Road of the Dead (3 page)

The fat man jumped and looked up angrily. “What the hell—?”

“Sorry,” said Cole. “I thought you were dead.”

The fat man frowned.

“We want to see DCI Pomeroy,” Cole told him.

“You what?”

“DCI Pomeroy. We want to see him.”

“You can’t just—”

“Is he here?”

“I don’t know…”

“Find out.”

The fat man’s hand reached for the phone, but then he realized what he was doing—taking orders from a scruffy kid he didn’t even know—and he frowned again and stopped himself. He turned back to Cole and was about to say something, but Cole beat him to it.

“Tell him it’s about Rachel Ford,” he said. “Tell him her brothers are here.”

The fat man stared at Cole for a moment, then grudgingly picked up the phone.

Pomeroy’s office smelled of air freshener and Juicy Fruit. It was a nondescript kind of place—desk, chairs, filing cabinet, window. Nothing much at all, really. A bit like DCI Pomeroy himself. He was one of those men who don’t seem to take up any space. Not big, not small, not anything. Just some kind of face, a haircut, a suit, some limbs, a voice.

“Sit down, please,” he said, indicating a couple of chairs on the other side of his desk.

We sat down.

Pomeroy smiled at us. It wasn’t much of a smile. It looked like someone had cut into his face with a miniature penknife. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you both for some identification,” he said. “I know it sounds a bit paranoid, but you’d be amazed at the things people will do to get hold of information these days.”

Cole took out his wallet and passed over his driver’s
license. Pomeroy took it and looked it over. If he realized it was a forgery, he didn’t show it. He nodded at Cole and passed it back, then looked at me.

“I left my driver’s license at home,” I told him.

He smiled again but didn’t say anything.

“I’m fourteen,” I said. “The only thing I’ve got with my name on it is my
Simpsons
Fan Club Membership card, and I think I’ve lost that. You could probably call the club if you wanted to check…”

The look on his face told me to shut up.

“Give him your library card,” Cole told me.

I reached into my back pocket and passed over my library card. I don’t know why I didn’t do it in the first place. I just didn’t feel like it, I suppose. Pomeroy glanced at the library card, then passed it back to me and leaned back in his chair.

“So,” he said, smiling at Cole, “what can I do for you?”

Cole looked at him for a moment, wondering how to play it. I was wondering the same thing myself. Pomeroy hadn’t said a word about Rachel yet. No commiserations, no heartfelt apologies, no platitudes. That was fine with me, and I’m sure it was OK with Cole, too—but it wasn’t how it was supposed to be. And that was a little bit puzzling.

“We saw Detective Merton this morning,” Cole said. “He’s our Family Liaison Officer—”

“I know who he is,” Pomeroy said.

“He’s been keeping us informed about how the investigation is going.”

Pomeroy nodded. “That’s part of his job.”

“Right,” said Cole. I could feel his voice getting tighter. So could he. He looked down at the floor, took a couple of steadying breaths, then looked up at Pomeroy again. “You’re the Senior Investigating Officer, is that right?”

Pomeroy nodded.

“OK,” said Cole. “What can you tell us?”

“What do you want to know?”

“I’ll tell you what,” Cole said calmly. “How about telling us why you’re treating us like shit, for a start. Then maybe we can take it from there.”

Pomeroy didn’t even blink. “I wasn’t aware that I
was
treating you like shit. Of course, I apologize if that’s how you feel, but I can assure you that wasn’t my intention. I’m simply waiting for you to tell me what you want.” He smiled his nasty little smile again. “I realize it’s sometimes difficult to find the right words in these situations, but if it’s a question of viewing the body—”

“We don’t want to see the body,” Cole said.

“What, then? If it’s your sister’s personal effects you’re after, I’m afraid we need to hold on to them for a while. You can probably have some of them back in a few days, but we’ll need to keep her raincoat and clothes for evidence—”

“We don’t want any of Rachel’s stuff.”

Pomeroy frowned. “I’m sorry—I don’t see what else I can do for you.”

“We want to bury her.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We want to bury Rachel. We can’t bury her until you get the man who killed her. We want to know when you’re going to get him.”

“I see…”

“Have you got him yet?”

Pomeroy rubbed his mouth. “Well, I’m sure Detective Merton has explained that we’re following up a number of leads—”

“What kind of leads?”

“I can’t say at this moment.”

“Why not?”

“It might jeopardize the investigation.”

“How?”

Pomeroy gave Cole a long hard look. “This really isn’t helping, you know. You’re just going to have to trust us to do our job. We know what we’re doing—believe me. There’s nothing we’re
not
doing to find your sister’s killer and bring him to justice.”

“Do you know who did it?”

