Mo Hayder: Gone

‘What did the Little Cook look like, Cleo?’

‘Little Cook? He’s red. And white. Holding a tray.’

‘Little Chef,’ said Caffery.

‘That’s what I meant. Little Chef.’

Simone frowned. ‘There aren’t any Little Chefs around here.’

‘There are,’ the CAPIT officer said. ‘In Farrington Gurney.’

Caffery went to the desk, pulled the map over. Shepton Mallet. Farrington Gurney. Right in the heart of the Mendip Hills. From Bruton to Shepton Mallet wasn’t a long way, but Cleo had been in the car forty minutes. The jacker had driven her in zigzags. He’d gone north, then hairpinned back south-west. And in doing that he’d gone past the road that led to Midsomer Norton. The place the convenience-store manager had mentioned. If they had nothing else for the jacker at least they could put a pin in the map on the Midsomer Norton and Radstock area. And focus on it.

‘They do waffles there,’ said the CAPIT woman, smiling at Cleo. ‘I have my breakfast there sometimes.’

Caffery couldn’t keep still. He pushed the map away and sat at the desk. ‘Cleo, in all that time you were with the caretaker, did he talk to you? Did he say anything?’

‘Yes. He kept asking about my mum and dad. Kept asking what their jobs were.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I told him the truth. Mum’s a financial analyst, she earns all the money, and Dad, well, he works to help little children when their mums and dads split up.’

‘You sure there’s nothing else he said? Nothing else you can remember?’

‘I guess,’ she said unconcernedly. ‘I think he said, “It’s not going to work.” ’

‘It’s not going to work?’ Caffery stared at her. ‘When did he say that?’

‘Just before he stopped. He said, “It’s not working, get out.” So I got out and went to the side of the road. I thought he was going to give me my bag with my T-shirt in it but he didn’t. Mum had to buy me a new one because we never got our car back, did we, Mum? We got the T-shirt at the school shop. It’s got my initials and it’s . . .’

Caffery had stopped paying attention. He was staring at a point in mid-air, thinking about the words: It’s not working . Meaning it had gone wrong. He’d lost his nerve.

But if that was true for Cleo, it wasn’t true for Martha. This time it was different. This time the jacker had kept his nerve. This time it was working.

By three o’clock the cloud cover had broken in places and the low sun shone obliquely across the fields in this corner of north Somerset. Flea wore the jacket with reflective strips for her afternoon jog. She’d got her dumb nickname as a child because people told her she never looked before she leaped. And because of her irritating, incurable energy. Her real name was Phoebe. Over the years she had tried systematically to iron the ‘Flea’ part out of her character, but still there were days when she thought her energy might burn a hole through the ground she stood on. On those days she had a trick to calm herself. She ran.

She used the lanes that laced through the countryside near her home. She’d run until sweat poured from her and there were blisters on her feet. Past stiles and half-dormant cows, past stone-built cottages and mansions, past the officers in uniform who poured out of the Ministry of Defence base near her house. Sometimes she’d run late into the night, until all her thoughts and apprehensions had shaken themselves loose and there was nothing left in her head save the desire for sleep.

Being physically in shape was one thing. Maintaining that fitness and control all the way through to the inside was another. As she turned the corner on the last leg of the run, she was picturing the Bradleys’ Yaris screeching out of the car park in Frome. She kept thinking about Martha Bradley sitting in the back seat. Flea had got a friend from Frome station to read her Rose’s statement. In it she’d said Martha had been leaning over from the back seat to tune in the radio when the car took off. So she wasn’t strapped in. Had she been thrown around as the jacker sped away? He wouldn’t have stopped to strap her in.

Nearly twenty hours had passed since Flea had spoken to Jack Caffery. It took time for the force grapevine to pass messages between distant units, but even so she thought she’d have heard by now if Caffery’d picked up her idea. What kept going through her head like a shriek was that there’d already been two chances for her to push her conviction that the attacks were connected. She imagined a world where she hadn’t been intimidated by her inspector, a world where she’d followed her instincts, the jacker had been picked up months ago and Martha hadn’t been abducted from the supermarket car park yesterday.

She let herself into the house from the garage, full of Dad and Mum’s old diving and caving equipment. Stuff she would never move or chuck out. Upstairs she did her stretches and took a shower. The heating in the rambling old house was on, but outside it was seriously cold. What would Martha be thinking? At what point had she realized that the man wasn’t going to stop the car and let her out? At what point had she realized she’d stepped full face into the world of adults? Did she cry? Beg for her mum? Would she be thinking now that she might never see her or her dad again? It wasn’t right that any little girl should have to ask herself questions like that. Martha’s head wasn’t old enough to sort it all out. She hadn’t had time to make safe places in her thoughts to hide, the way adults did. It wasn’t fair.

When Flea was little she’d loved her parents more than anything. This creaky old house, four artisans’ cottages knocked into one, had been her family home. She’d grown up there, and though there hadn’t exactly been money coming out of their ears, they’d lived well, with long, untidy summer days playing football or hide-and-seek in the rambling garden that dropped in terraces away from the house.

Most of all she’d been loved. So very, very well loved. In those days it would have killed her to be separated from her family like Martha had been.

But that had been then and this was now and everything was different. Mum and Dad were dead, both of them, and Thom, her younger brother, had done something so unspeakable that she would never be able to find her way back to any relationship with him. Not in this lifetime. He’d killed a woman. A young woman. And pretty – pretty enough that she’d been famous for it. Not that her looks had done her much good. Now she was buried under a cairn in an inaccessible cave next to a disused quarry, put there by Flea in an idiot attempt to cover the whole thing up. Insanity, in hindsight. Not the way a person like her – a normal, salaried, mortgage-paying person – should have behaved. No surprise she was carrying this balled-up rage around. No surprise there was just deadness in her eyes these days.

By the time she was dressed it was almost sunset. Downstairs, she opened the fridge and stared at what was inside. Microwave meals. Meals for one. And a two-litre carton of milk that was past its sell-by date because there was only her to drink it, and if she did unexpected overtime it never got used. She closed the door and rested her head against it. How had it come to this – on her own, no kids, no animals, no friends any more? Living a spinster’s life at twenty-nine.

There was a bottle of Tanqueray gin in the freezer, and a bag of lemon she’d sliced at the weekend. She made herself a tall tumbler, the way Dad would have done, with four precise slices of lemon, frozen hard, four cubes of ice and a splash of tonic. She put on a fleece and took the glass outside to the driveway. She liked to stand there and drink, watch the distant lights coming on in the old city of Bath in the valley, even when it was cold. You’d never take a Marley away from this place. Not without a fight.