The Dead Tracks

    'I'm an importer looking to bring some chemicals into the country on the quiet. Nothing that's going to flatten a city, but bad enough that they'd be too difficult to get hold of in the UK.'

    'What kind of chemicals we talkin'?'

    'Formaldehyde.'

    'What the hell's that?'

    'It's what they'll coat you in when you die.'

    'Like dead people and shit?' 'Right.'

    'Not ringing any bells.'

    'It probably came in as a liquid. Would have been called formalin.'

    Ray stopped jigging about momentarily, his eyes fixing on mine. Then he started up again, but didn't make a move to say anything.

    'What is it, Ray?'

    Another dramatic pause. 'There's this guy. Got a building over in Beckton, near the airport. He's from up north. Manchester. Somewhere round there.'

    'And he Does what?'

    'Imports shit — but ninety-nine per cent of it's legit. He runs a clean company outta his place. I think he's, like, a supplier for restaurants. Some of the stuff is actual food, but most of it's plates and engraved bowls and all that kinda shit.'

    'So what's the other one per cent?'

    'The way I hear it, he's got some serious connections. He's like a fixer. You go to him with what you want and he gets it; brings it in with the bowls and the china plates.'

    'I'm still waiting for the bonus ball.'

    He rolled his eyes. You hearin' anythin' I'm sayin' here? He ain't handin' me a fuckin' inventory every week. The guy ain't a personal friend of mine. But if there's chemicals comin' into the city, you can bet your arse they're comin' through him.'

    I didn't reply. His eyes flicked to me. His face seemed straight: no movement, no obvious sign that he was hiding anything.

    'Okay,' I said. 'What's the name of the business?'

    'Drayton Imports.'

    'That's the guy's name as well?'

    'Yeah, Derrick Drayton.'

    I took a pen out of my pocket and wrote the names on the back of my hand. 'So, who's been using him?'

    'I don't know.'

    I sighed and looked up at him. 'Stop feeding me bullshit, Ray.'

    'I ain't.'

    'I don't believe you.'

    'I ain't holdin' back!'

    'I don't believe you,' I said again.

    This time there was a brief hesitation and then that movement in his face I'd been waiting for. He knew something.

    'Ray?'

    Another pause. 'Okay. I shouldn't be tellin' you this.'

    'Telling me what?'

    'The police came askin' about all this shit a few months —'

    'Wait a sec, wait a sec. The police?'

    'Yeah.'

    'What were they asking about?'

    'If I'd heard anythin' about this Drayton guy.'

    'They tell you why they were asking?'

    'No.'

    'What did they say?'

    'Nothin'. Just asked me if I'd heard anythin' about this guy, Drayton, who ran it. When I told 'em what I knew, they said I needed to keep my trap shut if anyone asked.'

    I paused. Let my mind return to the photograph and the formalin in the background. 'Did the police ever ask you if you'd heard anything about a missing girl?'

    Radar frowned. 'No.'

    'They just asked about Drayton?'

    'Yeah.'

    I paused. 'So if they know he's on the take, why haven't they closed him down?'

    'He disappeared. Most people think he bought a one-way ticket out of the country when he could smell pork on the wind. And the business is squeaky clean. So his family run the place over in Beckton in his absence. You'd have to dial 999 to find out what the police have got planned for him if he ever returns. Especially after the…' He trailed off.

    'The what?'

    'Doesn’t matter.'

    'The what? He didn't respond. 'Speak up, Radar.'

    He sighed; slid a couple of fingers beneath his beanie and tried to rub his frown away. Eventually he took the hat off altogether and dragged a whole hand across his head, his shaved hair bristling beneath his palm. Another sigh, this time louder.

    'Especially the what, Ray?'

    This Drayton guy, he's got a series of properties all over that part of the city. Not just the place at Beckton. And in one of them… somethin' got fucked up.'

    'What are you talking about?'

    'It's why the police were interested. Way I hear it is that Drayton sourced some guns for some OC outfit and allowed 'em to use one of his buildings as a pick-up point for the weapons.'

    'Organized crime?'

    'Yeah. Russians. The police got wind of it and sent in the cavalry. Only it went wrong' He paused. Looked at me. 'And a couple of coppers got a bullet in the face.'

    I looked at him, struck into silence.

    Bloody hell.

    He's talking about the night Frank White died.

Chapter Thirty-four

    The Frank White file was sitting inside the boot of the BMW, still in the envelope Tasker had mailed it in. I'd brought it with me in case I found the time to skim-read it while chasing leads back to Megan. But now, somehow, Frank White had moved in from the periphery - and he'd tethered himself to her disappearance.

    I slid in at the wheel, closed the door and tried to clear my head. The cemetery was quiet. I put the wipers on intermittent, listening to them sweep across the glass. For the moment, there wasn't a direct connection that I could see. There was a line running from Frank's death, to the Russians, to Drayton Imports, to the formalin, and on to the girl in the photograph. But the circle wasn't complete. It felt like something was at work — like on some level the two of them were bound to one another - but even if Megan was the girl in the picture, which wasn't even certain, the only thing that connected her to Frank White was the fact that the formalin in the background of the shot had probably been imported by Drayton - the man who owned the warehouse Frank was shot in.

    And yet I didn't like the convenience of it all; the coincidence. Because I didn't believe in coincidences. I believed in structure and meaning. I believed in connections.