Authors: Tim Weaver
'Am I
under arrest?'
Beside
Phillips, Davidson snorted. I glanced at him. He wasn't as good at the drama as
his partner. He stood slightly back, his stance more aggressive. Small, dark
eyes. Arms folded. Head tilted, as if he was looking down his nose at me.
'Arrest?'
said Phillips, and briefly turned to his partner. "Why would we want to
arrest you? You haven't done anything wrong, have you?'
When
I didn't reply he seemed to realize his usual methods weren't going to work on
me. Maybe we were interested in the same things. Maybe we'd both read the same
books. I'd spent years trying to understand people better; trying to find ways
to see past the lies. The politicians, the celebrities, the headline-makers.
He'd probably done the same. Trying to get inside the heads of the worst
humanity could dredge up.
'Why
don't you follow me?' he asked quietly, eyes lingering on me.
I was
half tempted to say no and walk away, but refusing would make me look
suspicious. I wasn't legally obliged to go, but I didn't need them digging
around in my case and I definitely didn't need them thinking I had something to
hide. They'd want to bag what I was wearing, so I told them I'd go with them
once I got some spare clothes from the BMW.
After
I was done, it was a quiet, fifteen-minute journey to the station. Davidson sat
in the back with me while Phillips drove. Neither of them said anything. As we
moved south through Camden, I began to put things together in my head. A plan.
An approach. I imagined how they would come at me. I doubted they seriously
thought I was the killer, but, at the moment, I was their only lead.
The
station was an old 1970s building, with a horrible industrial look. Part
factory, part prison block. Phillips pulled into a parking bay and killed the
engine. Two spaces down I noticed a sign had been nailed to the wall: RESERVED
FOR DCI HART. Jamie Hart. The lead on the Megan Carver case.
This
isn't coincidence
.
They
would have discovered the link between Charlie and Megan months ago. The only
question now was: How much did they know beyond that?
Wait
there a second,' Phillips said to Davidson as we were getting out. 'I left my
phone in my car.' Davidson nodded and we both watched Phillips move across the
car park to where a battered red Mondeo was parked. He flipped the locks,
fiddled around in the glove compartment and then returned to us with his mobile
phone. 'Okay,' he said. 'Let's go.'
The
two, of them led me inside to a small, cramped waiting area, with a raised
front desk that looked down over everything. The custody sergeant — early
sixties, with silver hair and half-moon glasses - was sitting there, filling in
some paperwork. His eyes flicked up to watch as we approached.
'Aren't
you dead yet?' Davidson said. It was the first time he'd spoken. He had a broad
East End accent.
The
sergeant smirked. 'You'll be dead before me, Eddie. I mean, just look at what
you're wearing. No way the fashion police are going to take that lying down.'
Phillips
burst out laughing.
'Who
have we got here?' he asked, looking at me.
'He's
just here for a chat,' Phillips replied.
The
sergeant nodded, reached for a button under the desk and then went back to what
he was doing. A code- locked door to our left buzzed, and we moved through into
a thin corridor. On my right was a big, open-plan office, 'CID' printed on the
door. Further down the corridor, in front of me, were four interview rooms.
Phillips pointed towards Room i.
As he
opened the door, two strip lights flickered into life above us. The inside was
stark. White walls, a dark blue carpet, no windows. A table, two chairs on one
side, one on the other. Everything was bolted down, and there was a crash bar
midway up the wall on all four sides of the room in case anything kicked off
and one of the officers needed to raise the alarm. Next to the door was an
intercom. Once the door had locked shut, that was how you got back out. Not
exactly the cosy chat Phillips had promised.
'Do
you want a drink?' he asked.
'Black
coffee.'
He
nodded, then disappeared.
Davidson
watched me from the open doorway as I sat down. He didn't look like the type
for polite conversation, so I drummed my fingers on the table as we waited in silence.
It seemed to annoy him, which I liked. Phillips re- emerged after ten minutes
with three cups of coffee and pushed the door closed. It was on a slow spring
and took an age to click shut. Neither of them moved until it had. Once it
locked, there was a gentle buzz, both of them sat down and we began.
In
the business, this was called a Voluntary attendance'. I wasn't under arrest,
so I didn't need a solicitor, and I could get up and leave whenever I wanted.
But even here there were rules. Number one was covering your ass. The first
thing Phillips did was pass a form across the table towards me that confirmed I
was here voluntarily. I read it over and signed it. Davidson slouched in his
chair, resting his coffee cup on his belly.
'Okay,'
Phillips said, both hands flat to the table. 'Let's establish a few ground
rules here, so there are no grey areas. You're not under arrest and we haven't
charged you with anything. You're helping us with our enquiries. We have no
legal responsibility to inform a lawyer you're here, but if you want a lawyer,
you can make that call.'
They
both looked at me. Phillips genuinely didn't seem to care whether I called
anyone or not, as if it made no difference to the opinion he'd already formed
of me. Davidson looked like he'd take it personally. If I called a lawyer, it
would immediately cement his view that I was involved in something.
