Mo Hayder - Gone

There was a long pause. Then he said, ‘Janice? Are you sure you’re at home? You sound like you’re outside somewhere.’

‘Of course I’m at home. Of course.’ Her pulse was racing: she could feel the adrenalin making her fingers tingle. ‘I’ve got to go, Cory. She’s crying. I’ve got to go.’

She jammed her finger on the red button and dropped back against the wall, breathing hard. She was shaking. There was too much to think about. Too much. She’d have to make up a story about how she and Emily remembered they didn’t have something – milk or coffee or something – and how they’d had to go out to the shops. Then she’d have to buy something to prove it. Or she’d have to say Emily wouldn’t stop crying so she’d bundled her into the car and driven her around for a while hoping it would soothe her, the way it had when she was a colicky baby. She should go straight home and smooth it all out – make it fit the lie she was going to tell. But she’d come all this way and she couldn’t just back off now. She had to see Clare.

Steeling herself she poked her head round the wall again. Jerked it straight back. The front door had opened. The bloody door had opened and there were people there, light spilling out on to the pavement, voices. She pulled the hood of her quilted jacket up, dragged it down low over her eyes and gingerly peered out again. A woman came out – an older woman with severely cut white hair and a long tartan coat – followed by another in a brown coat, belted. Janice didn’t think either of them was Clare. They were too old. Too masculine-looking.

But then the door opened wider and Cory stepped out, zipping his jacket. He was walking half sideways, turning back to the building to say something to a tall thin woman with very pale straight hair. She was dressed in a long leather coat and high-heeled boots. She had a sharp, slightly bent nose, and was laughing at what he was saying. She stopped on the steps to the clinic and wrapped a scarf around her neck. Cory paused on the pavement and looked up at her. One or two people came out behind, filtered around them. The woman spoke and Cory shrugged. Rubbed his nose. Then he glanced thoughtfully up and down the street.

‘What is it?’ The woman’s voice came through the air as clear as a bell. ‘What’s the matter?’

Cory shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ He looked up and down the street again, as if he was turning something over in his head. He went back up two steps, put his hand on the woman’s elbow, dropped his face and murmured something to her.

She frowned, raised her eyes to him. He spoke again and she held up her hand, four fingers splayed. Then she turned them into a bright little wave. ‘Whatever,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Whatever, Cory. See you next week.’

Cory stepped away, still checking cautiously over his shoulder. He thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out his car keys and began to walk purposefully away from the clinic. A bolt of panic went through Janice. Fumbling for her keys she trotted as fast as she could back to the Audi.

As she got nearer she could see something was wrong with the car. Her heart thudded, low and hard. The Audi sat about twenty yards away, under a streetlight. And Emily wasn’t in it. ‘Emily?’ she murmured. ‘ Emily? ’

She broke into a run, not caring who saw her now. Her scarf unwound itself and flew off. She nearly dropped her keys. She got to the car, slammed her hands on the window, put her face to the glass.

Emily was crouched in the footwell under the back seat, surprised by her mother’s horrified face. She’d unbuckled herself, crawled down there and was playing with Jasper. He was at arm’s length, turned to face her as if they’d been having a conversation.

Janice dropped against the car, her hand over her heart.

‘Mummy!’ Emily shouted at the window-pane. She bounced up and down on the back seat. ‘Mummy, guess what?’

Taking a deep breath Janice went round to the front, got in and turned to her little girl. ‘What? What am I guessing, sweetheart?’

‘Jasper’s done a poo. In his pants. Did you get some nappies from the shop for him?’

‘Shop’s shut, sweetheart.’ She forced a smile. ‘Didn’t get nappies. No shop, no nappies – I’m sorry. Get yourself strapped in, darling. We’re going home.’

Caffery was glad he never got offered that glass of wine. If he’d had even a sniff of booze he’d have ballsed up the whole logistical nightmare that came after the tooth appeared in his mouth.

The neighbour, Mrs Fosse, a nosy, birdlike woman who wore slippers and two knitted sweaters, one over the other, had nothing to hide. He was confident of that after speaking to her for twenty minutes. She’d made the pie and put it on the doorstep with the other things at one o’clock. Hadn’t liked to knock because she found it awkward, not knowing what to say: she hoped the little gifts expressed her feelings properly. Which meant the jacker had come into the garden and pressed the tooth into the pie some time in those two hours. He must have teased it down through the twin steam holes Mrs Fosse had made with a knife.

The Walking Man was right, Caffery thought: this man was cleverer than anyone he’d dealt with before. He decided to get the Bradleys the hell out of the vicarage as soon as possible.

‘I hate you. I really, really hate you.’ In the utility room Philippa was glaring at Caffery. Her face was white, her hands were in tight fists. The side door was open and an officer from the dog-handling unit waited on the doorstep, holding both of the family dogs on leashes and trying hard not to get sucked into this argument. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this.’

Caffery sighed. It had taken him more than two hours and ten different calls, first, to get permission for the move and, second, to find somewhere to take the family. In the end it meant that a team of senior investigating officers on an exchange exercise from Holland were turned out of the suites reserved for visiting police chiefs in the training block at HQ. Now the family were ready with their bags and their coats on. ‘Philippa,’ he said, ‘I promise you – the dogs will be OK.’

‘They can’t be with someone they don’t know.’ She had tears in her eyes. ‘Not at a time like this.’

‘Listen,’ he said carefully. He knew he had to be really cautious – the last thing he needed was a hysterical teenager upsetting this scenario. He’d called the two patrol cars that had been waiting just off the estate, out of the view of the press. They’d be rolling up any minute now, and when they did he wanted the whole family in and away before the reporters had time to wonder what the hell was going on. The head of Corporate Communications had been dragged out of a darts game in Brislington and was in hasty negotiations with some of the major newspapers. The jacker had tracked the Bradleys here from press photos of them coming and going from the house. It was a symbiotic relationship, and if the media wanted any more co-operation from the police they’d have to lay off any further coverage of the Bradleys.

‘You can’t take the dogs with you, Philippa. We can’t have animals in the safe-house. They’ll be looked after by the dog handlers. And you’re going to have to understand how serious this is. You’re going to have to understand that the man who did this to your sister is . . .’

‘Is what?’

He rubbed a finger across his forehead. He wanted to say, Is cleverer than anyone I’ve dealt with? Cleverer and twice, no, three times, as weird?

‘You can take one dog. One . The other’ll have to go with the handler. OK? But you have to take this seriously, Philippa. Do I have your promise that you will? For your parents’ sake. For Martha’s sake.’