The Dead Tracks

hadn't, and all these women - the way they look, the way you're cutting them up — they're just replacements for her.' I leaned in even closer. Thing is, though, it doesn’t matter how many women you kill, how many times you cut them up and try to make them like her, the one you really loved, she's not coming back. Take it from someone who knows.'

    His smile shattered. I'd got at him. I'd guessed right.

    'Was your wife pregnant when she died?'

    He twitched, like he'd been prodded with a taser.

    'Were those their hearts I found?'

    He laid both hands down on the table in front of me.

    'Megan looks exactly like your wife, doesn’t she?' I asked him. 'One or two minor adjustments and you have her back. A little younger maybe, but you'll put up with that. That's why you went to the trouble of creating the website, inventing the LCT, why you told Markham he could never call her or email her. Because you didn't want to risk this one. Ultimately, Megan was all that mattered.'

    He was quiet. Breathing in and out.

    'And all the others: they were like the corpses you used to practise on in medical school. Tissue and bones. Mannequins. Nothing more. They were your research. Your little project. You cut into their faces and their noses so that you wouldn't mess up when the time came to do it on the one that really mattered. And you finally found her. Megan. The fact that Markham got Megan pregnant was just terrible luck for them — but for you, it was probably like some kind of a sign. Because in seven weeks' time, not only was the project finally over and Megan all sliced up how you wanted her, not only would you have your wife back, but you'd have your unborn child back too.'

    There was nothing in his face now. He'd managed to wipe it clean.

    '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.

Legal Right

    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