the quiet.'

    'Well, because it's carcinogenic, it's heavily policed, so your best bet would be to import it from outside Europe — or from somewhere inside Europe that isn't properly regulated. You're taking a chance whichever route you decide. And you'd obviously need someone who'd be willing to bring it in for you, with all the associated risks. I don't know where you'd find those kind of people.'

    An hour later, I pulled into Kensal Green Cemetery: seventy-two acres of gravestones, mausoleums and parkland, rolling across the city like a blanket. Nosing the car around to a long colonnade, I bumped the BMW up on to the grass beside the pillars and killed the engine. A face looked out briefly, and then disappeared again. I got out and headed across. Beneath the colonnade it smelled old and musty. About twenty feet to my right, a skinny black guy wearing a yellow beanie and a shiny green bomber jacket was moving towards me.

    His name was Ray Smith.

    Smith was a small-time crook the police had got their hooks into after a botched bank job in Mayfair five years ago. He'd been the getaway driver, but hadn't got away fast enough. Smith actually wasn't a bad guy — he'd just got in with the wrong people. In exchange for a new life as a paid informant, he got to roam the streets a free man. That was when I got my hooks into him and told the paper to double whatever the Met paid him. He was small-time, but he had a good pair of ears. Which was how he got his name. Ray wasn't short for Raymond. It was short for Radar, as in, he always knew what was going on.

    I looked him up and down.

    He was a ten-stone bundle of energy, powered by a mixture of adrenalin and paranoia, and known for his appalling fashion sense. His bomber jacket was a nuclear explosion, and on the middle finger of his right hand was a huge, diamond-encrusted ring.

    'You travelling incognito, Ray?'

    He rolled his eyes and looked around him. 'Fuck you.

    'I shouldn't even be here talkin' to you, man. You're a bad luck charm.'

    'How do you figure that?'

    You remember the last time I helped you out?'

    'Sure. Must have been about two years back.'

    'Correct. And you know what happened the next day? I get my face kicked in. And then my fuckin' dog dies. You got the Medusa touch.' He was looking to the side, but his eyes flicked back to me. 'Listen,' he said. A pause. 'I, y'know… heard about your girl.'

    I nodded. He turned and looked along the colonnade behind him, turning his back to me. I let him have a moment. That second of eye contact was Ray trying to tell me he was sorry about Derryn. It was about as poignant as our relationship had ever got.

    I changed the subject. 'So you still bleeding taxpayers dry?'

    He turned back to face me. Yeah, still doin' it. And the only reason I'm still standin' here breathin' is 'cause my boy keeps me outta the limelight.'

    About fifteen years ago, the police started asking detectives to register their confidential informants, which as most of them would tell you was one of the worst ideas in the history of law enforcement. As soon as CIs thought details of their snitching was available somewhere to find or pass on, the intel dried up. What most detectives did instead was log two or three CIs they knew they'd never use, and keep their best ones off the books. Radar was one of the best ones.

    'You do much for them?'

    'Yeah, a fair bit,' he replied, shrugging. 'Gotta be done.

    'It's either that or the boys in blue turn up at my front door and slap the chains on me. And I don't much fancy a bumming in Pentonville.'

    'Really?'

    He frowned. 'You sayin' I'm bent?'

    I laughed, but tried not to make too much of it. Ray had never killed anyone in his life, but he still maintained a strict code of conduct as if he was the world's most dangerous hitman. And like most criminals, it was a code all twisted up. No women. No children. Anything to do with drugs was fair game, as long as the product didn't end up in the hands of kids under sixteen. Guns were out, but knives were in. And no jokes about him deliberately dropping the soap in the showers as homosexuality was against God.

    'So, I need your help.'

    He nodded. Stepped closer to me.