Free David Raker 01 - Chasing the Dead by Tim Weaver

Inside it was stark. No carpets. No furniture. No paint on the walls.
    More wood started to break, and the further down the door frame I got, the easier it came away. I tried the handle. The door moved in the frame. I glanced along the corridor, then gently used my shoulder to apply some pressure. Sliding the blade back in, this time at the lock, I wriggled it around and pressed again at the door. The wood was incredibly soft, bending against my weight. Finally, it clicked open.
    I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
    There were no curtains at the windows, only rectangular sheets of black plastic. Small blocks of light escaped around the edges and on to opposite walls. A kitchen counter was to my left. The room smelt damp
    I hunted for a light switch and found one a little way along the wall. When I flicked it on, nothing happened. I walked across to the windows, flipped the blade and slashed through the plastic. Morning poured into the room in thick cubes of dust-filled light.
    The flat was like a skeleton: every piece of furniture had been removed. There were Coke bottles and empty crisp packets on the kitchen counter. In a small rubbish bin there was an apple core and two sweet wrappers. I picked up one of the crisp packets and turned it over. The expiry date was six months away.
    The flat had definitely been used recently.
    I looked around. Pinned to the wall was a newspaper cutting, curled at the edges. BOY, 10, FOUND FLOATING IN THE THAMES . Parts of the story had been underlined in red pen. I stepped in closer: 13 April 2002. It was nearly eight years old.
    I walked to the bedrooms. Both were empty, dust on the floorboards and paint blistering on the walls. The windows had also been covered in black plastic sheeting. The third door led to the bathroom. The bath was filthy, mould climbing up the sides and around the taps, spreading like a disease across the
    Back in the kitchen, I checked through the cupboards. Two saucepans. A frying pan. Both had been washed. In another drawer I found washing-up liquid. Cornflakes. Matches. Cutlery. Orange juice. In the smallest drawer, right at the bottom, was a notepad. Nothing written on it. I took it anyway.
    I ran my fingers along the underside of the units, then climbed on to them and looked on top of the cupboards. They hadn’t been cleaned since they’d been put in. The dirt was an inch thick.
    The flat was obviously used as a base of some sort; a hiding place. Maybe Alex had even hidden here for a time. No one would live here. Not in conditions like this. There weren’t enough provisions and utensils for anyone to stay full-time. But as a place to disappear, it was ideal. The old man thought it was the council he’d heard – but it wasn’t them.
    I glanced at the slashed plastic sheeting and the jemmied lock, and realized they’d know someone had been here.
But it was too late to worry about that now. Whoever owned this place wasn’t making contact with the neighbours and it was unlikely they were paying rent or rates. Any break-in was going to go unreported.
    Then, suddenly, a telephone started ringing.
    I stood completely still in the middle of the room, trying to figure out if it was coming from inside the flat.
    I checked the first one over. Nothing.
    In the second, the noise got louder. At the bottom of one of the walls was a phone jack, a small wire running up and out of it, disappearing behind one of the black sheets. I stabbed my knife into it and tore away the plastic. On the windowsill was a cordless phone with a digital display, sitting in a recharging cradle.
    The ringing stopped.
    I picked up the phone and looked at the display. LAST CALL: NUMBER WITHHELD . In the options menu, there were no names in the address book. Nothing on the ‘recent calls’ list. No messages on the voicemail. I punched in my own mobile number, and pressed ‘Call’. A couple of seconds later, my phone started buzzing. On the display: PRIVATE .
So, the landline’s