The Dead Tracks

Chapter Eleven

At 2 a.m., something woke me. For a moment, the noise was distant and distorted, just a sound on the edge of my sleep. Then, when I opened my eyes, I saw my mobile was gently vibrating on the bedside cabinet. I reached over and scooped it up.

'Hello?'

'David?'

I rubbed an eye. 'Yes.'

'It's Jill.'

It took me a couple of seconds to realize it was Jill from the support group.

'I'm so sorry to call you like this.'

'Uh…'I looked at the clock again. She really is calling me at two o'clock in the morning. 'Uh, no problem.'

'I tried Aron, but he's not answering. I think he's away with work tonight. I tried a police friend of Frank's too, but he's not answering either. I didn't know who else to call. I guess I just thought, because of your job, you might know what to… to, uh…'

I sat up in bed, still feeling a little woozy. 'Are you okay?'

'I'm so sorry to wake you.'

'No, no - don't worry.'

'It's just… I don't know who else to…'

'Really,' I said, flicking on a bedside lamp, my brain working over the reasons she might be calling, 'don't worry. What's the matter?'

'I'm, uh…' She paused. The more awake I became, the more distressed she started to sound. There's, uh…'

'What?'

A pause. 'I think someone's watching my house.'

'What are you talking about?'

'There's someone across the street. He's just been sitting in his car all evening, looking across at my house. I don't know what to do.'

'Is he still there?'

'Yes.'

'Okay,' I said, and turned around in bed, flipping back the sheets. She wants you to come over. 'Uh, would you like me to come over?'

'Oh, thank you?

Her voice wobbled. She was scared.

'Where do you live?' She gave me the address. 'Make sure all the doors and windows are locked. If you're unsure, at any time, call the police. I'll be there as fast as I can.'

The night was cool. On the drive over I had the heaters on full blast, rain spattering against the windscreen the whole way. Her road was narrow, cars parked on either side. She'd told me she had a black door, but in the darkness every door looked black. I found a space about halfway down the road, got out and saw I was about ten houses away. I scanned the street for any sign of someone watching her place, but it was difficult in the rain. Gutters were filling. Water pelted off glass and bodywork. Visibility was low.

There were no lights on in her house. I knocked twice, then turned and looked up and down the street again, this time from under the protection of her porch. Lots of cars. No sign of anyone sitting inside one.

The door opened.

Jill was dressed in tracksuit trousers and a big baggy fleece. Her eyes wandered past me, to a spot on my right. I turned and followed her gaze. There was no one there. When I looked back at her, I could see the confusion in her face.

'He's gone,' she said quietly.

I looked back out at the street again.

'Seems that way.'

'But he's been there all night.' She looked at me, then out into the street. 'He was sitting there in a red car. I think it was a Ford.'

I didn't say anything. She wasn't crazy, and I doubted she was seeing things. But being on your own changed things. Small things. Knowing someone else was in the house with you was a security blanket, even if — ultimately — you were just as vulnerable as ever. She looked at me and tears formed in the corners of her eyes.

'I wasted your time.'

'No,' I said. 'Not at all.'

'I must be going mad.'

'No,' I repeated, and touched a hand to the top of her arm. 'You aren't mad. He could have been watching another house. He could have been a cop. Or a government agent. Or maybe they think you're a terrorist.'

A smile. 'That makes me feel much better.'

She glanced at me, brought her hand up to her face, then looked down at herself. In her eyes, now the tension had passed, I could see what she was thinking: Why the hell did I answer the door dressed like this?

'Would you like to come in for some tea or a coffee or something?'

'Sure,' I said. 'Coffee would be great.'

Her house was small but modern; a show home ripped from the pages of a magazine. There were beautiful wooden floors running through to the living room, where a thick rug sat beneath a beech-and-glass table piled with glossy books. An original brick fireplace dominated one wall, a wood-burning stove perched in it. Opposite were two bookcases, filled with classics, either side of a black flatscreen TV. DVDs were piled up underneath, most of them foreign language. It didn't look like we'd be discussing the action scenes in Predator any time soon. She pointed to one of two cream leather sofas, and disappeared into the kitchen.

There were photographs of her husband on some of the bookcase shelves, and again on the mantelpiece above the fire. I walked over and picked one up. They were at a police get-together somewhere. She was in a flowery summer dress, her hair up. He had his arm around her, and was dressed in full uniform, two silver stars on his shoulder. I put the photograph back on the mantelpiece just as Jill brought two cups of coffee through, setting them down on the table. She perched herself on the other sofa.

'Your husband was an inspector,' I said.

'You know your police stripes.'

'Was he a detective?'

'Yes. He worked for Thames Valley before he moved to the Met. That's when we came up to London.'

'He was a cop the whole time you were married?'

'The whole time,' she said, pouring milk into her cup. After she was done, she lifted a necklace out from her top. There was a small silver angel dangling from the end, a long spear in one hand. 'This is St Michael.'

The patron saint of policemen.'

