The Dead Tracks Page 8

  Ahead of them, carved like a mouth into a line of huge fir trees, was the entrance to the woods Mark had talked about. Everything was overgrown. As they moved past a warped, broken gate and along the path, trees leaned in over them, their foliage thick and dark. Grass was everywhere, sprouting up waist-high around the tree trunks, and breaking through the cracks in the gravel path. The further in they got, the less defined the trail became until, eventually, the gravel turned into hard mud.

  'Everything's so thick,' she said.

  'Yeah. Nothing ever seems to die here.'

  Sona glanced right. Through a gap in the trees, she could make out huge letters on the side of another factory: munitions. There was row after row of smashed windows, jagged glass still in the frames, nothing inside but darkness.

  'I always think they look a bit like eyes,' Mark said.

  She nodded. What a creepy old building.'

  He put his arm around her shoulder and brought her into him. 'Don't worry - I'll protect you from the scary factory.'

  She laughed, and gave him a playful slap on the shoulder.

  Crack.

  A noise from behind them. She stopped. Mark walked on a couple of steps, his arm slipping away, then he paused and turned to look at her.

  What's the matter?'

  She looked around her. Wind passed through the trees, whispering gently as the leaves fluttered against the branches.

  'Sona?' he said, taking a step closer to her. 'Are you okay?'

  She took his outstretched hand.

  'Sona?'

  Finally she looked at him. "Yeah. I guess I'm fine.'

  They carried on walking. The path was starting to arc left, moving in a gentle curve. Before long, the hardened mud started to disappear beneath their feet, and in its place came more grass. But then Sona spotted a clearing about eighty feet in front of them. The canopy wasn't as thick, and sunlight was punching through the branches and leaves in hundreds of pollen-filled rectangles. It looked beautiful.

  'Wow,' she said. 'Look at that.'

  Mark smiled. 'That's our picnic spot.'

  When they reached the clearing, he started to unpack the hamper, laying down a blanket on the knee-high grass, and removing packets of biscuits and cheese.

  Sona looked around her. 'How do you know about this place?'

  'I used to come here as a boy.'

  'Are we far from home?'

  Mark looked up. 'Not far.'

  'It's so quiet -'

  Crack.

  The same noise again. Like fallen branches snapping and breaking underfoot. And now something else too. A sound behind it. What is that?

  She stared across the clearing. Where the trees began again to her right, it was dark: hundreds of trunks gradually fading away into blackness; thick, tangled branches preventing sunlight getting through from above.

  'Can you hear that?'

  Mark continued unpacking. 'Hear what?'

  She looked back at him. 'It's like a…'

  He glanced at the spot she'd been studying, and back to her. 'Like a what?'

  'Like a…' She looked worried now. 'A whimpering'

  She turned back to the woods, her eyes narrowing.

  Then something moved.

  A skittle of darkness darting between tree trunks. She took another step forward, leaning slightly, trying to look beyond the initial row of trees. It moved again. Swapping between cover, one trunk to the next.

  'There!' she said. 'Did you see that?'

  Mark stood and fell in beside her.

  'Something moved in there.'

  He was turned to her now.

  'Is it an animal?'

  No response.

  'Mark?' More silence. She turned to him. 'Mark?'

  Something flashed in his eyes, the same expression she'd seen earlier. He wanted to tell her something important again. But it wasn't that he loved her, just - she suddenly realized - as it hadn't been earlier. It had never been a look of love.

  It had been a look of regret.

  'I'm sorry, Sona.'

  'Sorry for wha—'

  He grabbed her around the neck and yanked her into him. Locked his arm around her throat and clamped a hand over her mouth. As she tried to scream, he squeezed harder with his fingers so that no sound escaped. Then he pulled her down with him, her legs desperately kicking out as she hit the grass. She looked up, her eyes pleading, trying to find a trace of the man she'd known for almost six months. Instead, he released the arm from her throat and punched her in the side of the head.

  She rolled over, dazed. On to her back.

  When she opened her eyes, Mark was standing over her.

  'I can't do this any more,' he said, looking away at something.

  And then everything went black.

  * * *

  PART TWO

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was late afternoon by the time I left the Carvers' house, the sky grey and streaked with black cloud. I opened the BMW and threw my notes on to the passenger seat. Then I slid in at the wheel and pulled the door shut. In the silence, I went over everything.

  All the lies that had been told.

  And all the lies that would still have to come.

  Carver had led me into their house, pointing to one of the sofas. He glanced at Caroline, a look that told her everything. He was angry and embarrassed, and she was to blame.

  'Would you like something to drink, David?' he asked quietly.

  'Just some water will be fine, thanks.'

