Mo Hayder - Gone

‘He’d have been coming and going? In and out?’

‘To get it right. Yes.’

Caffery sucked air through his teeth. ‘A surveillance team is one of the biggest expenses the force can carry. Makes me wonder why we bother.’

‘I think I know.’

The two men turned. Jonathan was standing in the doorway. He was holding Philippa’s laptop in both hands. He wore an odd expression. His head was on one side, as if he was listening for the first knockings of madness.

‘Jonathan. You’re supposed to be in the car.’

‘I was. I’m not there now. Moon put the cameras in to look at Martha. He put them in before he took her. They’ve been here for more than a month. That’s why the surveillance team didn’t see anything.’

Caffery cleared his throat. He glanced at the techie, then beckoned to Jonathan.

‘Put it down.’ He moved things off the table. ‘Here.’

Jonathan came stiffly into the kitchen, put the laptop on the cleared space and flipped it open. The computer paused for a moment, then came to life. The photo of Moon in the Santa mask, lying on the bed, came up on the screen. It had been zoomed in so that only part of the wall and part of his shoulder were in the frame. ‘That.’ Jonathan tapped the screen. ‘See it?’

Caffery and Q gathered round. ‘What are we looking at?’

‘That picture. That drawing.’

Pinned to the wall above the bed was a felt-tipped picture – a young girl’s image of a mythic land. Martha had drawn clouds and hearts and stars and a mermaid in the top corner. She’d drawn herself standing to one side, holding the reins of a white pony. Near her, dislocated as if floating in space, were two dogs

‘Sophie and Myrtle.’

‘What about them?’

‘No necklace. No flowers.’

‘Eh?’

‘Philippa’s birthday is on November the first. Martha dressed Sophie up for the day. And when it was over she came up here and drew flowers and necklaces on Sophie in the picture. Rose remembers her doing it. So does Philippa. But look. No roses, no necklaces in this picture.’

Caffery straightened. Hot and cold needles pricked along his back. Everything he’d thought he was certain of was wrong. Wrong, completely wrong, and built on foundations of sand. The whole case had just turned upside-down.

The kitbag clunked fitfully against the dripping canal wall, the sound echoing off the barge. In the bows Flea breathed shallowly, shaking uncontrollably. She peeled the T-shirt off her leg. It came slowly, parts of it sticking to the already drying blood. The wound had settled to a crusty red line. She gave it an experimental squeeze. It held. Quickly she unstuck the T-shirt and pulled it over her head, feeling the dried blood crack and flake. She peeled her immersion suit back up, zipped it carefully and slipped silently off the bench to crouch in the water at a place where she could see out of the hole.

The rope swayed and circled, casting long, ugly shadows. She dropped deeper into the water and began stealthily to move her hand through the muck. She was used to searching silt and water using touch alone – it was her profession: her fingers were trained for it even in the thick gloves. She found the broken Swiss Army knife quickly, wiped it on her T-shirt and opened it to the flathead screwdriver. She waded silently to the hole and stood with her back to the hull, her head tilted so she could see all the way up into the shaft.

Someone was on the grille. A man. She could see him from behind, his feet in brown hiking boots. Brown cargo trousers tucked inside. A black bumbag around his waist. He was gripping the plants that sprouted from the walls of the shaft to steady himself as he took a couple of steps nearer the edge of the grille and peered down into the tunnel. His back was to her, she couldn’t see his face, but from his posture he seemed dubious, as if he really wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing. After a moment or two pondering he sank to a sitting position and shuffled his feet to the edge of the grille. Gravity took over and he began to slide. He grabbed the chain and slowed his descent, so he could lower himself into the dirty water below.

He stood in the shadows, both arms out defensively, looking carefully around. Then he bent at the waist, straining to see into the darker recesses of the cavern. His head and shoulders came momentarily into the light and Flea let all the air out of her lungs at once. It was Prody.

‘ Paul! ’ She pushed her face into the hole, her breathing loud and shaky. ‘ Paul – I’m here.’

He jerked in the direction of her voice, his hands flying up defensively. He took a step back and peered at the barge as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

‘ Here . In the boat.’ She pushed her fingers through the hole and wiggled them. ‘Here.’

‘Shit. Flea ?’

‘Here!’

‘Christ.’ He waded towards her, his boots and trousers getting soaked in the muck. ‘Jesus, Jesus.’ He stopped a foot away, blinking stupidly at her. ‘Jesus, look at you.’

‘Oh, fuck.’ She gave a shiver. A body-length shiver like a dog coming out of water. ‘I really thought I was stuck here. I thought you hadn’t got my message.’

‘Message? I didn’t. I lost my phone. I saw your car in the village and put it together with the way you . . .’ He shook his head. ‘ Christ , Flea. Everyone’s shitting bricks over what’s happened to you. Inspector Caffery – everyone. And . . .’ He looked up and down the barge as if he still couldn’t quite believe she’d been stupid enough to get down here. ‘What the hell are you doing in there? How the fuck did you get in ?’

‘From the stern. The barge goes back under the rockfall. I came through the tunnel on the other side. I can’t get out.’

‘Through the tunnel ? Then, how come . . .’ Something seemed to occur to him. He turned slowly and looked back at the air shaft. ‘You didn’t drop that rope down the shaft?’

‘Paul, listen,’ she hissed. ‘ This is it . This is where he brought her. He carried her across the fields. That’s his climbing kit, not mine.’

Prody pressed his back up to the barge as if he expected the jacker to come up behind him. He took a deep breath and let it out with a loud hoah . ‘Right. OK. Fair enough.’ He fumbled in the little traveller’s bumbag and pulled out a pen torch. ‘ OK .’ He clicked it on and held it out in front of him as if it was a weapon. His breathing was fast.

‘It’s OK. He’s not here now.’

Prody swept the light around the darkest corners. ‘You sure? You haven’t heard anything?’

‘I’m sure. But look – over there in the water. The shoe. See it?’

Prody turned the torch on to it. He was silent for a long time, just the sound of his breathing coming through the hole. Then he pushed himself away and waded back through the water, stopping next to the shoe. He bent to study it. She couldn’t see his face but he was still for a long time. Then he straightened abruptly. Stayed for a moment, angled a little bit back at the waist, a fist planted on his chest as if he had indigestion.

‘ What? ’ she whispered. ‘What is it?’

He pulled a phone out of his pocket and jabbed the keyboard with his thumb. His face was ashen in the pale-blue glow of its screen. He shook the phone. Tilted it. Held it in the air. Waded to a point directly under the shaft and held the mobile aloft, squinting at the screen, hitting the call button with his thumb over and over. After a few minutes he gave up. He put the phone in his pocket and came back to the barge. ‘What network are you?’