“I’m sorry, I really can’t go into any more details. The best thing for you to do is just go home and wait. As soon as we have any news we’ll contact Detective Merton and he’ll let you know.” Pomeroy stood up and looked down at us, waiting for us to leave. When we didn’t move, he shook his head. “Look,” he said, “if you want me to sit here talking
to you all day, that’s fine. But if you want me to do my job, then I suggest you let me get on with it.”

Cole just sat there looking at him for a while, then eventually he got to his feet. I stood up, too. Pomeroy started leading us over to the door. I looked at Cole, wondering why he was giving up so easily, but when I saw the way he was staring at the back of Pomeroy’s head, I realized he wasn’t giving up anything. I should have known better, really. Cole doesn’t do “giving up.”

At the door, Pomeroy paused and put his hand on Cole’s shoulder. “Just one more thing before you go,” he said quietly. “I’m not sure what your intentions are, but I hope you don’t think your situation entitles you to any special treatment. I know you’re a victim, and I know you’re going through a terrible time, but that doesn’t put you above the law. Do you understand?”

“No,” said Cole.

Pomeroy sighed. “There aren’t any secrets in a murder investigation, son. We have to look into everything—the victim, their friends, their family…” He paused to let that sink in, then went on. “I know all about you and your father…and I don’t just mean what’s on file. Do you understand me now?”

Cole said nothing, just looked at him.

Pomeroy smiled. “Just be careful—OK?”

Cole remained silent. If Pomeroy didn’t take his hand off his shoulder soon, Cole was going to find it hard not to
do something about it. I didn’t think that would help things much, so I opened the door and took Cole’s arm and gently pulled him away. His flesh felt like steel.

“Come on, Cole,” I said. “Let’s go.”

As Cole reluctantly gave in to me, Pomeroy gave him a final humiliating pat on the shoulder. I felt Cole’s muscles tense.

“Just relax,” Pomeroy told him. “Leave everything to us.” He looked at his watch. “There’s a train leaving for London in forty minutes. If you and your brother wait downstairs, I’ll arrange for a car to take you to the station. How’s that?”

Cole didn’t answer, he just turned around and walked out the door.

As I followed my brother along the corridor, I knew that this was just the beginning. There was a long way to go yet, but the fuse was already burning.

S
ome people think I’m some kind of genius, but I’m not—I just feel things that other people don’t feel, and I’m also really good at remembering stuff. I don’t have a photographic memory exactly, but I can pretty much remember whatever I want. Facts, figures, information…it doesn’t matter what it is, as long as it means something to me, I can remember it. The only stuff I have trouble remembering is the stuff that
doesn’t
mean anything to me, which is one of the reasons I always had trouble at school. But since I don’t go to school anymore—so I don’t
have
to remember the stuff that doesn’t mean anything to me—it’s not really a problem.

It’s not really important, either. I’m only mentioning it to let you know how I knew the way from the police station to the bus station. I knew because I’d looked at a map on the Internet that morning and remembered all the relevant details.

So when we left the police station, and I asked Cole where he wanted to go, and he told me he wanted to go to the bus station, I didn’t have to think about it for long.

“It’s just over there,” I told him. “Down the street and through the underpass.”

We headed for the underpass.

Cole had already put Pomeroy to the back of his mind. He hadn’t forgotten about him—he didn’t forget about people like that—but for now he was content to put him to one side while he thought about what to do next.

“Where are we going?” I asked him.

“What?”

“Where are we going?”

“I just told you—the bus station.”

“Yeah, I know that. I mean, where are we going
from
the bus station?”

“Lychcombe.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah.”

“You know Pomeroy’s going to be keeping an eye on us?”

“Yeah.”

“He knows you’ve got a criminal record.”

“So? It’s only for stealing cars. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“What about the other stuff?”

Cole glanced at me. “What other stuff?”

“Pomeroy said that he knew all about you and Dad, and he didn’t just mean what’s on file.”

“If it’s not on file there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Forget it, Rube—all right? It’s nothing. We’re not doing anything wrong. We’re just going to Lychcombe. There’s no law against that.”

He was getting edgy again, so I decided to change the subject.

“Why don’t we get a taxi?” I suggested. “We might have to wait hours for a bus.”

“Rachel went by bus,” Cole said. “Merton told us—remember? They found a return bus ticket from Plymouth to Lychcombe in her raincoat pocket.”

I looked at him. “You want us to retrace her journey?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you think it’ll help?”

He shrugged. “I just want to know how it feels.”

We walked on in silence to the bus station. It was late afternoon now. The sky was clear and the sun was still fairly bright, but as we entered the bus station everything suddenly faded to a cold, gloomy gray. It was a miserable place, dull and ugly and airless. A world without smiles.

It was a bus station.

I checked out the timetables. The next bus to
Lychcombe was leaving in half an hour, which wasn’t bad at all, considering the one before that had left five hours ago.

