Authors: Tim Weaver
'Barton
Hill.'
'It's
close to Megan's house?'
'Yes.'
'Did
you ever go?'
'No. She
asked me along a couple of times, but… it's not really my thing'
I
drummed my fingers on the table, thinking. 'So did you decide not to tell the
police about Megan being pregnant because — what? — she wanted to protect the
identity of this guy?'
Kaitlin
glanced at me. A movement in her eyes. 'No,' she said finally. Something else
was at play.
'So
why did you lie?'
'Because
I…' She stopped. Glanced at me again. 'The day she disappeared, before the
police came to talk to me… I got a phone call.'
'From
who?'
Another
pause. Longer this time. 'Charlie Bryant.'
This
time it was my turn to pause. I studied her for a moment. 'Did he know about
Megan's pregnancy?'
'Yes.'
'How?'
'She
must have told him, or he must have found out somehow. He just called me and
told me we couldn't tell the police anything.'
'Why?'
'Because
we'd be in danger.'
'From
who?'
'I
don't know.'
'You
didn't ask him?'
'He
wouldn't tell me. He said it was best I didn't know.' She stopped. 'At first, I
thought it was him getting all weird again.'
'What
do you mean?'
'I
mean, he was, like, in love with Megan.
Totally
in love with her.
Sometimes he'd go over the top and creep us all out.'
'With
the stuff he said to her?'
'Yeah,
and the way he acted around her. He'd follow her around sometimes. Not like a
stalker, but just… I don't know, just
following
her, you know? He'd do
these drawings for her, paintings, write poems and shit like that. He was
always telling her he'd be there for her. He could be a real weirdo sometimes.'
'So
why did you believe him when he called you?'
She
stopped, took a long drink of her coffee, then eyed me nervously. 'He just
seemed different that day. Sounded different. He never really cared what the
rest of us thought of him. Me and some of the others used to take the piss out
of him all the time at school, but he was never bothered by it. He just laughed
it off. But that day… I don't know. He sounded different. When he told me we'd
be in danger if we talked, I totally believed him.' She took a deep breath.
'For the first time ever, he seemed really scared.'
I was
pulling the car out of the school gates when my phone went. I picked it up off the
passenger seat and slotted it into the hands-free. It was Spike. He had names
and addresses for the eighteen different numbers I'd sourced off Megan's mobile
phone. I told him to put them in an email. There was an internet cafe about
half a mile from Charlie Bryant's house. I'd pick them up there.
I
found a parking space off Holloway Road, opposite a bank of new apartments, and
headed towards Highgate. The internet cafe — apparently without any sense of
irony— was called
Let's Get Digital!,
but there was a PC right in the
corner where it would be hard for anyone to see the screen. I logged into my
Yahoo.
There
was a PDF attached to Spike's message. I opened it up.
Eighteen
numbers, surnames with each, listed alphabetically. It looked like a copy of a
phone bill, except this phone bill had names and addresses as well as numbers.
The information had probably been ripped directly from phone company databases
and then pasted into the document. His ability to get beyond firewalls wasn't
the only reason Spike got work. He had a certain attention to detail, such as
arranging names in alphabetical order, which made things even more appealing to
his customers.
I
went through the list.
There
weren't many surprises. The mobile and work numbers for both James and Caroline
Carver, which I already knew; a mobile and a landline for Kaitlin and the same
for Lindsey; four other friends, all girls, whose names I recognized from
Megan's Book of Life, each with a landline and a mobile. That left two. The
first was a mobile phone number for Charlie Bryant. The second was a landline,
outer London, no name attached to it, and no street address. Just a PO box
number. Spike had written next to it:
Working on this — mil get a street
address and call you back.
I got
out my phone and dialled the number. It clicked and connected. After four
rings, it clicked again and the echoey, distant sound of an answer machine
kicked in. 'Please leave your message after the tone,' said a bored- sounding
male voice. There wasn't much more I could do until Spike got me the street
address.
But
there was something I could do about Charlie Bryant. I knew where he lived —
and now it was time to find out exactly how much he knew.
It
was two-thirty by the time I got to the Bryant house. I rang the doorbell,
pressing my face against a glass panel in the door. Rain hammered against the
hard plastic roof of the porch, a sound like nails being poured from a bucket.
It would have been impossible to hear movement inside, even if there was anyone
home. But there wasn't. The house was dark and silent, and had the cold,
lifeless feel that came from being unoccupied. No light. No warmth. No sign of
being lived in.
I looked
along the house and back up the driveway. It was well protected from the road.
Trees at the entrance and lining one side of the property, the neighbours a
nice distance away over a mid-sized brick wall. It was unusual for a house in
London to have so much space to itself. It made me wonder what Charlie Bryant's
dad did for a living.
Finally,
the rain started to fade a little, turning into drizzle.
And
then I could smell something.
