41
We met in a coffee house opposite Shepherd’s Bush Market. Healy was already inside, sitting at the window so he could watch me approach from the station. Two mugs were on the counter in front of him.
He looked different from when I’d last seen him. He’d lost a little weight, had had his red hair cut and styled, and wore a tailored suit. He appeared fresher, more professional, with none of the ferocity I’d spent so much time reining in the October before. And yet there was just the hint of something; a trace of the old Healy. As I moved inside the shop, shook hands with him and sat down, I wondered how long it would be before it came out.
‘You still drink coffee, right?’ he asked, pushing one towards me. ‘Black, no sugar.’
‘Well remembered.’
‘I’m clever like that.’
He nodded and a moment of silence settled between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it wasn’t relaxed either. The old Healy was a hard guy to like. He did his best to piss you off and fight you on everything. The new one seemed more controlled, but no less intense. I could see his brain ticking over, trying to figure out what he needed to say to me and why. He hadn’t told me a lot over the phone, which was fairly typical of him. In his search for Leanne, he’d spent so long bottling things up, working her case off the books and keeping it concealed, he’d eventually forgotten how to articulate himself.
‘How have you been?’ I asked.
‘Fine. You?’
‘I’m okay.’
He nodded, but didn’t probe any further.
‘How are Gemma and the boys?’
A flicker of sadness in his face. ‘They’re good.’
I hadn’t seen him for over seven months, but as I watched how he sat – his bulky frame perched on the edge of the stool; his hand wrapped around the mug, wedding band still on – it didn’t feel like it.
‘So I hear you’re back in the big time.’
He looked at me. ‘Who’d you hear that from?’
‘Someone I know at the Met.’
His eyes lingered on me – that trace of the old Healy – and then he broke out into a small, tight smile. It was a token effort; hardly even there. ‘That’s right.’
‘How’s it going?’
The smile dropped away. ‘That’s what I need to talk to you about.’
This time it was my turn to look suspicious. His face was turned away from me, half lit by the sun coming in from outside, half darkened by the shadows of the shop.
‘What’s going on?’
He took a long, drawn-out breath. ‘They don’t know I’m here telling you this, and if they found out, I’d get my arse handed to me. So you need to keep this on the QT.’
‘I can’t tell anyone anything if I don’t know what it is we’re talking about,’ I said to him and, almost immediately, he reached down to his side where a slip case was leaning against the legs of the chair. He brought it up and unzipped it. Inside there were six files. Four were thick, rammed with paper, all contained within identical Manila folders. A fifth was about half the size, in a green folder. The last was the thinnest – maybe only ten pages, in a charcoal-grey surround – and was the one he took out.
‘I’ve just come from Julia Wren.’
That stopped me dead. ‘What?’
‘You’re working for her, right?’
But I didn’t hear him. My mind was already shifting forward: why would he have been to see Julia? Was this to do with Sam? Did I miss something? Overlook something? I reached into my coat pocket and took out my phone. On the display was one missed call, received while I was on the Tube. Julia. She’d been calling me about the police.
‘Raker?’
I glanced at him. ‘Yeah.’
‘You’re working for her?’
‘Yeah, I’m working for her. So?’
‘Have you found her husband?’
I shook my head. ‘No.’
‘Well, the Met are going to ask you to shut this down.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘They’re going to turn up on your doorstep’ – he looked at his watch – ‘in about an hour, and they’re going to want you to stop looking for him.’
‘Why would I do that?’
He handed me the file. On the first page was a colour picture of Sam. ‘Because they think Samuel Wren is the Snatcher.’