The Dead Tracks

Chapter Thirty-six

They took me to the same station as before, but this time I wasn't going to be walked straight into an interview room. The same custody sergeant that had greeted my arrival the first time was perched at the front desk, looking down through his half-moon glasses. He glanced at me, then at Phillips and Davidson, and buzzed them in. The three of them led me in the opposite direction to the interview rooms, through two sets of doors, into the custody suite. Behind me, Phillips pushed a metal gate shut until it locked. Davidson moved off to my left. The sergeant slid in behind a desk, introducing himself as Fryer, and asked Phillips to undo my cuffs. Up front, he told me my rights. Every couple of sentences, he paused to ask if I was clear. They hated the Police and Criminal Evidence Act more than any of the men and women they arrested. Anything missed, any mistakes, and a solicitor would dismantle the case.

Fryer produced a camera from under the counter. Police liked to get the pictures out the way in case, for any reason, injuries were sustained inside the station later on. He took three photographs. Once he was done, he invited me across to a table where the fingerprint kit sat. The whole time, Davidson watched. I glared at him, but he just stared at me blankly.

Next, Fryer asked Phillips to go over his account of the arrest. It was the reason Davidson had been taking notes.

Except Phillips didn't need them. He'd committed pretty much everything to memory. When he was done, Fryer turned to me and asked if I had anything to add; in effect, he was asking me if I wanted to dispute Phillips's account. I shook my head.

The rest of the booking in took twenty minutes. I emptied out my pockets and everything was logged, gave them my belt and shoelaces, then Fryer reminded me of my rights again, and asked me if I wanted to call anyone or inform a solicitor. This time I said I wanted to make a call, and Phillips directed me to a room behind the booking-in area. It was small with reinforced glass panels, one table and one chair—both bolted down - and a telephone on the wall. They left me there. I watched them go, and then dialled Liz's mobile. After three rings, she picked up.

'Hello?'

'Liz, it's David.'

'David,' she said, and sounded pleased to hear my voice. 'How are you? I popped over yesterday, but you must have been out.'

'Liz…'

She immediately sensed something was up. 'Are you okay?'

'I'm under arrest.'

'What?

The police turned up at my house earlier…'I paused. 'They've made a mistake. They've somehow tied me to the disappearance of Megan Carver. I don't know how, but… Look, I don't want to talk about it too much over the phone. I just need your help. Can you get here?'

'Yes, yes, of course,' she said. 'The only thing is, I'm not in London.'

My heart sank.

'Where are you?'

'I'm up in Warwick seeing Katie.'

I remembered her walking down the drive to her car before eight that morning. Warwick was eighty miles away. An hour and a half on a clear run. Except Sunday night on the motorways into London wouldn't be a clear run. Even if she left now, it would probably take her a couple of hours. If I was unlucky, even more.

'David,' she said, and her voice was suddenly quiet and controlled. 'What is it they think you've done?'

'Abducted Megan.'

She paused. 'Did you abduct her?'

'No. Absolutely not.'

I heard her exhale softly. 'Okay. Listen. I'm going to ask you a couple of questions. Don't leave anything out.' She stopped. Let that last sentence settle. She was reminding me of the times she'd helped me out before when both of us had known I'd left some of the truth buried. 'So, first: do you think Megan's dead?'

'She's been gone six months.'

'Is that a yes?'

'Statistically, there's a good chance, just because of the time she's been missing. I've got no evidence to support that. And neither have they. But the case is still active.'

'So if the case is still active, they're working from the assumption that she could just as easily be alive?'

'Right.'

'Because here's the thing. You are entitled to free legal advice. They'd have told you that already. The police have to provide that as part of PACE. You can go that route and, because it's a Sunday evening and a solicitor won't magically appear at the station in five minutes flat, that will delay any interview taking place for a while. And it will give me some time to get back.'

'But?'

'But,' she said, and paused. She blew out some air, and it crackled down the line between us. 'If they think that there's a real and immediate danger to the life of someone connected to this case — i.e. the girl they're accusing you of taking - they can start the interview without having to wait for a solicitor. If they think Megan's alive - if the evidence they have points to that — and they think any delay will adversely affect them finding her alive, then they can start the interview once you get off the phone to me.'

I looked out through the glass to where Phillips, Davidson and Fryer had booked me in. They'd been joined by Hart now - and someone else I didn't recognize. He was wearing uniform. Early fifties but lean. On the shoulder of his shirt was his rank insignia. A crown, with red trim. Beneath that, a four-pointed star. As I studied him, he seemed to sense it and returned the look.

'David?'

I watched him for a moment more. 'So who makes that call?'

'What call?'

'To bypass the solicitor.'

'It has to be superintendent rank or above.'

Standing between Fryer and Hart, a printout of my custody report in his hands, the station's chief superintendent was still looking at me.