I
stepped down off the porch and walked around to the side gate. The smell
started to get stronger. On the other side, I could see a series of bin liners,
grass cuttings spilling out of the top. The grass had turned to mulch, sliding
across the concrete and staining the brickwork on the house. Next to that were
more bin liners, torn by animals, food scattered across the path. The gate was
heavy oak, good quality, with a thick wooden bar across the middle. A big
padlock was on the other side, visible through one of the slats.
I
glanced both ways to make sure I wasn't being watched, then pulled myself up
and over. I stood for a second, looking along the house, grass squelching
beneath my feet.
The
smell was stronger now.
There
were two windows and a single door on this side of the house. The first window looked
in at the kitchen. Semi dark. Wooden cupboards, metal finishes. A picture of
Charlie Bryant's mum on top of the microwave in a green frame. Everything was
clean. Nothing was out of place. The next window was for a toilet. Air
freshener on the windowsill. Frosted glass made it difficult to see anything
else. I moved to the door and, through a glass panel, saw it led into a pokey
utility room. Washing machine. Tumble dryer. Fridge freezer. A wine rack full
of wine bottles. Boots and shoes lined up next to a tray full of dog food. It
was squirming with insects.
I
moved quickly around to the back.
The
garden was small and surrounded on all sides by high wooden fences. Huge fir
trees lined the back wall. It was very sheltered and very private. The back of
the house had a big window and a set of patio doors. Cupping my hands against
the glass of the doors, I could see into a long room that ran all the way to
the front of the house. Leather sofas. Bookcases. Modern art on the walls. A TV
surrounded by DVDs, with a games console slotted in underneath. As I stepped
away from the glass, the patio door shifted slightly. It was open.
I
reached for the handle and slid it across.
And
the smell hit me.
It
spilled out of the living room on to the patio, like a wave crashing. As it
did, a feeling of dread began to slither through my chest. I put my hand to my
mouth and stepped into the house. It was as quiet as a cemetery. Hardly any
noise at all, except for the hum of the fridge in the kitchen.
'Mr
Bryant?'
I
waited, didn't expect an answer, and didn't get one.
'Charlie?'
No
reply. No movement. No sound at all.
I
headed for the stairs. The smell got stronger as I moved up. At the top I could
hear a tap dripping. Nothing looked out of place in any of the rooms I could
see into. Only the fourth door was closed. Bluebottles buzzed around the top of
the frame, sluggish and dozy in the airless house. I pulled the sleeve down on
my coat, over my fingers, and then wrapped my covered hand around the door
handle.
Slowly,
I opened it.
It
was a small room. Maybe ten feet by ten feet. The curtains were partially drawn
but - through the gap - I could see down to the side of the house. Inside it
was warm, suffocating, and there were more flies at the glass and more insects
crawling through the carpet. The family dog was in the corner of the room, a
gaping wound in its side. In front, lying exactly parallel to one another, were
Charlie Bryant and his father.
They
were both dead.
His
father was face down, arms tied behind his back with duct tape. Blood had
spread out beneath him. Now It was dry and the carpet fibres were rigid. His
skin had a green tinge to it, and there were maggots wriggling out from beneath
his face.
Across
from him was his son.
Charlie
faced up to the ceiling, his chest awash in blood. Somehow, in death, he seemed
younger than seventeen. I stepped further into the room. His legs were over to
one side, bent in an A-shape. He'd been tied at the ankles as well. His mouth
was slightly open, almost in a cry for help. And his eyes were the same.
Begging
his killer to stop.
I
called the police and waited for them at the front. They arrived ten minutes
later. Once the whole place was cordoned off, the scenes of crime officer asked
me to retrace my footsteps in and out of the property. When a route was
established, tents were erected at the side and the rear, and it became the
route everybody used. No one deviated from the line. Despite the rain, they
wanted to try to preserve as much evidence as they could.
After
that, a uniform walked me out to the front of the house, where a second officer
was standing with a clipboard, recording anyone entering and leaving. At the
front gate, police tape flapped, twisting and whipping in the wind. 'Here,' one
of them said and handed me an umbrella. I put it up. 'Someone will come for you
in a bit.'
Fifty
minutes later, two CID officers emerged from the side of the house. One was in
his late thirties, dark hair, slim and lithe, dressed smartly in a black
raincoat, black suit and salmon tie. The other was bigger, older and greyer, in
his early fifties. He hadn't made such an effort: a dirty brown jacket, jeans,
a thick red woollen top and a pair of white trainers. The younger one led the
way towards me. He had the air of a man in charge.
'Mr
Raker?'
I
nodded. He was Scottish.
'I'm
DCI Phillips,' he said, and pointed to his partner.
'This
is DS Davidson. We need to have a chat. We can do it here, in the middle of
this mayhem, or we can do it back at the station, where I can offer you a cup
of coffee and something to eat.'
He
spoke softly, in a controlled tone, and had his hands laced together at his
front in an almost respectful gesture, the fingers of his right occasionally
turning the wedding band on his left. But I could see it for what it was: an
act. He was trying to tell me he was a reasonable man. Someone I could trust
and confide in. But a different man existed beneath the surface.
'Mr
Raker?' he repeated.