Mo Hayder - Gone

‘Inspector Caffery?’ A man’s voice from the tunnel behind. ‘Inspector Caffery – are you there?’

‘Yeah? Who is it?’ He crossed the tread-plates to the entrance and shouted down the tunnel. ‘What’s up?’

‘Support group, sir. I’ve got a phone call for you. Young lady. Can’t get through on your phone – says it’s urgent.’

‘On my way.’ He held up his hand to the doctor and the CSM, turned and bent to walk back down the low tunnel. The supportgroup officer was standing in the car pit, his huge frame blocking out the light. Caffery could see the flashing light of the phone he was holding aloft under the Cortina chassis. ‘Need to be out here to keep the signal, Boss.’

Caffery took the phone from the officer and, using the lightweight steps the CSI team had put up, scrambled out of the pit, crossed the lock-up to the window and leaned there, blinking, in the freezing daylight. ‘Inspector Caffery – how can I help?’

‘Sir, can you get over here ASAP?’ It was the Bradleys’ FLO. The tall brunette with the shiny hair. He recognized the slight Welsh lilt immediately. ‘Like now.’

‘Get over where?’

‘Here – to the Bradleys’ safe-house. Please. I need some advice.’

Caffery put a finger in his other ear to block out the sounds of the CSI team behind him. ‘What’s up? You need to speak slowly.’

‘I don’t know what to do. There’s nothing in my training to cover this. It came ten minutes ago and I can’t hide it from her for ever.’

‘Hide what from her for ever?’

‘OK.’ The FLO took a few deep breaths, got herself under control. ‘I was sitting at the breakfast table – usual scene, Rose and Philippa on the sofa, Jonathan making another cup of tea, and Rose’s phone’s on the table in front of me and suddenly it lights up. Usually she has the ringer on but maybe she doesn’t get many texts because she’s got that alert turned off. So, anyway, I look at it, just casually – and . . .’

‘And what?’

‘I think it’s from him. It has to be from him. Ted Moon. A text.’

‘Have you read it?’

‘I haven’t got the balls. Just haven’t. I can only read the subject heading. And, anyway, I don’t think it’s a text text. It’s an MMS.’

A photograph. Shit. Caffery stood up straight. ‘Why do you think it’s from him?’

‘From the subject heading.’

‘Which is?’

‘Oh, Christ.’ The FLO’s voice dropped a notch. He could picture the look on her face. ‘Sir – it says, “Martha. The love of my life”.’

‘Don’t do a thing. Don’t move, don’t let Rose see it. I’ll be there within the hour.’

On the way back to his car Caffery palmed two paracetamol into his mouth, washing them down with scalding coffee from a support-group officer’s Thermos. He ached everywhere. He had a list of calls to make as he drove the twenty-five miles to the Bradleys’ safe-house, Myrtle lying sleepily on the back seat. House-keeping calls: his superintendent, the Silver commander of the support groups at HQ, the press office. He put in a call to the office and found that Prody had discharged himself from the hospital already, had been debriefed and was back in the incident room, champing at the bit to do something to make up for last night. Caffery told him to find out from Acting Sergeant Wellard whether Flea had turned up anywhere.

‘If she hasn’t . . .’ He pulled up outside the safe-house at HQ. It looked fairly normal. Curtains open. One or two lights on. A dog was yapping inside. ‘. . . speak to the neighbours, find out who her friends are. She’s got some weird shit-for-brains brother somewhere – speak to him. Find yourself a chuck-away phone or one from the unit and text me your number. And call me when you know something.’

‘Yup, OK,’ Prody said. ‘I’ve got a couple of theories already.’

It was the FLO who opened the door and he could tell right away, just from her face, that things were even worse than when she’d made the phone call. She didn’t give him her sarcastic, appraising raised eyebrows. She didn’t even comment on his filthy suit. She just shook her head.

‘What? What’s up?’

She stepped back in against the wall, opening the door wide so he could see along the hallway. Rose Bradley was sitting on the stairs in a pink housecoat and slippers. Her arms were tucked into her stomach, her head drooping. A thin, mewling sound was coming from her mouth. Philippa and Jonathan stood in the living-room doorway watching her helplessly, their faces like stone. Philippa held Sophie by the collar. The spaniel had stopped barking but was eyeing Caffery suspiciously, her hindquarters twitching.

‘She got the phone,’ the FLO murmured. ‘She’s like a bloodhound when it comes to the damned thing. She managed to get it off me.’

Rose rocked back and forth. ‘Don’t make me give it to you. You’re not going to see it. It’s my phone.’

Caffery took off his coat and dropped it on to a chair next to the door. The hallway was hot and slightly damp. The walls were covered with blue-swirled anaglypta wallpaper. This was supposed to be accommodation for visiting police chiefs but it was awful. Truly awful. ‘Has she opened it?’

‘ No! No, I haven’t.’ She rocked harder, her forehead on her knees, tears soaking into the housecoat. ‘I haven’t opened it. But it’s going to be a picture of her, isn’t it? It’s going to be a picture of her.’

‘Please.’ Jonathan had his finger against his temple. He looked as if he might fall over at any moment. ‘You don’t know that. We don’t know what it is.’

Caffery stood on the staircase two steps down from Rose and looked up at her. She hadn’t washed her hair and an unpleasant, spicy odour was coming from her. ‘Rose?’ He held out a hand. Either for her to put her own hand into, or the phone. ‘You know that whatever it is, whatever is on the photograph, it could help us find her.’

‘You saw that letter. You know what he said he was going to do to her. It was terrible what he said he’d do. I know because if it hadn’t been awful you would have let me see it. What if he’s done one of the things he said he’d do and what if this is a photograph of it?’ Her voice rose. It was tight and sore, as if the vocal cords were chafing against each other from constant grief. ‘ What if that’s what the photograph is? What if that’s what it is? ’

‘We won’t know until we’ve had a look. Now, you’ve got to give me the phone.’

‘Not unless I can see what’s on it. You’re not hiding anything else from me. You can’t.’

Caffery glanced at the FLO, who was standing with her back to the door, her arms folded. When she saw his face, realized what he was going to do, she raised her hands resignedly, as if to say, It’s your funeral .

‘Philippa,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a laptop, haven’t you? Have you got a USB for the phone?’

‘No. It’s Bluetooth.’

‘Then, get it.’

She hesitated, moving her lips as if her mouth had dried. ‘We’re not going to look at it, are we?’

‘Your mother won’t give me the phone otherwise.’ He kept his face still, expressionless. ‘We have to respect her wishes.’

‘Oh, Jesus.’ She shuddered. She pulled Sophie into the living room. ‘ Jesus .’

They sat at the dining table and waited while Philippa assembled the laptop. Her hands were shaking. Jonathan had gone into the kitchen and was banging around, probably doing more washing-up. He was having none of this. Only Rose wasn’t trembling. An icy calm had come over her and she was sitting at the table, quite steady, staring into the middle distance. When the laptop was assembled she unfolded her arms and placed the phone in the centre of the table. For a moment everyone stared at it in silence.