We went into the station café. Cole got me a couple of meat pies and a Coke, and a coffee for himself, and we took them over to a table by the window. We sat there in silence for a while—Cole sipping his coffee, me munching my way through mouthfuls of moist pastry and gristle—both of us staring idly through the grease-smeared glass of the window. There wasn’t much to look at. Concrete pillars. Metal benches. Broken vending machines. Buses were lurching and rumbling around the concourse, hissing and juddering into their parking bays, and lifeless people were shuffling around looking lost, or bored, or both.

It was a dead place.

Dead and cold.

I looked at Cole. His eyes were still, staring at nothing.

“I’ve been thinking about Rachel’s raincoat,” I said to him.

“What?”

“Rachel’s raincoat.”

He looked at me. “What about it?”

“I’m not sure. It’s just that Merton told us they’d found the bus ticket in her raincoat pocket, and Pomeroy said something about her raincoat as well.”

“So?”

“Rachel didn’t have a raincoat.”

“What?”

“She didn’t have a raincoat.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“How do you know she didn’t have a raincoat?”

“I don’t know…I just
know
. I never saw her wearing one. The only coats she ever wore were those little zippyup things. She wasn’t the raincoat type. Think about it, Cole. Can you see Rachel in a raincoat of any kind?”

He thought about it, closing his eyes, trying to picture her…

“Believe me,” I said, putting him out of his misery. “She didn’t have a raincoat.”

“Maybe she bought one,” he suggested. “It was raining that night. Maybe she bought a raincoat—”

“Or borrowed one.”

I was looking out through the window as I spoke, my eyes suddenly transfixed. I was staring at Rachel’s ghost. She was there. I could see her. She was right
there—
sitting on a bus station bench, surrounded by shopping bags, reading a glossy magazine.

I knew it wasn’t a ghost, and I knew it wasn’t Rachel, but for a fleeting moment my head was ablaze with delusion—
It’s a mistake…she’s not dead…it was all a mistake…it was somebody else it was somebody else…

“Ruben?”

It wasn’t a mistake.

“Rube?”

I turned to Cole. “Yeah…?”

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“What?”

He shook his head. “I asked you who Rachel could have borrowed a raincoat from.”

“From
her
,” I said, nodding through the window at the girl who wasn’t a ghost. “From Abbie Gorman.”

We left the café and headed over to the bench where Abbie was sitting. She was wearing low-slung jeans and a tight black sweater, and her eyes were hidden behind sunglasses.

“Are you sure that’s her?” Cole asked me.

“Yeah.”

Her resemblance to Rachel unsettled him. I could see the unease in his eyes, and I could feel him struggling with the pictures she stirred in the core in his mind.

The pictures of Rachel.

I could see them, too.

As we walked up to the bench and stopped in front of it, Abbie lowered her magazine and looked up at us over her sunglasses.

“Excuse me,” Cole said. “I hope you don’t mind—”

“What?” she said sharply. “What do you want?”

“Are you Abbie Gorman?”

Her eyes flashed with fear. “Why? Who are you? What do you want?”

“I’m Cole Ford, this is Ruben. We’re Rachel’s brothers.”

Abbie’s mouth dropped open and she stared at us. The immediate fear had gone from her eyes, but there was something else there now, something deeper. I didn’t know what it was, but it didn’t feel good.

“You’re
Cole
?” she said.

Cole nodded.

She looked at me, her eyes widening in recognition. “Ruben? Christ…look at you. Last time I saw you, you were just a little kid.” She shook her head in amazement. “God, you scared me. I didn’t know who you
were
. I thought you were after money or something.” She looked back at Cole again, beginning to smile. “What are you doing here?” And then her face suddenly died. “Oh God, Rachel…God, I’m so sorry…”

And she started crying.

Cole isn’t very comfortable with tears. Me neither, actually. We don’t really know what to do with them. Especially when we’re standing around in an unfamiliar bus station and people are beginning to stop and stare and wonder what’s going on.

So we were both pretty relieved when the bus to Lychcombe pulled in and Abbie started pulling herself together.

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes and collecting her bags. “I really have to go. This is the last bus back. I’d love to stay and talk to you—”

“We can talk on the bus,” said Cole.

“Sorry?”

“We’re going to Lychcombe.”

Abbie froze. “You’re
what
?”

“We’re going to Lychcombe,” Cole repeated. “You don’t mind if we join you on the bus, do you?”

“No,” she said, lying through her teeth. “No, not at all.”

