The Dead Tracks

Chapter Forty

An hour after they'd come for me at the house, a separate team had been through my office. As I opened up and walked inside, I could see mud on the carpet and damp footprints where detectives had stood at filing cabinets and been through the drawers of my desk. My computer had been left on, the screensaver — a blue cube — bouncing back and forth across the monitor. I walked around, trying to figure out if they'd taken anything, but nothing had been removed.

I filled the percolator and then dropped into the chair at my desk. As coffee started to soak through the filter, I let my mind turn over, back to everything they'd found at the house; to the interview; to Healy hanging me out to dry.

I'd given him Markham. He'd given me nothing.

That wasn't how it worked.

As soon as I left the station, I'd called Spike and asked him to track down Healy's home address and mobile number. I didn't mind how it played out: with Healy, or without him, it didn't bother me. But I was going to get what I was owed.

Pulling my keyboard towards me, I brought up Google. Megan had disappeared on 3 April. I put the date into the search engine and punched Return. Over 115 million hits. Encyclopaedias, blogs, newsletters, press releases,

Facebook posts, Flickr albums. I moved through the first few pages, trying to spot anything remotely connected to the case. But apart from news stories posted in the aftermath of her disappearance, there was nothing. Flipping back to the first page, I went to a site that listed every major historical event — births, deaths and everything in between - that had taken place on 3 April. I was hoping something would leap out from somewhere, a spark. But instead I got more of the same: nothing.

My eyes drifted from the monitor to some paperwork on my desk. Hard copies of the pages from the London Conservation Trust site. I'd printed them out for reference. Alongside that was the email the LCT had sent Megan six days before she disappeared. It was dated 27-03-11.I traced a finger along the numbers and, as I did, a feeling stirred in me, as if I'd drifted close to something. A recollection. A memory. I stopped, brought the paper closer to me. Studied the numbers.

Was there something in the date?

I let the feeling go for a moment and did a search for the date Leanne had gone missing: 3 January 2011. It took about thirty seconds to realize it wouldn't lead anywhere. It was exactly the same story as the Google search for Megan — except there was no major press this time. Megan had ticked all the right boxes: white, wealthy, bright, beautiful. Leanne was different. Physically not quite as attractive, educationally middling, working-class background and - unlike the Carvers — with parents who didn't have a picture-postcard marriage. Leanne was mentioned once in the Evening Standard and once in the Metro. I clicked on both stories, one after the other. Both were two paragraphs long, and both had the same quote from Healy asking Leanne to come home. At the end it listed the number for a missing persons helpline.

What am I overlooking here?

For a second time, I stared at the printouts on my desk. The date. The way it was written: 27-03-11. That same feeling blossomed. Maybe it was something I'd seen, or heard, and not fully taken in at the time. Or maybe it wasn't even the date.

Maybe it was the format.

Ripping a piece of paper from my notepad, I wrote down the dates the girls had gone missing — 3 April 2011 and 3 January 2011 - then, underneath that, the numerical equivalent: 03 04 11;03 01 11. I leaned back in my chair, rolled my pen back and forth across the desk. Listened to the clock on the far wall ticking over. The whole time I didn't take my eyes off the numbers. There was something in the date.

Something I'd missed.

I leaned forward, pressing a finger against the date of Megan's disappearance: 03 04 11. Grabbing the pen, I scribbled out the zeros and the year: 3 4.

Three and four.

Or thirty-four.

Then it hit me. I pulled my phone across the desk and went to the photos. There, right at the top, was the last one I'd taken: the wall in the police station, the first time I'd been in. slightly blurred, Megan's picture looked out at me, pinned to a board in the CID office. Next to that was the map and more photographs. And then seven stickies, running in a vertical line, a separate number on each.

I could only make out three of them, the first, sixth and seventh: 2119, 3111 — and 34. They hadn't been numbers. They'd been dates.

The first one - 2119 - was four digits. They'd included the year after it, so they'd know all the others followed in sequence, through 2010 and into 2011. I turned back to the computer and this time typed '2 November 2009 missing' into Google and hit Return.

Four links down I found what I was looking for. It was a missing persons site, profiles of men, women and kids decorating the front page. Picture after picture. Face after face. So many missing people, all of them lost somewhere - or worse than lost. The Google search had taken me straight to the page corresponding to the people who'd vanished on 2 November 2009. I was thirty-two pages and almost three hundred profile pictures in. And bang in the centre was the woman I was looking for.

In her photograph, she was smiling at the camera, her blonde hair cascading down her face in long, thin strands. She was pretty. Slim but not skinny.

And she looked like Megan and Leanne. I clicked on her profile.

Missing | Case Ref: 09-004447891

Isabelle Connors

Age at disappearance: 28

Isabelle has been missing from Finchley, north London, since 2 November 2009. She was last seen in Lemon Street in Islington getting into her car after a work function. She later spoke to a friend on the phone to confirm she had got home. It is believed she disappeared that evening or the next morning as she failed to turn up to work, where she was employed as a graphic designer.

There is great concern for Isabelle as her disappearance is out of character. She is 5 ft 8in tall, of slim-to- medium build with blue eyes and blonde hair. When last seen she was wearing a pair of blue jeans, black heels, a white vest and a long black coat.

Another missing woman. And she was the same as Megan and Leanne. Same hair. Same eyes. Same shape. The only difference was their age. I looked away and tried to picture the list of numbers on the wall of the office. Tried to recall the second, third, fourth or fifth stickies. I'd taken the dates in, but not realized their importance. They were just a random list of numbers then. A blur among the maps and the photographs and the paperwork.

I slowly started tabbing back through the pages, closely examining every female picture. Six pages later, I found her. Blonde. Blue eyes. She'd disappeared on 8 January 2010.1 looked at the picture on my phone: although it was blurred, I could instantly make out what looked like 8110. The second number on the wall.

Missing | Case Ref: 09-0044479 5 8

April Brunei

Age at disappearance: 45

April has been missing from Hackney, east London, since 8 January 2010. Her whereabouts remain unknown.

She called friends on the evening of 7 January to say she couldn't join them for a drink as she was feeling unwell. There is growing concern for April as her disappearance is out of character. She is 5 ft 6in tall, of slim build with blue eyes and blonde hair. She was last seen at work that day, where she was employed as an accountant.

In the pit of my stomach, there was a growing sense of unease. Four missing women now, and it was obvious there were three more to come. It took me ten minutes to find them, and another five to scan their profiles. Jayne Rickards, thirty-three; 4 April 2010. She had been number 44. Kate Norton, twenty-nine; 12 July 2010. She had been number 127. Erica Muller, twenty-three; 4 October 2010. She had been 410. All slim-to-medium, with blonde hair and blue eyes. All gone.

And all connected.