Mo Hayder - Gone

But Prody didn’t leave. He hovered at the door. ‘It was difficult for you. The way the case closed.’

Caffery raised his eyes and stared at him. He couldn’t believe this. He pushed the keyboard away and gave him his full attention. He’d told the guy to drop it once, so where was he getting off pursuing it? ‘It was difficult when the unit had to let go of it.’ He switched off his lamp. Put his elbows on the table. Made his face as calm as he could. ‘I can’t lie to you. That part was difficult. That’s why I don’t appreciate you bringing files in from the review team.’

‘The informer you had?’

‘What about him?’

‘You never did say who he was.’

‘It’s not in the paperwork. That’s the whole point of snouts. They get their privacy.’

‘You never thought he was lying to you, your contact? That doctor – the one the snout said had done Misty – they dug up his garden but they never found her. There was nothing else to connect the guy to her. So that’s why I thought – maybe the snout was lying, putting you off the track?’

Caffery studied Prody, looking for signs that the guy knew anything – anything at all – about the truth he was scraping near. There was no informer. Never had been. And the digging in the garden was just another of the ways Caffery had got the force to chase its own tail over the Kitson case. He might never quite understand why he’d done it for Flea. If it wasn’t for the way she froze something in him every time he saw her, if she’d been a guy, if she’d been Prody, say, or Turner, with what he knew he’d probably have turned them over in a blink. ‘It wasn’t my finest hour,’ he told Prody steadily. ‘If I had it over again I’d do things differently. But I can’t, and the force has run out of resources and come to the end of too many avenues, and like I said yesterday I’d appreciate your energy going on what’s happened to Martha Bradley and what that bastard has done to her. So . . .’ he held up his hand, inclined his head pleasantly ‘. . . the CCTV footage?’

This time Prody got it. He gave a grim smile. ‘Yeah. Fair enough. I’m on it.’

When the door was closed Caffery dropped back into the chair and stared blankly at the ceiling for a long time. The guy was turning out to be a prick. Wasting time. It was at least seventy hours since Martha had gone. The magic twenty-four had long been burned up and the next step, if he was truthful, was speaking to the Met and getting them to bring their specialist dead-body dogs up the M4. It was Caffery’s job to trim the fat from any job, but he couldn’t lose Prody: it’d take too long to bring someone else up to speed and, anyway, there was a tiny problem about what Prody’s side of the story might be if he did turn him over to another investigation. The Kitson case would get mentioned, no doubt about it. So he’d have to bite on it for the time being. And watch Prody. Keep him focused.

Caffery’s mobile was ringing. He pulled it out of his pocket. ‘Flea Marley’, the display said. He went to the door and checked in the corridor that no one was about to come into his office. She made him secretive like this. When he was sure he was alone he went back to his desk. Myrtle followed him with her eyes as he answered.

‘Yeah,’ he said sharply. ‘What?’

There was a pause. ‘Sorry. Is this a bad time?’

He breathed out, leaned back in his chair. ‘No. It’s a – a good time.’

‘I’m at the Thames and Severn canal.’

‘Really? How nice. I’ve never heard of it.’

‘You won’t have. It’s been decommissioned for years. Listen, I want to speak to the CSM, but he won’t take calls from a support-unit sergeant at this time of night. Will you speak to him?’

‘If you tell me why.’

‘Because I know what the jacker used to gouge out those footprints. A mooring spike. From a barge. I’ve got one in my hand now – there are probably hundreds all over this place. Dead barges everywhere. And it’s only a mile from where the Yaris left the tracks.’

‘We didn’t search it yesterday?’

‘No. It runs just outside the POLSA’s parameters. What do you think? Will you get him to look at it?’

Caffery drummed his fingers on the desk. He’d never been easy taking advice from departments outside the unit. It could scramble your head, make you chase too many rabbits. And Flea was acting all of a sudden as though this was her unit’s case. Maybe using it to find ways of polishing her reputation. And her unit’s.

But a mooring spike? Fitting the cast? ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Leave it with me.’

He put down the phone and sat staring at it. The dog tapped her tail lightly. As if she knew what it did to him to have any sort of conversation with Flea Marley.

‘Yeah,’ he said bad-temperedly. He reached over for the contacts list for the CSM. ‘I can live without the look. Thank you very much.’

In the early hours of the morning the CSM had peered again at the mould of the footprints and tended to agree with Flea: the marks did look as if they could have been made by a mooring spike. The POLSA turfed out at first light and marked up a stretch of canal to be searched. Teams were given waders and a two-mile section to check either side of where the Yaris had been parked. But the Thames and Severn canal had a peculiarity that the standard search teams couldn’t deal with. Two miles of it ran completely unseen and unnoticed in a tunnel deep under farmland and forests. The Sapperton tunnel. Abandoned and deeply unstable. A two-mile death trap. Nothing more, nothing less. Only one unit was trained to deal with a search like that.

By eight o’clock more than forty people had gathered at the westerly entrance to the Sapperton tunnel. On the crenellated parapet above the opening, hoping for a glimpse of what was going on below, stood about twenty journalists and a handful of plainclothes MCIU officers. They were all looking down to where Flea and Wellard were thigh-deep in the black, stagnant canal water, readying their little Zodiac inflatable, loading it with what they needed to enter the dripping tunnel – communications systems and air cylinders.

The Underwater Search Unit knew a little about the tunnel already. They’d used it years ago as part of their confined-space search training. The trust that owned the canal had given them structural information: the tunnel was seriously unstable; it ran dangerously close to the Golden Valley railway line, and every time a train went past the great slabs of fuller’s earth and oolite that made up the roof were shaken. The trust wanted to make it clear that they couldn’t guarantee what was going on in there: it was too dangerous to survey properly. What they could say for sure was that a massive, impassable rockfall blocked at least a quarter of a mile of the tunnel. It was vaguely visible from the surface as a long necklace of tree-filled craters and started not far from the easterly entrance, extending a long way into the tunnel. It had been relatively easy for two of Flea’s men to put on hard hats and wade the couple of hundred yards to the eastern end of the rockfall and push a probe through in the faint hope it’d come out the other side to be picked up by a team coming from the westerly entrance. Now, though, they were going to have to cover the tunnel from the other end and go a mile and a quarter underground before meeting the rockfall from the other side. And hope none of the unstable rocks chose to shake themselves loose as they did it.

‘You sure about this?’ Caffery was sceptical. Dressed in a padded North Face jacket, with his hands thrust into his pockets, he peered past them into the gloom. At the rubbish and bits of trees floating on the inky surface. ‘Sure the HSE are happy with it?’