My dad used to travel all over the place before he married Mum. He spent most of his life on the road—working here, working there, doing this and that. He never cared what he did for money. Like most gypsies, he didn’t live to work, he worked to live. He could turn his hand to just about anything—farmwork, tarmacking, roofing, laboring. He even sold carpets for a while. Sometimes he’d go off somewhere and work on his own, but most of the time he traveled around with his family and a tight-knit group of other families, often closely related. They’d set up camp on the edge of a town somewhere, work the land or the streets for a few months, then move on again and try somewhere new. During the summer they’d spend most of their time—and most of their money—at fairs and horse races all over the country: Appleby, Doncaster, Derby, Musselburgh. Dad used to fight at the races, too. Big fights, big crowds, big money.

His life was so bound up with being on the move that when he first started living at the breaker’s yard with Mum,
he was physically ill for a while. He just wasn’t used to staying in one place. He tried to pretend that it wasn’t a problem—“Being a gypsy is a state of mind,” he used to say, “not a state of action”—but he never really got over it.

Anyway, I suppose what I’m trying to say is that although I’m half gypsy, and although there’s a big part of my dad in me, I haven’t really traveled at all. In my mind I’ve been around the world and back—in stories, in dreams, in thoughts—but in reality I’ve hardly been anywhere outside London. It’s never really bothered me that much. I mean, I’ve never pined for the open roads or anything. But as the bus rattled out of Plymouth that day and we headed up onto the moor, I began to realize that maybe I
had
been missing out on something after all.

After the bus had pulled out of the station and we’d all settled down in our seats, the three of us had spent the first five minutes of the journey just staring through the windows in awkward silence. None of us knew what to say. I was sitting on the long backseat behind Cole, and Abbie was sitting across from him. She’d piled all her shopping bags on the seat beside her, as if she didn’t want either of us to get too close.

There wasn’t much to see through the windows at first. Everything looked the same as everywhere else. Only grayer. And uglier. Same shops, same streets, same faces, same traffic. There weren’t even any other passengers to
look at. The bus was empty. Just us, the driver, and our awkward silence.

Gradually, though, as the gray of the town gave way to the rolling pastures of the countryside, Cole and Abbie began to talk. It was all very hesitant at first—forced and wary, hard work for both of them—but at least they were talking. I listened for a while, but it was mostly nothing stuff—the kind of stuff you talk about before you start talking about the stuff you really want to talk about—so I just let them get on with it and turned my attention to the alien world passing by outside.

It was stunning.

I’d read books about Dartmoor, of course, especially over the last few days, but books are no substitute for the real thing—and the real thing was just incredible. I’d never seen such emptiness.

We’d left the lush green fields behind us now and were heading up into the heart of the moor. The road was narrowing, growing bleaker and wilder as it stretched out in front of us over huge rolling slopes, and in the distance the landscape was darkening in the shadows of sinister hills. The moorland skies were gray and endless, and the air was getting colder by the minute. Everything looked faded and dead: the bone-white grasses at the side of the road, the giant boulders dotted over the slopes, the pale hills in the background. The emptiness went on forever. There were no houses, no cars, no shops, no
people, no nothing. Just a lonely gray road, leading to nowhere.

In the distance, dark forests loomed against the horizon. On the high ground between the forests, towering outcrops of weirdly shaped rocks jutted out from the ground, and in the slanting rays of the early evening sun, the silhouettes of the weathered rocks formed nightmare faces against the sky: humans, dogs, giants, demons. Around the rocks there were strange stunted trees, their withered branches sculpted by the wind.

The trees spoke to me of dying breaths.

My heart was cold.

“They’re tors,” Abbie said, breaking into my thoughts.

“What?”

“Those rocks in the distance—they’re called tors.”

“Yeah,” I said, “I know.”

She looked at me, and I immediately regretted the tone of my voice. I hadn’t meant to sound rude, it’d just come out that way. I smiled at her, trying to make up for it.

“I remember reading something about them,” I said awkwardly. “The tors, I mean. They’re formed out of ancient granite that’s been chemically eroded over millions of years…”

“Really?”

I nodded. She was staring at me now, and I should have shut up. But I was embarrassed, and when I’m embarrassed I
can’t
shut up. My brain gets scrambled and I start jabbering
like an idiot. “Sorry,” I muttered, “I expect you already knew that, didn’t you? About the tors, I mean. Not that it matters…I mean, it doesn’t matter if you knew it or not…I just meant, you know…I didn’t
mean
anything…”

Abbie had turned to Cole now, looking at him with her eyebrows raised as if I was out of my head.

Cole just shrugged.

Abbie glanced back at me again. I looked at Cole. He gave me a meaningful look.

I nodded at him, smiled at Abbie again, then went back to looking out of the window.

I wasn’t sure what Cole’s meaningful look was supposed to mean, but I guessed he wanted me to shut up and listen.

So that’s what I did.

As the bus carried on rattling across the moor, and the landscape grew colder and grayer, I shut up and listened.