The Dead Tracks

    'When?'

    'Today. Is that the reason you were at my house?'

    The two of them looked at each other. Phillips turned back to me. 'I'm not at liberty to discuss that.'

    I nodded at the photographs. 'Put the photo of that woman's face through your labs and see if you can find any of my prints on it.'

    'Maybe we put the photos through forensics,' Phillips said, voice taut, eyes fixed on me. 'Maybe we find your prints, maybe we don't. But you're mixed up in this somehow, we both know that. And when I find out how, I will bring you down.'

    I didn't reply. He was as angry as I'd seen him, colour prickling in his skin. The lead I'd given them for the youth club hadn't been enough. It had stalled the interview, but it hadn't stopped it. They'd filed it away as an interesting line of enquiry, but it hadn't changed anything. I was in this up to my neck.

    Then I thought of something.

    Something Phillips had said in the first interview. The only reason I can give you is that, by you sticking your nose in here, you're jeopardising a parallel investigation. 'Have you officially tied Leanne Healy's disappearance to Megan's?' I asked.

    There was a long pause. 'Leanne Healy?'

    'Colm Healy's daughter.'

    'I know who she is.'

    'She worked at the youth club. The same one as Megan. Even if you didn't know about the man Megan might have met there, you would have seen that the youth club connected Megan and Leanne.' Another pause. Davidson turned away from me. A flicker of something. Next to him, Phillips didn't move. 'So is her disappearance being tied to Megan's?'

    Nothing from either of them.

    Then Phillips: 'David, you don't know what you're talking -'

    'They're both blonde. They both look vaguely similar. They both worked part-time at the same place. They both disappeared and never came home.'

    Davidson glanced at Phillips. Phillips looked back.

    'No,' he said. 'We're not tying the two together.'

    'Really?'

    'Really.'

    'You must know something about Leanne then.'

    'Why would you say that?'

    'Because you'd link them otherwise.'

    'Would we?'

    You know you would. You'd have two girls. And then you'd have a pattern.' I looked between them. I was building the theory as I went, adding together everything I'd learned as I tried to push back at them. 'And, eventually, you'd have more.'

    'More what?'

    'More women. If there's a pattern, there's a man responsible. And if he's magicked two of them into thin air, you can bet he'll do it again and again until he's stopped.'

    Phillips shook his head and started turning his wedding band. 'This isn't CSI, David. You don't get a Hollywood ending'

    A parallel investigation.

    I looked between them again. I'd given them the youth club. I'd told them I knew about Leanne. Now it was time to make a leap of faith.

    'So where Does Frank White fit in?'

    Davidson's eyes flicked to me and then away. A moment of surprise, followed by a ripple of alarm. Phillips stopped turning his wedding band momentarily. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' he said evenly.

    'You remember him though, right?'

    Phillips nodded. 'Of course I remember him.'

    'They're linked.'

    'Who are linked?'

    'Frank White and Megan.'

    'Everyone's linked according to you.'

    'Something happened at that warehouse the night he was murdered. You dig far enough in, and you'll find a connection to Megan.'

    They both looked at me. I couldn't decide if it was disbelief or panic in their faces. I decided it was panic. I was on to something.

    'His death is connected to Megan, isn't it?'

    Phillips started collecting up the photographs, feeding them back into the Manila folder. He looked at me. We ask the questions around here, David.'

    'Is it something to do with the surgeon?'

    A brief pause. Then Phillips leaned over, spoke into the recorder to confirm the time and the fact that he was taking a break - and they both got up and left.

Chapter Thirty-nine

    As they were walking out, I requested a toilet break. Phillips asked Davidson to show me where it was, and disappeared through a security door that connected the interview rooms to the main office. Davidson didn't say anything, just led me past the other doors into an L-shape kink in the corridor. There were two further doors around the corner: one for men, one for women. 'I'll wait here,' he said.

    Inside, it was cold and sterile. Old metal-framed windows, with iron mesh over the glass. China basins screwed to the floor. No soap. No hot water. Grey-green cubicles minus the toilet seats. Basically nothing you could rip off and use as a weapon. There was the overpowering stench of urinal cake and, as I moved into one of the cubicles, I realized I could see my breath in front of my face. It couldn't have been more than five degrees.

    After about half a minute, I heard Davidson start talking to someone. Above the traffic noise from outside, and the constant gurgle from the cistern, I could only make out a few words, but it sounded like Davidson was asking a uniform to stand guard.

    I flushed and walked across to the basins. As I was washing my hands, I heard another voice. Male. Low. Almost a whisper.

    He was sending the PC off on an errand.

    A couple of seconds later, I watched the door open in the mirror above the basin. It squeaked on its hinges. A foot appeared. Then a face.

    Colm Healy.

    He looked at me, our eyes meeting in the reflection. Then he glanced over his shoulder, out into the corridor again. Ran a hand through his red hair and rubbed one of his eyes. He had the chewed nails of a man who sat up all night unable to sleep — and the yellowing fingertips of a smoker.

    I swivelled to face him, flicking my hands dry.

    'We've got ten minutes tops, so I'll spare you the small talk,' he said. 'I don't believe you did it. I've read your file. I've heard about you. No record. No blips on the radar. Two years back, your wife dies. And now I'm supposed to believe you're on some kind of… of what? Revenge mission? No. You're not this guy. So you're going to tell me what I want to know, and then I'll help you out in return. Okay?'

    'You said all you needed to say last time.'

    'Yeah, well…' He faded off. Stood there with his hand on the door. 'That guy you had in that photo you showed me. Milton Sykes. Who is he really?'

    I shrugged. 'I don't know.'

    'Why's he look like Sykes?'

    I shrugged again. 'I don't know.'