The Dead Tracks by Tim Weaver Page A

nature of these
places.'
        'Did
the police take anything away?'
        'CCTV
footage.'
        'How
much?'
        'As
much as we had.'
        'Which
was how much?'
        'We
keep a year's worth. That's what our legal people and security team advise us
to do, in case anything kicks off in here and we have to go to court. We keep
an additional year as well, but only one copy of that, and in a deposit box at
a bank near St Paul's. Anything outside of those two years, we dispose of.'
        'So
the police took a year's worth of footage from you?'
        'No.
They took the six months up to, and including, the date of her disappearance,
and the month after.'
        'Did
they find anything?'
        'You'd
have to ask them that,' he said. 'But as it's sitting in the drawer of my desk
upstairs now, I guess not.'
        He
looked up at me then, and a smile spread across his face like glass cracking. I
realized then that this was a man for whom drinking wasn't enjoyable, or an
addiction, or just something to do. It was a way of finding an exit. For a
brief moment, as we locked eyes across the bar, it was like seeing my
reflection in a mirror.
        'Are
you okay?'
        He
nodded and looked away. 'Maybe I can help you.'
        And
when he looked back, his eyes were filling up. He got down off the stool and
gestured for me to follow him up to the second floor.
        
        
        His
name was Paulo Janez, and his office overlooked a tiny London backstreet, full
of townhouse doors and slivers of office space. On one wall was a huge
black-and- white painting of Tony Montana. On the other were a series of photographs.
Paulo was in most of them, as was someone I presumed was his dad. They looked
the same: dark skin, black hair, brown eyes, immaculately dressed. He caught me
looking at them.
        'My
father,' he said quietly, and sat at his desk. He opened one of the drawers and
started going through them. I sat opposite and watched in silence. Eventually
he brought out seven DVDs, bound together with two elastic bands. He closed the
drawer and placed them on the desk in front of me.
        'Be
my guest,' he said, gesturing to them.
        'That's
the seven months the police took?'
        'Correct.'
        I got
out a card and passed it across the desk to him. My guarantee I would return
the DVDs. He took the card, studied it, then nodded that he understood.
        'You
married?' he asked.
        'Not
any more.'
        'Divorced?'
        I
paused. Maybe he could sense something in me, like I could sense something in
him. A connection between us. A sadness that bubbled below the surface of the
skin.
        'My
wife died of cancer,' I said finally.
        He
nodded, seemed almost relieved, as if he'd started to doubt his initial
feelings. 'My father passed away two months ago. The only person I ever really
cared about.'
        'I'm
sorry.'
        A sad
smile wormed across his face, and then he was quiet for a moment. Take the DVDs
and see if you can find anything. I hope you do — for that family's sake.'
    ----
        

Chapter Nine
        
        Just
before 3 p.m., Caroline Carver buzzed open the front gates of her house and
watched me pull into the gravel driveway. She smiled. But, as at the restaurant
a couple of days before, it was only a smile in name. Before Megan vanished, I
imagined she had turned a lot of heads, but as she led me into the house, gaunt
and drained, I realized she was only a partial reflection of that woman now.
        We
moved through to the kitchen, where Leigh was sitting cross-legged on the
floor, pushing cars across the lino.
        'Would
you like something to drink?' she asked.
        'Just
water would be great.'
        She
nodded but made no effort to say anything else, and as she filled a glass from
the tap, I realized I was finding it difficult to get a handle on her. Normally
I was pretty effective at reading people. I could