The Dead Tracks

Chapter Fifty-three

'Healy,' I said, but he ignored me, reaching to the belt on Drayton's trousers and loosening it. 'Healy.'

This time he stopped, studying me. 'You think he's going to tell us anything if we ask him nicely? Does it look like that to you?'

'He's a fucking kid.'

'So what?'

'So, take a look at yourself.'

He paused, glanced down at the sweat coming through his shirt, and Drayton's blood dotted across the cotton. Then he studied me, his face blank. For a second, it felt like the fuse had gone out. Then he turned back to Drayton. 'I don't care if he's a kid,' he said quietly, and I realized the only way this was going to end was if I stopped it.

Drayton squirmed in his seat as Healy started fiddling with the belt again. Fear clouded his eyes. His breath came in short bursts through his nose. After a few seconds, Healy had undone the trousers and pulled them along Drayton's thighs, and the kid had started screaming. One long, terrible noise that was worse through the gag, like an animal in distress. Healy glanced at me, tugged at Drayton's boxer shorts and reached under his shirt, grabbing the penis. Drayton screamed even longer and harder this time, eyes like saucers: wide and terrified, and glistening with tears. When he saw he'd got the reaction he wanted, Healy let go, ripped the gag away and leaned in again.

'Talk,' he said.

'Okay, okay,' Drayton said, short of breath. 'Okay.'

'Talk,' Healy repeated.

'A man,' Drayton said, looking between us.

'What man?'

'He didn't tell me his name.'

'So what did he tell you?'

Drayton glanced to his left, a minor movement. Healy didn't seem to notice. He was boiling over. Fuelled by adrenalin. But I spotted it the first time, and then again a couple of seconds later: a swivel of the eyes, over his shoulder to the warehouse below.

'What did he tell you?'

'He just told me to keep the map safe, not to show anybody, never try to replicate it, photocopy it or write it down. Basically, just keep it under lock and key.'

'Why?'

Drayton hesitated. 'Why?'

'He's…'

Drayton's eyes drifted again. A split-second movement.

'He's what?' Healy said.

'He's a regular customer.'

'A regular whose name you don't know?' Healy snorted. He leaned in, placing a hand on either arm of the chair. 'You got two seconds, or I really will cut your balls off.'

Drayton sniffed. Moved his head from side to side gently, like he was trying to decide the best course of action. Then, quietly, he said, 'I don't know his name.'

Healy shook his head again. 'Wrong answer.'

Wait a second,' Drayton said. Wait a sec—'

Grabbing the handkerchief off the floor, Healy shoved it back into Drayton's mouth and secured it in place again with the duct tape. Drayton started shouting through the gag. I stepped towards Healy, crossing the line into his personal space. He looked at me and then rocked back. 'You gonna try and stop me?'

I looked past him, out through the rear doors of the warehouse. It was hammering down outside, rain lashing in across the yard. The wind had picked up too, whipping in over the fences and lifting the plastic sheeting away from the boxes.

'Stay here,' I said. 'And don't do anything'

'Where are you going?'

'Just stay here.'

I headed down the stairs and outside, pulling the hood up on my jacket. The boxes I'd already moved were stained darker with rain. I took out my pocket knife and stabbed the blade down through the top of the nearest box, edging it around in an L-shape and peeling it away. Inside were woks, each separated by a layer of foam. I pushed the box aside and went for the next one. Porcelain dishes. The next one along: frying pans. I stepped back and looked further into the pile, under the plastic sheeting. A wind carved in from behind me and lifted the tarpaulin away. Right in the middle, surrounded on all sides, was a tall, thin box, with a small black symbol in the corner.

Shoving boxes aside, I moved further into the centre of the pile, trying to create a space where I could drag the box back out with me. When I got to it, I tried to move it.

It was heavy. At least forty or fifty pounds. I dug the knife blade into each side and cut out a couple of finger holes, then tightened my grip again and pulled the box out. As it moved, even as the rain pelted down and the wind howled, I could hear something moving around inside. Liquid sloshing.

Back inside the warehouse, Healy looked down, a frown on his face. I could see Drayton trying to turn.

'What's that?'

I pulled the box to the bottom of the steps, so they could both see. Then I set it straight. Drayton stared at it, something in him receding, as if a great secret had just been blown away in the wind. There had only been a small movement in his eyes before. But it was enough for me to realize he was hiding something. Eyes weren't just the doorway to the soul. They were the ultimate polygraph test.

'What's that?' Healy said again.

I jabbed my knife down through the top of the box and cut out a hole. 'Formalin,' I said, prodding a finger against the symbol on the outside. This is the number eighty in Cyrillic. 'Just like the pi symbol. I'd seen it before on the cardboard boxes in the background of the photo I'd found in the doll. The photograph that had been used to help frame me. 'There are about eighty canisters of the stuff in here. And I'm willing to bet that Whoever drew that map for Drayton was hoping to take delivery of them.'

Drayton made no noise.

I made my way back up the steps.

'So,' I said, and picked up the map off the desk. Where's this?'

He looked at me and I could see he was just as involved in all this as his father; as good a liar as his father too. The problem was, he wasn't as organized and he wasn't as good at covering his tracks. He'd got sloppy, keeping the goods he'd imported on his premises rather than shipping them off to another storage unit. He'd thought hiding them among the imported kitchenware would be enough. And maybe it would have been if I'd never spoken to Spike and found out what the symbol in the photograph meant.

Healy reached over and tore off the gag.

'He said he had information on the business,' Drayton said. 'He said he would send evidence of deliveries, of goods we'd imported, to the police. He said he would finish us.'

'Who was he?'

'I don't know' Drayton replied, his voice tearful. 'I can't run this business like my dad. I can't do it. I hate it. But I promised him I could meet his expectations. I promised him I would look after the family I promised him I would never let him down. But I can't even do that one thing for him.'

I pointed at the map. 'Where's this?'

'Walthamstow. Pine Terrace. Number 29.'

'You were supposed to drop the formalin off there?'

Drayton nodded. 'When?'

'Tomorrow.'

'What were your instructions?'

Drayton glanced down. 'Leave the box on the front steps of the house.'

'That's it?'

'That's it,' he said. 'The same instructions every time. I've been importing things for him for months now. When he comes here, he tells me the same thing. Memorize the road name. Don't write it down. Don't photocopy it. Keep the map secure. Tell anyone anything and he buries the business.'

'Is he home when you drop off the package?'

Drayton shook his head. 'The house is vacant. They had a fire there. Half of it's boarded up, but you can see in through one of the broken windows. The living room has been burned to shit. No carpet. No furniture. The back garden's like a jungle, and out front it's just a dumping ground. Cans and wrappers and dog shit all over the place.'

'You ever stick around after the drop-off?'

'No. He tells us to deliver the package and leave immediately.'

I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket and took out a picture I'd torn from one of the youth club personnel files. I held it up for him.

'Is this the man who comes to see you?'

Drayton studied the picture. 'Yeah, that's him.'

It was Daniel Markham.