The Dead Tracks (10 page)

    'I'm,
uh…' She paused. The more awake I became, the more distressed she started to
sound. There's, uh…'

    'What?'

    A pause.
'I think someone's watching my house.'

    'What
are you talking about?'

    'There's
someone across the street. He's just been sitting in his car all evening,
looking across at my house. I don't know what to do.'

    'Is
he still there?'

    'Yes.'

    'Okay,'
I said, and turned around in bed, flipping back the sheets.
She wants you to
come over.
'Uh, would you like me to come over?'

    
'
Oh
,
thank you
?

    Her
voice wobbled. She was scared.

    'Where
do you live?' She gave me the address. 'Make sure all the doors and windows are
locked. If you're unsure, at any time, call the police. I'll be there as fast
as I can.'

    The
night was cool. On the drive over I had the heaters on full blast, rain
spattering against the windscreen the whole way. Her road was narrow, cars
parked on either side. She'd told me she had a black door, but in the darkness
every door looked black. I found a space about halfway down the road, got out
and saw I was about ten houses away. I scanned the street for any sign of
someone watching her place, but it was difficult in the rain. Gutters were
filling. Water pelted off glass and bodywork. Visibility was low.

    There
were no lights on in her house. I knocked twice, then turned and looked up and
down the street again, this time from under the protection of her porch. Lots
of cars. No sign of anyone sitting inside one.

    The
door opened.

    Jill
was dressed in tracksuit trousers and a big baggy fleece. Her eyes wandered
past me, to a spot on my right. I turned and followed her gaze. There was no
one there. When I looked back at her, I could see the confusion in her face.

    'He's
gone,' she said quietly.

    I
looked back out at the street again.

    'Seems
that way.'

    'But
he's been there all night.' She looked at me, then out into the street. 'He was
sitting there in a red car. I think it was a Ford.'

    I
didn't say anything. She wasn't crazy, and I doubted she was seeing things. But
being on your own changed things. Small things. Knowing someone else was in the
house with you was a security blanket, even if — ultimately — you were just as
vulnerable as ever. She looked at me and tears formed in the corners of her
eyes.

    'I
wasted your time.'

    'No,'
I said. 'Not at all.'

    'I
must be going mad.'

    'No,'
I repeated, and touched a hand to the top of her arm. 'You aren't mad. He could
have been watching another house. He could have been a cop. Or a government
agent. Or maybe they think you're a terrorist.'

    A
smile. 'That makes me feel
much
better.'

    She
glanced at me, brought her hand up to her face, then looked down at herself. In
her eyes, now the tension had passed, I could see what she was thinking:
Why
the hell did I answer the door dressed like this?

    'Would
you like to come in for some tea or a coffee or something?'

    'Sure,'
I said. 'Coffee would be great.'

    Her
house was small but modern; a show home ripped from the pages of a magazine.
There were beautiful wooden floors running through to the living room, where a
thick rug sat beneath a beech-and-glass table piled with glossy books. An
original brick fireplace dominated one wall, a wood-burning stove perched in
it. Opposite were two bookcases, filled with classics, either side of a black
flatscreen TV. DVDs were piled up underneath, most of them foreign language. It
didn't look like we'd be discussing the action scenes in
Predator
any
time soon. She pointed to one of two cream leather sofas, and disappeared into
the kitchen.

    There
were photographs of her husband on some of the bookcase shelves, and again on
the mantelpiece above the fire. I walked over and picked one up. They were at a
police get-together somewhere. She was in a flowery summer dress, her hair up.
He had his arm around her, and was dressed in full uniform, two silver stars on
his shoulder. I put the photograph back on the mantelpiece just as Jill brought
two cups of coffee through, setting them down on the table. She perched herself
on the other sofa.

    'Your
husband was an inspector,' I said.

    'You
know your police stripes.'

    'Was
he a detective?'

    'Yes.
He worked for Thames Valley before he moved to the Met. That's when we came up
to London.'

    'He
was a cop the whole time you were married?'

    'The
whole time,' she said, pouring milk into her cup. After she was done, she
lifted a necklace out from her top. There was a small silver angel dangling
from the end, a long spear in one hand. 'This is St Michael.'

    The
patron saint of policemen.'

    
'Right
.'
She smiled. 'I'm impressed.'

    'I
got to know the police pretty well as a journalist.'

    'It
was Frank's. I was going to bury him with it, but in the end preferred the idea
of keeping it close to me. It seemed…' She slowly stirred her drink. 'It just
seemed right.'

    I nodded
that I understood.

    A
thin smile worked its way across her face. 'Sometimes I still buy his favourite
food when I go to the supermarket. I still leave the key in the wall out back,
just in case he comes home. I guess… I guess I can't accept he's gone.'

    'Do
you mind if I ask what happened to him?'

    She
frowned. Looked at me for a moment. Then, as she blinked, her eyes filled up.
She wiped them and sat back on the sofa, both hands wrapped around her coffee
cup. They told me he was part of a task force looking into Russian organized
crime. There was some link up with… is it SOCA'

    I
nodded. The Serious Organized Crime Agency. In my previous life as a
journalist, I'd had a couple of contacts inside the National Criminal
Intelligence Service, which later became part of SOCA. At the time it came into
being in 2006, the media labelled it 'the British FBI', but as few of its
officers had the power to arrest, and most of their work was surveillance and
co-ordination, they were closer to the MI 5 model.

    She
shifted, sadness welling in her eyes. 'A couple of weeks after the funeral, one
of his friends came here.'

    'Off
the record presumably?'

    'Oh
yes, definitely. I think he felt sorry for me. The way in which things had
been… communicated. I mean, I tried to find out what happened to Frank in the
weeks after his death, but the official version his bosses gave me, it just
never…'

    'Never
felt right.'

    'It
just felt like there were gaps still to be filled.'

    'How
do you mean?'

    She
shrugged. 'They told me they were closing in on a big figure in one of the
Russian gangs, and they'd been given a tip-off that he might be at a warehouse
in Bow.'

    'And
was he?'

    'I
don't know.'

    'They
didn't tell you?'

    She
shook her head. 'No.'

    'Because
they wanted to contain the case?'

    'Right.
But I knew enough about police work to understand that. I didn't want to know
the details of the investigation, I just wanted to know what had happened to
Frank, and who killed him.' She took a few moments to find her feet again. 'All
they told me was that he and another officer were shot in the chest.'

    'By
who — this Russian guy?'

    'They
said it happened fast.'

    'So
they didn't know?'

    Her
voice wavered. 'Officially, they said they didn't.'

    'And
unofficially?'

    She
paused for a moment. 'Frank's friend said the big figure they were after was a
man called Akim Gobulev.'

    
Gobulev.
The Ghost.'

    She
glanced at me. 'You've heard of him?'

    'He's
been on SOCA's most wanted list for the entire time it's been in existence.'

    'Why
do they call him "The Ghost"?'

    'Because
no one's even sure if he's alive.' 'Oh.'

    'The
NCIS used to joke that Gobulev was either buried somewhere, or had the power to
turn invisible. They pinned stuff on him — trafficking, prostitution, drugs,
money-laundering - but no one has seen him in years. The only evidence he even
exists is an entry in a computer at Heathrow over a decade ago. He landed on a
flight from Moscow - and then 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.

    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.