  He nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. Caroline circled the sofas and then perched herself on one of the arms. I could see she was trying to work things through before her husband came back. What she knew. What she should have done. Why she didn't say anything. Eventually she looked at me, and I could see whatever fractious relationship had begun to exist between us had just cracked a little more.

  Carver came back in and handed me a big glass of water and then sat down next to his wife. There was a gap between them.

  'Was Kaitlin sure?' he asked.

  I sat down on the other sofa. Yes.'

  'Why didn't she tell the police?'

  I got out my notepad and pen and set them down on the table. On the top sheet were the words Megan — pregnant. I looked up at Carver. 'Kaitlin told me she was going to speak to the police… but then decided not to.'

  'Why?'

  'She was hesitant on the phone, so that's what I need to find out from her. I'll meet her and get the reasons why.'

  'Who was the father?'

  'Again, I don't know.' I paused, thought about it. 'Megan's friends never talked about any serious relationships. You haven't either. If she slept with someone, I think we can assume it was a guy no one had met.'

  Carver flinched a little, as if the idea of his daughter sleeping with anyone was like a punch to the throat. Then, for the first time, he glanced at his wife.

  'And you knew about this?'

  'No,' she said.

  'I need you to tell me the truth.'

  'I am telling you the truth,' Caroline replied, desperation creeping into her voice. She looked at me, then shifted on the sofa, turning inwards to face her husband. 'She never told me she was pregnant. I swear to you.'

  'But you knew anyway?'

  'I could tell something was up. She was complaining of headaches, of feeling tired all the time. At first I just thought she'd been studying too hard. You know what Meg was like. But then, after she went missing, I was going through some of her things…' She paused. Looked at me again. 'I found some pregnancy tests hidden in one of her drawers.'

  'Bloody hell, Car - and you didn't think to tell me?'

  'I didn't know what to do.'

  'Our daughter was pregnant.'

  'I know.'

  You should have told the police.'

  'I know!' she shouted.

  'So why didn't you?'

  'It was an unopened box,' she said. 'The cellophane wrapping was still on it.
It didn't mean anything'

  'She was seventeen, Caroline.'

  She didn't reply.

  'Since when do seventeen-year-olds buy pregnancy kits just to be on the safe side? She was ten years away from starting a family. You should have told me. You should have told someone.' He glanced at me, then back to her. 'I defended you.'

  'I know.'

  He sat back on the sofa. Both of them fell silent. I gave them a couple of seconds to cool off, thinking about what might have happened if Caroline had said something to the police.

  'Okay,' I said eventually, sitting forward. We need to make sure of a couple of things now. Firstly, the police can't know about this. At least, they can't know about the fact that Caroline suspected something. If they think you were withholding information, this whole thing goes down the toilet. I'll bring this information to them - but only when we're ready. I'll say I found it out for myself. That'll give us the time we need to try and dig a little deeper.'

  Carver nodded. 'What else?'

  'Kaitlin never told us anything. We need to protect her in the same way we're protecting you. We need to find out what's going on here, and why she remained silent. We can't do that if DCI Hart is parking himself on the case again.'

  They both nodded this time. I looked between them.

  'Lastly, I need to know that you have both told me absolutely everything you know about Megan. Every fact. Every detail. I'm not here to judge your daughter. I'm here to find her. I don't care what she's done, or who she's been out with, or mistakes she might have made. All I care about is finding her. So if there's anything else you think I need to know, I need you to tell me what it is now…'

  Carver turned to his wife. She looked back, as if she understood the gesture. When she shook her head, he faced me again.

  'There's nothing else,' he said quietly. 'Please, David, find our daughter.'

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  As I left the Carvers, I knew it was too late to call Kaitlin, especially at home. It was just after 5 p.m., which meant one or both of her parents would probably be around, and I didn't want to arouse any suspicion. But I definitely needed to speak to her; to find out more about what Megan had told her. And I needed to find out where Charlie Bryant fitted in as well.

  Once I was back home, I showered, had some dinner and then took the pile of DVDs from Tiko's through to the living room. I dropped the first one into the disc tray. Seven months of footage. Two hundred and fourteen days. Nineteen hours a day. That meant there was over four thousand hours of video to get through. Even with a team of twenty, that would still mean two hundred hours each. It would have been quicker to put in a call to Kaitlin or Lindsey and ask them what nights they went, but — as that was out of the question until the morning — I decided first to concentrate on weekends, specifically Friday and Saturday nights; the nights Megan was most likely to be out.

  I hit Play.

  October's footage - six months prior to Megan's 3 April disappearance — stuttered into life. It was in colour and pretty decent quality, but it was also on a time lapse of three seconds, which gave everything an alien, staccato feel.

