Free The Dead Tracks by Tim Weaver Page A

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.
    ----
        

Chapter Twelve
        
        After
staying out until 4 a.m. the previous night, I slept late. By the time I was
showered and fed, it was almost midday. I headed into the office.
        I didn't
use it anywhere near as much as I once did. At the start, it had been a way to
separate my home life from my work life. A way to legitimize my career. Now
Derryn was gone, it was just an expensive inconvenience, and I was thirty days
away from watching the lease lapse. Once that happened, I'd work out of the
house permanently, and another little piece of my previous life would have
washed away.
        Swivelling
in my chair, I looked up at the corkboard behind me. A wall full of the
missing. Right at the top was Megan Carver. I stood and pulled the picture out,
then sat down again and studied her. What's going on, Megan? What's your mum
hiding? I turned gently in the chair, tracing the shape of her face;
letting my mind turn over.
        A
couple of seconds later, my phone burst into life.
        I
looked at the display, NUMBER WITHHELD. Pulling it towards me, I switched to
speaker phone.
        'David
Raker.'
        No
response.
        'David
Raker,' I said, louder.
        No
sound at all. No static, no background noise.
        I sat
forward in my seat. 'Hello?'
        Just
silence.
         'Hello?
        'Mr
Raker…' A soft voice. Female. 'It's Kaitlin.' 'Kaitlin?'
        'You
said to call