Mo Hayder - Gone

All around her the chamber creaked and screamed. She fumbled for the torch in the rucksack, clicked it on and shone it upwards. The whole cavern was vibrating. A fracture in the ceiling lengthened in a shot – like a snake going through grass – and a deafening crack ricocheted around the little chamber. Bent double, she staggered through the water to the only shelter she could see – the stern of the barge. She had just managed to squeeze herself into the space behind it before the air was filled with the roar of falling debris and the whistle of rock racing past her ears.

The noise seemed to last for ever. She sat in the muck, hands over her head, eyes closed. Even when the noise of the train had dwindled she stayed there, listening to little rockfalls somewhere in the darkness. Every time she thought it was over there would come another trickle of small stones slithering down and splashing into the water. It was at least five minutes before the chamber was quiet and she could raise her head.

She wiped her face on the shoulders of the immersion suit, shone the torch around and began to laugh. A long, low, humourless laugh, like a sob, that echoed around what was left of the chamber and sent noises back that made her want to cover her ears. She dropped her head against the hull of the barge and rubbed her eyes.

What the fuck was she supposed to do now?

Moonlight crept out from behind shredded clouds, the cold canopy of stars reflected in the quarry fading in the blue glare. Sitting in the car on the track at the edge of the water, Caffery watched in silence. He was cold. He’d been here more than an hour. He’d snatched four hours’ dense, uncomplicated sleep at home and snapped awake just before five with the certainty that something out in the freezing night was expecting him. He’d got up. He knew staying at home, wakeful, would only lead to trouble – would probably lead to his tobacco pouch and the whisky bottle – so he’d put Myrtle in the back seat and driven around a bit, expecting to see the Walking Man’s camp over the hedgerow. Instead, somehow, he’d ended up out here.

It was a big quarry, about the size of three football fields, and deep too. He’d studied the schematics. At one point it was well over a hundred and fifty feet deep. The underwater rocks were scabby with plants, abandoned stone-cutting machinery, submerged niches and hidey-holes.

Earlier this year there had been a time when he had been plagued by a man, a Tanzanian illegal immigrant who had followed him round the county, watching him from the shadows like an elf or a Gollum. It had gone on for almost a month and then, as quickly as the man had started, he had stopped. Caffery had no idea what had become of him – whether he was alive or dead. Sometimes he caught himself looking out of the window late at night, wondering where he was. In some perverse, lonely corner of his psyche he missed him.

For a while the Tanzanian had been living here, in the trees around this quarry. But there was more about this place that made Caffery’s skin prickle at every noise, every shift of light around the car. This was where Flea had dumped the corpse. Misty Kitson’s body was somewhere in the silent depths.

You’re protecting her and you can’t yet see what a nice circle that makes .

A nice circle.

A single winter cloud moved across the moon. Caffery stared at it – at the moon. A faint fingernail in white, a tentative but perceptible wash of light on its dark side. Riddle me this, riddle me that. The Walking Man, the clever bastard, always fed him clues. Kept him crawling along, his tongue to the ground. Caffery didn’t think the Walking Man’s anger would last. Not in the long run. Still, Caffery hadn’t found him tonight, and that fact alone felt like a rebuke.

‘Obstinate old shit,’ he told Myrtle, who was on the back seat. ‘The miserable, obstinate old shit.’

He pulled out his phone and keyed in Flea’s number. He didn’t care if he woke her or what he was going to say. He just wanted to put an end to it. Here and now. Didn’t need the Walking Man and his mumbo-jumbo, riddles and clues. But her line went straight to answerphone. He hung up and put the mobile back into his pocket. It had been there for less than ten seconds when it rang. He snatched it out, thinking it was her calling back, but the number was wrong. It was a withheld number.

‘It’s me. Turner. At the office.’

‘Jesus.’ He rubbed his forehead tiredly. ‘What the hell are you doing at this time in the morning?’

‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Thinking about all the overtime you could finesse?’

‘I’ve got something.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Edward Moon. Known as Ted.’

‘Who is . . . ?’

‘Who is the younger brother of the fat bastard.’

‘And I should be interested in him because?’

‘Because of his rogues’-gallery shots. You’ll have to look at them, but I’m ninety-nine point nine. It’s him.’

The hair went up on the back of Caffery’s neck. Like a hound with the first scent of blood in its nose. He blew air out of his mouth. ‘Rogues’ gallery? He’s got form?’

‘Form?’ Turner gave a dry laugh. ‘You could say that. He’s just done ten years at Broadmoor under Section 37/41 of the Mental Health Act. Does that count as form?’

‘Christ. That sort of sentence, it must have been . . .’

‘Murder.’ Turner’s voice was calm, but there was an edge of excitement in it. He’d got the scent of blood too. ‘A thirteen-year-old A girl. And it was brutal. Really nasty. So . . .’ A pause. ‘So, Boss, what would you like me to do now?’

‘My colleagues are having a look around your place. You’ve seen the warrant, it’s all kosher. You can stay here as long as you don’t try to obstruct the search.’

It was just before seven in the morning and Caffery was back in the Moons’ damp little flat. There were the remains of a fried breakfast on the table, ketchup and Daddie’s sauce bottles, with two smeared plates. Dirty pans were piled in the sink in the kitchen. Outside it was still dark. Not that they could see out: the little paraffin heater in the corner had steamed up the windows and condensation ran in wriggling rivulets down the glass. The two men, father and son, sat on the sofa. Richard Moon wore a pair of joggers that had been split at the ankle cuffs to allow his enormous calves to fit through and a navy T-shirt, with the word ‘VISIONARY’ on the chest and sweat-stains under the arms. He was staring fixedly at Caffery, sweat beading on his upper lip.

‘Odd, isn’t it,’ Caffery sat at the table, regarding him carefully, ‘that you never mentioned your brother yesterday?’ He leaned forward, holding out the photo ID Ted Moon had used to get in and out of MCIU’s offices. ‘Ted. Why didn’t you mention him? Seems odd to me.’

Richard Moon glanced at his father, who raised his eyebrows warningly. Richard lowered his eyes.

‘I said, it seems odd, Richard.’

‘No comment,’ he muttered.

‘No comment? Is that an answer?’

Richard’s eyes shifted around, as if there were lies in the air and they needed a place to hide. ‘No comment.’

‘What is this no-comment shit? Have you been watching The Bill ? You’re not under arrest, you know. I’m not recording this, you haven’t got a brief, and the only thing you’ll achieve with your no-comments is to royally piss me off. And then I might change my mind and decide you are under arrest. Now, why didn’t you tell us about your brother?’

‘No comment,’ said Peter Moon. His eyes were cold and hard.

‘You didn’t think it was relevant?’ He pulled out the sheet Turner had printed from the Guardian ’s database. The CPS were going to pull their files to fill in the details but the stark facts on this printout were quite enough to tell Caffery what they were dealing with. Moon had killed thirteen-year-old Sharon Macy. He’d concealed the body somewhere – it had never been found – but he’d been convicted anyway on the DNA evidence. According to the intelligence there hadn’t been any problem with that because Sharon’s blood had been all over Ted Moon’s clothes and bedding. The bedroom floor had been so deep in blood it had soaked through the boards in some places. The stains on the ceiling in the room below had still been spreading when the team arrived to arrest him. He’d done ten years for it until, a year ago, the home secretary had agreed with what the RMO, the responsible medical officer, had said: that Moon was no longer a danger to himself or to others. He had been released from Broadmoor on a conditional discharge.