The Dead Tracks

Chapter Sixteen

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.