'Do
you
want
to call a lawyer, Mr Raker?'
I
shook my head. 'No. I'm good.'
'Great.'
Phillips wrapped his hands around the coffee. Steam rose from the oily surface.
'Well, let's start at the beginning then. What were you doing at the house?'
'I'm
on a case.'
Davidson
snorted. 'Case?'
I
looked at him and then back to Phillips. 'I work missing persons, including kids
who have disappeared. Charlie Bryant was linked to the case I'm currently on.'
'Linked
how?'
'He
knew the girl I'm trying to find.'
Phillips
nodded. He started turning his wedding band. A flash of that same steel in his
eyes, as if he knew what was coming. 'Who are you trying to find?'
I
paused, looked between them and then leaned for-, ward. 'Megan Carver.'
Davidson
snorted again. 'You gotta be fucking kidding me.' Next to him, Phillips didn't
move. Davidson sat forward, placing his coffee cup down in front of him. 'Since
when?'
'Since
five days ago.'
'Why
did they come to you?'
I
shrugged. 'I guess her parents felt like the police investigation had hit a
wall. You guys would probably know better than me if that's true.'
Davidson's
eyes narrowed. 'What do you mean by that?'
'I
mean, DCI Hart's in the next room,' I said, staring at him. Why don't you ask
him?'
A
short pause.
Then,
Phillips again: You made any headway?'
'Some.
Not much. mostly I've been going back over ground Hart and his team were
covering six months ago.'
'Like
what?'
'Like
everything. Family, friends, her school.'
'So
you turned up at the Bryant house because…?'
'Because,
as you know, Charlie Bryant used to go out with Megan.'
And
because he knew she was pregnant.
Phillips
was staring at me, his expression fixed, his body still. He didn't seem
surprised by any of this. Next to him, his partner was twitchy and aggressive,
his fingers tapping the plastic coffee cup, his body shifting in the chair.
'Things
must have been getting a bit desperate,' Davidson said eventually. I glanced at
him, frowning. 'I mean, you don't break into someone's house if a case hasn't
already started going south.'
'You
sound like you're speaking from experience.'
Davidson's
skin started to redden. I could see a corner of Phillips's mouth turn up in a
smile.
'Nothing
was going south,' I said.
'So
why did you break into their house?'
'There's
no sign of a break-in anywhere in that house. You know the back door was
unlocked. The only thing I did was scale the gate.'
'Trespass,
you mean?'
'Which
would you prefer? Me jump over that gate, or those two bodies lie in that house
for another two weeks? Or a month? Or a year?'
'Still
doesn’t make it legal.'
'Yeah,
you're right. Better that they stayed like that until the room filled with
blowflies.' I picked up my coffee cup. 'Better that the police never get to find
out why someone would want to murder a seventeen-year-old.'
Davidson's
face reddened again.
'So
why
would
someone want to murder a seventeen- year-old?' Phillips asked.
'I've
no idea.'
He
eyed me. 'Really?'
'Really.
I told you: I've been on this case for less than a week.'
'You
been sitting on your hands for a week, then?'
Davidson
again. The colour had started to fade from his cheeks, but he still looked
pissed off. I watched him. Eventually he sighed, as if my silence somehow
confirmed what he'd said, and turned his attention back to the coffee cup
resting on his belly.
'Charlie
didn't seem a prime candidate for a murder victim,' Phillips said.
'I
agree.'
'So
why would someone do that to him?'
'I
don't know.'
'And
his father.'
I
shrugged
.
I don't know
.
'Do
you think this is related to Megan Carver?'
It
was obvious he'd already decided the answer for himself, and I realized that a red
flag had just gone up again on the Carver investigation. I could have lied to
them both from the start and pretended I hadn't been led to the Bryant house
through Megan's disappearance, but none of us would have believed it. What was
definitely obvious was that they'd be pulling Jamie Hart into a meeting room as
soon as I left the building.
'I
don't know if it's related to Megan,' I said eventually.
Davidson
snorted again. 'Of course you don't.'
'Shall
I make something up?'
'All
right,' Phillips said softly, and placed a hand on his partner's arm. 'DS
Davidson, why don't you take five minutes?'
Davidson's
eyes lingered on me before getting up and leaving the room. Phillips waited for
the door to click shut, then turned back to me.
'You
were a journalist, is that right?'
I
stared at him.
So that was why you took so long to get the coffees.
He'd
spent some time going through my history. After my last case, I'd had to sit in
a police station giving interviews for two days. Everything I'd told them over
those forty-eight hours would be logged in their database for him to find. He'd
know about me, about my background, about my cases.
'Why
the career change?'
I
shrugged. Why not?'
'You
didn't enjoy journalism?'
'I
enjoyed it up until my wife got cancer.'
'Is
she still around?'
I
shook my head.
'I'm
sorry to hear that,' he said gently. He waited for a moment, once again laying
both hands flat to the table. You know the Carver disappearance is an ongoing investigation,
right? Her parents told you that, I expect.'