  The footage began on a Wednesday, so I fast-forwarded to the Friday. As the club was open all day, there was a constant stream of people coming in and out. The younger crowd — late teens and early twenties — started arriving after eight. I got to closing time at 3 a.m. with no sign of Megan. An hour and a half later, I'd finished the weekends in October altogether and found nothing. No sign of Megan. No sign of her friends.

  I thought for a moment about going back over the week days in October just in case I'd missed her. But then, on the second disc — November - Megan, Kaitlin and Lindsey arrived in Tiko's. It was 11 p.m. on the first Friday of the month.

  They moved in a line through the crowds, Kaitlin leading. Men watched them, their eyes mostly fixed on Kaitlin, but a few watching Megan and Lindsey too. When they got to the bar, the girls waited. Talked to each other. In one frame Megan was leaning into Lindsey saying something; in the next Lindsey's head was back, laughing. The girls ordered drinks, then moved up the winding staircase to the second floor.

  The position of the camera wasn't great, but I could still see them, their heads visible in the crowds. Sweeping disco lights, choppy because of the time lapse, passed from side to side. People danced around them. The girls remained in the same position, next to a set of three sofas, all occupied. They returned to the bar three times to get more drinks. Then they moved back downstairs for good, to the dancefloor, and stayed there until they left at two o'clock.

  I fast-forwarded it on twenty-four hours, but they didn't return on the Saturday. Then I remembered something James Carver had told me: When they all got paid, they'd often go into the city. Assuming they got paid at the end of the month, that probably meant the last few days of one, or the very beginning of the next.

  I skipped on three weeks to the last weekend in November.

  Nothing on the Friday, but on Saturday they returned to Tiko's. Eleven o'clock, just like before. They stuck pretty much to the same routine. In through the crowds. Up to the bar. Up to the second floor, in the same position next to the sofas. Five trips back to the bar, before ending up on the dancefloor permanently. The other discs — December, January, February and March — all followed exactly the same pattern.

  The first day of footage on the sixth disc was Saturday 1 April. Forty-eight hours before Megan disappeared. The girls entered the club just before eleven, headed to the bar, and up the spiral staircase to the top floor. They talked for a while and then, as the clock in the corner of the screen hit midnight, Megan turned slightly to let someone through. Suddenly, a feeling of familiarity washed over me.

  I paused the footage. Megan was facing the camera, flanked on either side by the others. I'd spotted something; something worth picking out. But I couldn't pull it out of the darkness. I moved closer to the screen and used the remote control to inch the footage on. In one frame, Lindsey leaned towards Megan. In the next, Kaitlin took a step away.

  That was when I saw him.

  I realized then that I'd glimpsed him earlier, on another disc, but not really registered him. He'd only been in view briefly, just as he was now. Hidden behind a tangle of bodies; perched on the edge of the sofa furthest from the girls. Dark hair. Black jacket. Black shirt. Jeans. Black shoes.

  He was staring right at Megan.

  He sat completely still even as one frame jumped to the next. It was like he was frozen in place. His head was angled slightly, his chin almost pressed against his throat, looking up from under his brow. He had pale skin but incredibly dark eyes. Through the scan lines of the footage, they were just holes in his head.

  Then Lindsey moved again and he disappeared behind her.

  I carried on watching, the footage jumping between frames. More people moved up the stairs. At one point, a group of eight or nine men stood adjacent to Megan, Lindsey and Kaitlin. Twelve minutes later they finally moved again.

  And the man was gone.

  I fast-forwarded it, past the point the girls left the club at half-two to closing time at four o'clock. He didn't reappear. I rewound it to the beginning of the evening when they'd first come up the stairs to the second floor. He wasn't waiting for them then. It was like he'd ghosted in for those few short moments, shielded by the crowds - and then vanished again.

  I dropped in March's DVD for a second time. Skipped forward to the evening of the first Friday in the month. An hour and a half passed. When the onscreen clock showed 00:37, a crowd spread out behind the three girls - and he emerged. I'd missed him the first time. But not now. For five and a half minutes, he sat there watching Megan through the crowds. Same as on the April DVD. Same clothes. Same expression. Dark eyes never leaving her.

  Not once.

  I went back over all the footage I'd already watched. Every month but the first one, October, he was there. Short periods of time. Never less than five minutes, never more t
han eight. It would have been incredibly easy to miss him - which is why I assumed he'd gone unnoticed by the police. They would have checked all four thousand hours; been through every single weekday; checked the footage all day, every day for six months, just to be sure. And apart from mornings, the whole time the place was jammed: so many people, so much going on. The man was only in shot for thirty-six minutes of the four thousand hours, with that fraction of time split up into even smaller chunks a month apart. I'd picked him up almost by accident. A fluke.