Mo Hayder - Gone

‘What is it?’ Jonathan stared at the napkin in Caffery’s hand. ‘What’ve you got there?’

‘I don’t know.’ Puzzled, Caffery wiped the tooth on the napkin and studied it closely. A tiny milk tooth.

‘It’s Martha’s.’ Rose was sitting bolt upright, her face absolutely white, her hands gripping the table. ‘It is.’ Her lips were pale. ‘Look, Jonathan, it’s her baby tooth. The one she used to keep in her locket.’

Philippa shot to her feet, strode to the table and bent over to peer at what Caffery was holding. ‘Mum? Oh, God, Mum, it is. It’s her tooth.’

‘I’m sure.’

Very, very slowly Caffery put the tooth on the table about ten inches from his plate.

‘How come it was in your mouth?’ Next to him the FLO’s voice was low and controlled.

Caffery looked down into his plate of apple pie and cream. The FLO looked at hers. They met each other’s eyes and turned to Jonathan, who was staring at his own helping, his face ashen.

‘Where did the pie come from?’

Jonathan’s pupils were like pinpricks. ‘From the neighbour,’ he said faintly. ‘Mrs Fosse.’

‘She’s been bringing food over since this started.’ The FLO put her spoon down with a clatter. ‘She’s trying to help.’

Caffery pushed away his plate and felt automatically in his pocket for his mobile, not taking his eyes off the tooth. ‘Where does she live? What number?’

Jonathan didn’t answer. He bent over and spat a mouthful of pie into his bowl, then glanced apologetically at his wife, his eyes red, watery. He scraped his chair back as if he was going to get up. Instead he leaned over the plate again. This time when he opened his mouth vomit came out, splashing into the plate, little white trails of sputum and cream flecking the table.

Everyone stared at him as he mopped his mouth with a kitchen towel, dabbed at the mess. No one said a word. A long, cold silence spread around the kitchen as if no one had the confidence to speak. Even Caffery was silent, staring at the tooth, at Jonathan dejectedly cleaning the table. Then, as Caffery was about to stand, to do something constructive, get a cloth to help, Rose Bradley came to life. ‘You pig!’ She pushed her chair back with a loud scraping noise and jumped to her feet, pointing a finger at her husband. ‘You absolute hateful pig, Jonathan. You think that if we just pretend everything’s normal it’ll all go away.’ She reached across the table and in one move sent the plate flying off the table to crack into pieces against the cooker. ‘You think pie and tea and mountains of bloody cakes are going to bring her back. You do. You really do.’

She snatched up the tooth and, ignoring the FLO who had half risen out of her chair, her hands up to calm the situation, left the room, slamming the door. A moment later, Philippa shot her father a filthy look and followed her mother, slamming the door again. Their footsteps sounded on the stairs, another door slammed. There was a thump, and then the sound of muffled sobbing.

In the kitchen no one spoke. Everyone sat in silence, staring at their feet.

Ten miles to the south in a street on the outskirts of the small town of Mere, Janice Costello, a thirty-six-year-old mother of one, parked her Audi and cut the engine. She turned to the back, where her four-year-old daughter was strapped into her car seat, ready for bed in pyjamas, Hello Kitty slippers and a hot-water bottle. She had a duvet tucked around her.

‘Emily, sweetheart? You OK, poppet?’

Emily yawned and looked blearily out of the window. ‘Where are we, Mummy?’

‘Where are we? We’re . . .’ Janice bit her lip and ducked her head down to look out of the window. ‘We’re near the shops, darling. And Mummy’s going to be just two minutes. Just two minutes, OK?’

‘I’ve got Jasper.’ She waggled her toy rabbit. ‘We’re having a cuddle.’

‘Good girl.’ Janice leaned over and tickled Emily under the chin, making her jam it down and wriggle gleefully.

‘Stop it! Stop it!’

Janice smiled. ‘That’s a good girl. You keep Jasper warm, and I’ll be straight back.’

She unbuckled and got out of the car, central-locking it. She gave Emily a last glance, straightened and stood under the streetlamp, looking anxiously up and down the road. She was lying to Emily. There weren’t any shops round here. What was here, just around the corner, was an NHS clinic. It was playing host to a group counselling session. Three men and three women: they met every Monday and they’d be coming out – she checked her watch – any minute now. She went to the corner and stood with her back against the wall, craning her neck so she could see the building. The lights were on in the porch and in two of the front windows – maybe where the session was taking place – the blinds were drawn tight.

Janice Costello was about as certain as she could be that her husband was having an affair. Cory had been coming to this group-therapy session for three years, and she was pretty sure he’d developed a ‘friendship’ with one of the women. At first it had been just a nagging suspicion, just a sense that something wasn’t right – a distance about him, not coming to bed when she did and long, unexplained absences when he took his car and claimed to have ‘just been driving around thinking’. There were unexpected arguments over unimportant things – the way she answered the phone or put vegetables on the plate at dinner, even the mustard she chose. Mustard. How stupid was that? A stand-up screaming match over the fact he wanted grains because English mustard was ‘so parochial . For Christ’s sake, Janice, can’t you see that?’

It was the casual mentions of ‘Clare’ that really tipped her off, though. Clare says this, Clare says the other. When Janice quizzed him he gave her a look as if he didn’t know what she was talking about.

‘Clare,’ she repeated. ‘You’ve just said her name about twenty times. Clare?’

‘Oh, Clare . From Group, you mean. What about her?’

Janice didn’t push it any further, but when she subtly slipped his phone out of his pocket later that night, when he’d fallen asleep in front of the TV, she found two calls from ‘Clare P’. And now it had got to the point where she wanted to know. It should be easy. All she’d have to do was see him with the woman. She’d know instantly from his mannerisms.

The lights in the window went off and another came on in the hallway. The end of the session. Her heart began to pound. Someone was going to come to the door any second. Her phone rang in her pocket. Shit, she’d forgotten to turn it off. She pulled it out, ready to kill it, but when she saw who was calling her finger came off the red button and she stared at it, not knowing what to do.

Cory. Cory was calling her. He was only ten yards away in the building and the moment the door opened he’d hear her phone ringing through the cold air. Her finger went back to the kill button, hesitated, then moved and hit the green.

‘Hi.’ Her voice was bright. She twisted back round the corner and stood facing the wall, one finger in her ear. ‘How’d it go?’

‘Yeah, you know.’ Cory sounded tired, moody. ‘Same old, same old. Where are you?’

‘Where am I? I’m . . . I’m at home, of course. Why?’

‘Home? I’ve just been calling you on the landline. Didn’t you hear?’

‘No – I mean, I was in the kitchen. Busy with dinner.’

There was a pause. ‘Shall I call you on it now, save the bill?’

‘No! No – that’s . . . Don’t, Cory. You’ll wake Emily.’

‘She’s asleep? It’s not even six o’clock yet.’

‘Yeah, but you know – school tomorrow—’ She broke off. Emily was in Reception: she was quite old enough to tell Cory they hadn’t been at home tonight. She was getting into deep lies now. Deep trouble. She swallowed. ‘Are you coming home?’