Mo Hayder - Gone

‘I may as well tell you, because you’ll find out eventually, that he works for us. He’s a handyman.’

She put a hand to her throat. ‘He’s a . . . He works for you?’

‘Yes. One of our part-time staff.’

‘Is that how he put the device on our car?’

Prody nodded.

‘Christ. I can’t . . . Did you know him?’

‘Not really – I saw him around the place. He painted my office.’

‘You spoke to him, then?’

‘A few times.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. There’s no excuse – I was a prat. My mind was elsewhere.’

‘And what was he like?’

‘Unremarkable. Didn’t stand out in a crowd.’

‘What do you think he’s done to Martha?’

Prody folded the paper. Once, twice, three times, making the creases very neat with his thumbnail. He put it back into his pocket.

‘Mr Prody? I said, what do you think he’s done to Martha?’

‘Can we change the subject?’

‘Not really.’ The fear, the absolute rage, was building in her. ‘Your unit’s made a God-awful balls-up and I nearly lost my little girl through it.’ It wasn’t his fault, she knew, but she wanted to fly at him. She had to force herself to bite her lip and lower her face. She picked up the plate and pushed the cake around with her finger, waiting for the anger to fizzle away.

Prody bent his head a little, trying to see her expression under the fall of her hair. ‘This has been awful for you, hasn’t it?’

She raised her eyes and met his, which were somewhere between brown and green with gold flecks. Seeing the compassion in them, suddenly, out of nowhere, she wanted to cry. Shakily, she put the plate down. ‘Uh . . .’ She pushed up the sleeves of her top and rubbed her arms. ‘Well, yes. Without sounding too dramatic, these have been some of the worst days of my life.’

‘We’ll get you through it.’

She nodded and picked up her plate again. She fingered the cake, moved it sideways, broke it in half but didn’t eat. There was a knot in her throat and she didn’t think she could swallow. ‘So how come you got the fuzzy end of the lollipop?’ She gave a weak smile. ‘Why did you have to come out and get my wrath between the eyes?’

‘It was lots of things. Maybe the tipping point was that my DI thinks I’m an arse.’

‘Are you?’

‘Not in the way he thinks.’

She smiled. ‘Can I ask you something? Something really inappropriate.’

He gave a small laugh. ‘Well, I’m a man. Men don’t always agree with women about what’s inappropriate.’

Her smile grew wider. Out of nowhere she felt like laughing. Yes, Mr Prody, she thought. In spite of how bloody horrible this has been, one thing I can see for sure is that you’re a man, a nice one. Strong and sort of good-looking too. Meanwhile Cory, my husband, feels like more of a stranger to me than you do at this precise moment.

‘What?’ Prody said. ‘Have I put my foot in it?’

‘Not at all. I was going to ask you . . . if I went to Mr Caffery and said I was really scared – scared of my own shadow – would he let you stay here for a few hours with me and Emily and Nick and Mum? I know it’ll be boring for you – but it would make things feel so much easier. You don’t even have to talk to us – just watch the TV, make phone calls, read the newspaper, whatever. It’d just be nice to have someone around.’

‘Why do you think I’m here.’

‘Oh. Is that a yes?’

‘What does it sound like?’

‘Sounds like a yes.’

Caffery had the taste of tobacco in his mouth. While scrawny little Peter Moon had helped his son get dressed, supported him as he walked down the corridor into the living room, Caffery had gone outside to where his car was parked, stood next to the window nearest to Myrtle and rolled his first cigarette in days. His fingers were shaking. The rain made the paper dissolve. But he kept at it and lit it, his hand round the lighter flame. He blew the smoke upwards in a thin blue line, Myrtle watching him steadily. Caffery ignored her. He didn’t know what trick he’d expected of the jacker, but it wasn’t this at all.

The tobacco helped. When he went back into the living room he felt toxic and tight, but at least he wasn’t still trembling. Peter Moon had made tea, strong and not too milky. The pot sat on the scruffy little peeling veneer table, along with a plate of Battenberg cake, carefully sliced. Caffery hadn’t seen a Battenberg in years. It made him think of his mother and Songs of Praise on a Sunday. Not of mean little council flats like this. Next to the cake lay Moon’s photo ID, which the force’s HR department had hung on to. It showed the handyman – soft jaw, dark hair. Overweight, but nothing like the Richard Moon who sat on the sofa, wheezing, as his father busied himself around him, supporting him with cushions, getting his legs raised, putting a mug of tea into his swollen hands.

Turner had been in touch with the employment agency the force used for casual staff and the manager who’d hired Moon – put him through his CRB clearance, interviewed him – was here now. A middle-aged Asian man in a camel coat with the beginnings of grey in his hairline. He looked anxious. Caffery wouldn’t have wanted to be in his shoes.

‘He’s nothing like the man I employed.’ He scrutinized Richard Moon. ‘The man I employed was a quarter this weight. He was healthy and reasonably fit.’

‘What ID did he give you?’

‘A passport. A utility bill from this address.’ The folder he’d brought was full of paperwork: photocopies of all the ID evidence he had for Richard Moon. ‘Everything the CRB dictates.’

Caffery sorted through the paperwork. He pulled out the photocopied sheet of a UK passport. It showed a young man of about twenty-five, grim-faced, a fixed hardness to his face. Richard F. Moon, Caffery held the photograph at arm’s length, compared it to the man on the sofa. ‘Well?’ He pushed it across the table. ‘Is that you?’

Richard Moon couldn’t lower his head enough to look at it. He could only swivel his eyes to squint at it. He closed his eyes and breathed hard. ‘Yes.’ His voice was high and feminine. ‘That’s me. That’s my passport.’

‘That’s him,’ his father said. ‘Twelve years ago. Before he gave up on his life. Look at that photo. Is that the face of someone who doesn’t give a toss? I don’t think so.’

‘Stop it, Dad. It hurts when you talk to me like that.’

‘Don’t use your therapist speak on me, son. I’ll give you the meaning of hurt .’ Peter Moon looked his son up and down as if he couldn’t believe the monstrosity the world had visited upon him. ‘Seeing you turning into a garage in front of my eyes. That’s the meaning of hurt.’

‘Mr Moon,’ Caffery held up his hands to quieten them, ‘can we take this slowly?’ He studied the face in the photo. It was the same forehead, the same eyes, the same hairline. The same dirty blond hair. He looked at Richard. ‘You mean it’s taken you twelve years to go from this,’ he tapped the photo, ‘to what you are now?’

‘I’ve had problems—’

‘ Problems? ’ his father interrupted. ‘ Problems? Well, you’d win the understatement of the year, son. You really would. You’re a fucking vegetable. Face it.’

‘I am not.’

‘You are. You’re a vegetable. I’ve driven cars smaller than you.’

There was a pause. Then Richard Moon put his hands to his face and began to cry. His shoulders shook, and for a few moments no one spoke. Peter Moon crossed his arms and scowled. Turner and the agency manager looked at their feet.

Caffery picked up the handyman’s ID card and compared it to the passport photo. The two men were not dissimilar – same wide forehead, same small eyes – but the agency manager must have really been asleep if he hadn’t noticed they weren’t the same man. But bollocking him here and now, in front of the Moons, wouldn’t get them anywhere, so he waited for Richard to stop snivelling and held out the ID card. ‘Know him?’