The Dead Tracks by Tim Weaver

photograph of Megan I'd taken
from the box. One of her at home in her school uniform. The photo was probably
a couple of years old, but she didn't look massively different from how she did
in the most up-to-date pictures. Sometimes you had to work the percentages,
though. The younger the victim, the more emotion you generated, and the more
help you were likely to get. I held up the photograph as the barman placed my
juice down in front of me.
        'I'm
not only here for breakfast,' I said. 'I'm doing some work for the family of a
girl who used to come in here a lot.' I placed the picture down and pushed it
across to him. 'Do you recognize her?'
        He
glanced at the photo. 'Judging by that school uniform, looks like she shouldn't
have been getting in at all.'
        'I
won't tell.'
        He
nodded, smiled a little! 'She doesn’t seem familiar.'
        'I
imagine the police came in at one stage, about six months back.'
        He
raised an eyebrow. 'Police?'
        'She
used to come in with a couple of other girls her age.'
        'Is
she missing?'
        'Her
name's Megan Carver.'
        His
eyes widened for a moment. The name rang a bell. 'She was that girl on the
news. The one that disappeared.'
        'That's
her.'
        He
looked at her picture again, as if trying to see something he hadn't managed to
pick out the first rime. Then he shook his head and pushed the photo back
across the counter to me. 'I remember the news stories, but I was still sitting
with my feet up on a beach in Thailand when she went missing. I've only been
working here four months.'
        I
nodded, took the photo. 'I guess I'll just wait for my breakfast then.'
        It
arrived a couple of minutes later and was surprisingly good. The eggs were
runny, the bacon was crunchy and both slices of toast were drenched in butter.
When I was done, I pushed the plate back across the bar and set about finishing
my coffee and juice. The barman was away cleaning tables on the other side of
the room. Five stools down from me, my drinking partner had just finished his
third beer.
        I
glanced at him. He was looking down into the empty bottles, one eye open, one eye
closed. Stubble was scattered across his face. His hair looked like it had gone
weeks without shampoo. But he was dressed in good clothes: Diesel trousers, a
Ted Baker sweater, a Quiksilver bodywarmer and, sneaking out from under his
sleeve, a Gucci watch. Basically the best-dressed drunk in London.
        'Nice
breakfast?' he asked without looking up.
        'Pretty
good, yeah.'
        'You
sound surprised,' he said, his voice quiet.
        'I
am.'
        'You
shouldn't be. It's a good breakfast in here.'
        'I
know,' I said. 'I just tasted it.'
        I
pulled a twenty out of my wallet.
        'Your
girl,' he said, turning on his seat, pushing the bot- des away from him like he
wanted to forget he'd spent his breakfast necking three beers. 'Megan. She
sounded like a nice girl.'
        Now
he had my attention. You knew her?'
        'No,
I didn't know her.' He took one of the bottles and separated it out from the
group. 'But I had the Old Bill in here asking me questions about her a couple
of days after she went missing'
        I eyed
him. He sat up straight, smiled and turned towards me. He could see I was
trying to put it together in my head: the drunk owns this place?
        'You're
the manager?'
        'The
owner. I employ a manager.'
        'What
did the police ask you?'
        The same
sort of questions you just asked. Did she come in here? Did I recognize her?
Did she ever get into any trouble?' He paused, pulled the beer bottle back into
the group, then looked up at me again. 'I didn't have any answers for them,
just as I won't have any for you. She could have come in here for years, and
she would have meant as much to me as someone who comes in here for the first
time.' He shrugged, a little regret in his eyes. That's the