'Right.' She smiled. 'I'm impressed.'

'I got to know the police pretty well as a journalist.'

'It was Frank's. I was going to bury him with it, but in the end preferred the idea of keeping it close to me. It seemed…' She slowly stirred her drink. 'It just seemed right.'

I nodded that I understood.

A thin smile worked its way across her face. 'Sometimes I still buy his favourite food when I go to the supermarket. I still leave the key in the wall out back, just in case he comes home. I guess… I guess I can't accept he's gone.'

'Do you mind if I ask what happened to him?'

She frowned. Looked at me for a moment. Then, as she blinked, her eyes filled up. She wiped them and sat back on the sofa, both hands wrapped around her coffee cup. They told me he was part of a task force looking into Russian organized crime. There was some link up with… is it SOCA'

I nodded. The Serious Organized Crime Agency. In my previous life as a journalist, I'd had a couple of contacts inside the National Criminal Intelligence Service, which later became part of SOCA. At the time it came into being in 2006, the media labelled it 'the British FBI', but as few of its officers had the power to arrest, and most of their work was surveillance and co-ordination, they were closer to the MI 5 model.

She shifted, sadness welling in her eyes. 'A couple of weeks after the funeral, one of his friends came here.'

'Off the record presumably?'

'Oh yes, definitely. I think he felt sorry for me. The way in which things had been… communicated. I mean, I tried to find out what happened to Frank in the weeks after his death, but the official version his bosses gave me, it just never…'

'Never felt right.'

'It just felt like there were gaps still to be filled.'

'How do you mean?'

She shrugged. 'They told me they were closing in on a big figure in one of the Russian gangs, and they'd been given a tip-off that he might be at a warehouse in Bow.'

'And was he?'

'I don't know.'

'They didn't tell you?'

She shook her head. 'No.'

'Because they wanted to contain the case?'

'Right. But I knew enough about police work to understand that. I didn't want to know the details of the investigation, I just wanted to know what had happened to Frank, and who killed him.' She took a few moments to find her feet again. 'All they told me was that he and another officer were shot in the chest.'

'By who — this Russian guy?'

'They said it happened fast.'

'So they didn't know?'

Her voice wavered. 'Officially, they said they didn't.'

'And unofficially?'

She paused for a moment. 'Frank's friend said the big figure they were after was a man called Akim Gobulev.'

Gobulev. The Ghost.'

She glanced at me. 'You've heard of him?'

'He's been on SOCA's most wanted list for the entire time it's been in existence.'

'Why do they call him "The Ghost"?'

'Because no one's even sure if he's alive.' 'Oh.'

'The NCIS used to joke that Gobulev was either buried somewhere, or had the power to turn invisible. They pinned stuff on him — trafficking, prostitution, drugs, money-laundering - but no one has seen him in years. The only evidence he even exists is an entry in a computer at Heathrow over a decade ago. He landed on a flight from Moscow - and then vanished into thin air.'

'Frank's friend said they were closing in on him.'

'Really?'

'That's what he said.'

'Gobulev was the guy at the warehouse?'

She picked up her cup of coffee again. 'No, I don't think so. He said he'd heard from some guys on the task force that this Gobulev man had had surgery.'

'What kind of surgery?'

'I'm not sure. But they'd found his surgeon.'

I sat forward in my seat. 'And that was who was in the warehouse?'

'Yes.'

'Gobulev's surgeon killed Frank?'

Yes,' she said again. 'His friend said the task force didn't know much about the surgeon, but they went to that warehouse to get him — and then use him to get Gobulev.'

'What else did he say?'

'I think that's all he knew.'

'Did he know the surgeon's name?'

She shook her head. 'No.'

She quickly wiped a tear away with a finger; but then a second one followed, breaking free and running down her cheek.

'I'm really sorry, Jill,' I said gently.

Eventually she looked up, an apologetic expression on her face. She was conscious of embarrassing me, but couldn't do anything to stop herself crying. I watched her for a moment, studying her, turning things over in my head.

'Look, I'll tell you what: I'll make a few calls for you and see if I can find out anything more. I can't promise anything.'

'David, you don't have to —'

'It's fine. I have another case, and that one has to take precedence. But after I'm done with that, I'll ask around for you, okay?'

She nodded, choked up on tears.

'It might be… it might be painful, some of it.'

'I know,' she said gently. 'But it can't be any more pain- fill than not knowing.'

I got back from Jill's at four o'clock. The rubbish bin I always kept at the front of the house had been tipped over, black bin liners spilling out across the pathway — and the sliding door at the front porch was open. I tried the front door.

It was still locked.

Backing out, I did a quick circuit of the house. Nothing was out of place. No sign of any disturbance. I often left the porch door open, without ever noticing; and, as I got back around to the front, a cat darted out from the shadows, across my lawn and out on to the street. It had some food in its mouth, removed from a hole in one of the spilt bin liners. I put the bags back inside the bin, and headed to bed.