Mo Hayder - Gone

‘This morning?’

‘You saw the cast the CSI made. You didn’t recognize what the jacker used to score out his prints?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I don’t know.’ She felt something cold and half opaque patter across the back of her head. A shadowy picture of the forests they’d searched. The farmland stretching away to either side. During the search this morning there had been whispers about the things the jacker had said in the letter. No one outside MCIU was supposed to know but things got around the other units, and this morning all the officers had worked with their heads full of vague, unsettling notions about what the jacker might have done with Martha. ‘Just a . . . feeling about that place. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.’

‘A hunch?’

She gave him a cold look. ‘I’m learning to trust my “hunches”, Wellard. Learning I’m not as blonde as you think. And I feel like there’s something in the . . .’ she groped for the word ‘. . . the environment out there that was important. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘You know me, Sarge, I’m a grunt. It’s my stunning body I use to turn a dime. Not my loaf.’ He winked and left the office, his footsteps fading down the corridor. She smiled bleakly and listened to him go. Outside, rain had begun to fall, so slow, fat and nebulous it could almost have been snow. Winter really was here.

At six fifteen a dark Audi S6 screamed through the small streets of Mere, gunning itself around the bends. Janice Costello was racing to get home before her husband, her hands gripping the wheel, sweat making her palms slick. The radio was on – a media psychiatrist giving his opinion on the carjacker who had kidnapped a little girl in Frome the other day: it was probably a white male in his thirties. Could be a husband, could even be a father. Janice shakily turned the radio off. Why hadn’t she thought about that bastard before she’d left Emily on her own in the car? Frome wasn’t that far from here. She was so, so lucky nothing had happened. She was losing her mind, taking a risk like that. Losing it.

Clare. It was all her fault. Clare, Clare, Clare . The name bothered Janice more than almost anything. If it had been Mylene or Kylie or Kirsty , any one of those young-girl names, she’d have found it easier. She could have pictured a big-breasted teenager with straightened blonde hair and ‘BENCH’ written on her bottom. But Clare ? Clare sounded like someone Janice might have gone to school with. And the pale woman at the clinic wasn’t sexy or brash or inexperienced. She looked like someone you could have a proper conversation with. She looked like a Clare.

It wasn’t the first time Cory’d had an affair. That had happened six years ago. With a ‘beauty therapist’ whom Janice had never met but pictured as someone with a year-round suntan, expensive underwear and maybe a Brazilian bikini wax. When Janice had found out about it, the Costellos had gone into therapy together: Cory was so repentant, so mortified at the mistake he’d made, that for a while she almost forgave him. And then something else had entered the mix, something that changed her mind and convinced her to give him a second chance. She’d found she was pregnant.

Emily arrived in a rush in the winter and Janice was poleaxed with such unexpected love for her little girl that for years it didn’t matter what was happening in the marriage. Cory was in therapy and had a new job in Bristol as a ‘marketing consultant on sustainable product development’ to a printing company. It made her laugh, that title, with the earnest way he disregarded his own carbon footprint. Still, he was earning enough money for Janice to stop work and take small freelance editing jobs, which paid a pittance but kept her skills sharp. For a while life had moved along serenely. Until now. Until Clare. And now everything had narrowed down to this obsession – nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling while Cory snored next to her. The secretive phone monitoring, the checking of pockets at the dry-cleaner’s, the questioning. All leading to tonight – the darkened rush across town with poor Emily tucked up in the back of the car.

She lunged the Audi sideways, down the residential street. Screeched to a halt in the driveway of their Victorian semi. No Cory. When she turned round she saw that Emily, bless her – instead of sitting white-faced, terrified by the race home – really had fallen asleep, Jasper tucked between her chin and her shoulder like one of those neck pillows clutched by people trailing around in airports.

‘Come on, sweetheart,’ Janice whispered. ‘Mummy’s going to take you up to bed.’

She was able to bundle Emily out of the car and into her bunkbed without waking her. She rubbed toothpaste on a finger hurriedly round Emily’s sleepy mouth – it would have to do for now – kissed the little girl on the forehead, tore off her own coat and shoes and threw them into the wardrobe. She was in the kitchen emptying the last of the milk into the sink when Cory’s car pulled up outside. Quickly she rinsed the carton and carried it out to the front to put in the recycling bin.

Cory met her at the door, keys in his hand, suspicion on his face. ‘Hello.’ He looked her up and down, noting the outdoor shoes.

‘Out of milk.’ She rattled the empty carton at him. ‘I went to try and get some more but the shop’s run out.’

‘You went out? What about Emily?’

‘I left her, of course. I put her into a nice warm bath and gave her some razor blades to play with. For God’s sake, Cory, what do you take me for? She came with me.’

‘You said she was asleep.’

‘I said she’d woken up. You don’t listen.’ She put the milk carton into the bin and stood, arms folded, studying him. He was good-looking, Cory. No getting away from that. But lately there was something soft about his jaw that made him seem almost feminine. And there was a bald spot starting on the top of his head. She’d noticed it in bed the other night. It didn’t bother her, but she wondered what Clare would make of it. Was it worth saying something to him – just to puncture his ego? Or should she let Clare notice it?

‘How was the session?’

‘Told you. Same old, same old.’

‘Clare?’

‘Eh?’

‘ Clare . The one you were talking about the other day. Remember?’

‘Why do you want to know about her?’

‘Just showing an interest. Is she still fighting with her ex?’

‘Her husband? Yes – the piece of shit. The things he did to her, to her kids, outrageous.’

There was a tinge of extra venom there. Piece of shit ? She’d never heard him use that expression before. Maybe something he’d learned from Clare.

‘Anyway – I’m thinking of stopping the group.’ He pushed past her into the hallway, unbuttoning his coat. ‘It’s taking too much time. Things are changing at work – they want more hours out of me.’

Janice followed him into the kitchen and watched him open the fridge, hunt for a beer. ‘More hours? That’ll mean late nights, I suppose.’

‘That’s the one. Can’t afford not to. Not with the world the way it is. The directors want me at a big meeting tomorrow afternoon. We’re going to discuss it then. Four o’clock.’

Four. Like a slap, Clare’s face came back to Janice, the way she was holding her hands up. Four fingers. They meant four o’clock. Cory and Clare were meeting at four. He wouldn’t be answering any of Janice’s calls because he’d be in a ‘meeting’. And then, almost to confirm exactly what she’d suspected, he said conversationally, ‘What are you doing tomorrow? Any plans?’