Never Coming Back by Tim Weaver Page B

statements, all the lies I’d weaved and managed to convince them of, there in black and white. I wasn’t sure if he’d come here because he saw something in my past that suggested I might be capable of killing a person and dumping them out to sea, or whether he’d come as some kind of warning.
We know who you are. We know what you do. Stay the hell away.
    He leaned forward. “I’m going to level with you, Mr. Raker. I
do
know about you. I’m not sure if what’s in the database is everything. I guess only you and”—he glanced back over his shoulder—“perhaps Mr. Healy know whether you were one hundred percent honest with the Met.”
    He waited for an answer that didn’t come.
    â€œYou have a habit of getting involved in cases that don’t seem to have a hell of a lot to do with you.” A pause. A shrug of the shoulders. He glanced at Healy again, as if giving him the chance to answer on my behalf. “Maybe you have a strong opinion on that, or maybe you don’t—but ultimately I don’t really care. For your opinion,
or
for those cases. Because those cases weren’t here. I don’t want to sound uncaring for my fellow boys in blue up north and in the Met, but I frankly couldn’t give arat’s arse about their crime scenes. But I give a rat’s arse about mine. Are we both clear on that, David?”
    David now. Trying to make himself seem like a good guy, someone reasonable. But it was clumsy psychology, the first amateurish thing he’d done since he’d arrived.
    â€œMind if I ask you something?” I said.
    The response took him by surprise, but he did a good job of disguising it. His eyes narrowed slightly and then he set his pen down next to his pad. Adjusted it. Looked up.
    â€œDoes the name Carrie Ling ring any bells with you?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œCarrie Ling. She and her family disappeared on January 7.”
    A look on his face like he genuinely had no idea who I was talking about.
    â€œShe used to live here in the village.”
    He shook his head.
    â€œHer sister arrives to find the front door unlocked and everything still on: TV, computer, food cooking on the stove, the whole thing. Except the family is missing.”
    A flash of recognition.
    â€œYou remember them now?”
    He nodded. “Yeah. I remember them. What about them?”
    Apart from a momentary lapse, he’d conducted this whole thing perfectly. Given nothing away. Made his point. Now he’d turned the conversation around again: no longer on the defensive, but forcing me to reveal my hand. “Do you think there’s any link?”
    â€œBetween what?”
    I smiled.
He’s playing dumb
. “Between the Lings and the body.”
    He stared at me, shrugged. “Why would there be a link?”
    â€œI don’t know. I’m just thinking aloud.”
    â€œAnything’s possible. But we’re talking about a family that lived twenty miles from here. Does every case within a twenty-mile radius have to be linked to this one?”
    â€œShe used to live here, in the village.”
    â€œA long time ago, as I recall.”
    â€œTrue.”
    â€œAre you telling me you’re working for them—is that it?”
    â€œNo one’s working for them—they’ve never been found.”
    His eyes narrowed. “That sounds like a sly dig, David.”
    â€œIt was just interesting that you were involved in both cases.”
    A smirk passed briefly across his face, and he leaned in toward me. “Look, you’re a clever guy. That’s probably why everyone at the Met hates you. But you’re barking up the wrong tree. There’s no link and there’s no grand conspiracy. I don’t care if you’re looking into that family’s disappearance. I really don’t. What I care about is closing my case, and if you’re getting in my way—and given your history, you