Mo Hayder - Gone

A few people gathered round to look. Caffery got down on his haunches at eye level and stared at the cast. The bottom layer showed some traces of the footprints, but where the jacker had scored through them the plaster-of-paris had trickled deep into the holes made by the sharp instrument, creating spikes and peaks when the cast was reversed.

‘Any idea what he used to make those gouges? Recognize that shape?’

The CSM shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Something sharp, but not with a blade. Something long, thin. Ten inches – a foot? Made a good job of it. We’re not going to get any readable footprints.’

‘Can I see?’ Sergeant Flea Marley came forward from the group, holding a polystyrene cup of coffee. She was bedraggled from the search – her hair was a mess, her black coat unzipped to show her sweat-stained police T-shirt. Her face was different from the way she’d looked the other night outside the offices, he thought. A bit calmer. This morning her unit had fallen on its feet for a change and, really, he should be pleased for her. ‘I’d like to look.’

The CSM held out some nitrile gloves. ‘Want these?’

She put down the coffee, pulled on the gloves and tilted the cast to one side. Squinted at it.

‘What?’ said Caffery.

‘Dunno,’ she murmured. ‘Dunno.’ She turned it round and round. She rested her fingers thoughtfully on the tips of the spikes. ‘Weird.’ She handed the cast back to the CSM, turned away and wandered along the trestle table to where the exhibits officer was busily bagging and tagging the various bits and pieces they’d pulled out on the search to take to the forensics lab: tissues, Coke cans, syringes, a length of blue nylon rope. The place was obviously a hang-out for local glue huffers, the number of baggies they’d found. Most had been discarded in the field – along with more than a hundred plastic cider bottles. She stood, arms folded, and scanned the objects.

Caffery came up to her. ‘See anything?’

She turned over a six-inch nail. An old plastic coat hanger. Put them back again. Bit her lip and looked back to where the CSM was wrapping the cast.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing.’ She shook her head. ‘Thought the shape of those gouges reminded me of something. But it doesn’t.’

‘Boss?’ DC Turner appeared from the direction of the main road, making his way between the parked cars. In a raincoat, with a little tartan scarf at the neck, he looked weirdly preppy.

‘Turner? I thought you were on your way back to the office.’

‘I know, I’m sorry, but I’ve just got off the phone to Prody. He’s been trying to call – you must have been out of signal range. He’s sent a PDF through to your BlackBerry.’

Caffery had a new phone and he could get email attachments wherever he was. The Walking Man would say it was typical of him to find more ways of never being absent from work. He fished in his pocket for the phone. The email icon was lit up.

‘It arrived at the office an hour ago,’ Turner said. ‘Prody scanned it and sent it straight over to you.’ He gave an apologetic shrug, as if this whole thing was his fault. ‘Another letter. Same as the one in the car. Same handwriting, same paper. Has a stamp on it but no postmark. Came through internal so we’re trying to trace it back – but so far no one knows where it originated, how it got in the damned post.’

‘OK, OK.’ Caffery pulled out his phone. He could feel a vein pulsing in his temple. ‘Get back to the office, Turner. I want you doing liaison for those search warrants the POLSA’s after.’

He went further up the track to stand where he couldn’t be seen, at the edge of the lumber-yard, behind an open-sided barn piled with the trunks of Norway spruces. He opened the attachment on the phone. It took a minute or two to download but when it came through he knew instantly it was from the jacker. Knew it wasn’t a hoax.

Martha says hello. Martha says hello and says tell Mummy and daddy she’s being really brave. But she doesn’t like the cold very much does she. And she’s not a big talker. Not any more. I’ve tried to have a conversation with her, but she won’t speak a lot. Oh except for one thing: she’s said a few times to let you know her mother’s a cunt. Which maybe she’s right about! Who knows! One thing’s for sure: her mothers fat. Fat AND a cunt. Christ, life doesn’t shine clean on some of us, does it? What a fat cunt she is. I look at someone like Martha and think that’s the tragedy, isn’t it, that she has to grow up and turn into a fat cunt like her mother? What does Mummy think about that? Does she think it’s a shame her daughter has to grow up? Probably scared of what will happen when she leaves the house. I mean when Martha’s gone who’s Daddy going to diddle? Have to go back to having a ride on big tit Mama .

Caffery hadn’t realized until now he’d been holding his breath. He let it out all at once. Scrolled up to the top of the letter and read it through again. Then, almost as if he might be caught reading a dirty mag or something, he shoved the phone in his pocket and looked around him. The vein in his temple was aching. On the other side of the yard Sergeant Marley had started the van and was reversing it back up the track. He pressed a finger to the vein, held it there for a count of ten. Then he made his way back to his car.

The Bradleys’ was easy to spot as you drove on to the estate: there was a press pack camped opposite it, and in the front garden a pile of flowers and gifts that had been left by well-wishers. Caffery knew a private way in: he parked at the top of the estate and walked away into the grounds, wading through carpets of rustling leaves, looping round and coming at the house from the back. There was a door in the garden fence that the press hadn’t found. The police and the Bradley family had reached an agreement: two or three times a day one of the family would show their face at the front door, just enough to keep the pack happy. The rest of the time they used the back entrance, coming through the garden. At three thirty p.m. it was almost dark, and Caffery slipped into the garden unnoticed.

On the back step there was a basket covered, like something out of a Delia Smith book, with a gingham cloth. When the family liaison officer opened the door Caffery pointed to it. She picked it up and beckoned him inside. ‘The neighbour,’ she whispered, closing the door behind him. ‘She thinks they need feeding. We have to keep throwing stuff away – no one in this family’s eating anything. Come on.’

The kitchen was warm and clean, despite its shabbiness. Caffery knew that for the Bradleys it was comforting – they looked as if they’d spent most of the last three days in there. A rickety portable TV had been brought in and stood on a table in the corner. It was showing the twenty-four-hour news channel. Something about the economy and the Chinese government. Jonathan Bradley was at the sink, his back turned to the TV, his neck bent wearily. He was studiously washing a plate. He wore jeans and, Caffery noticed, mismatched slippers. Rose watched the TV from the kitchen table, dressed in a pink housecoat, an untouched cup of tea in front of her. She still looked medicated, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She was well built, Caffery thought, but not obviously obese and you wouldn’t notice it if she was wearing an outdoor coat. Either the jacker was taking a shot in the dark, or it was just his own species of abuse. Or he’d seen her without a coat some time before the kidnap.

‘Detective Caffery,’ the FLO announced to the family, putting the basket on the table. ‘I hope that’s still OK.’

Only Jonathan responded. He stopped washing up and nodded. He got a tea-towel and wiped his hands. ‘Of course it is.’ He gave a tight smile and held out his hand. ‘Hello, Mr Caffery.’