Mo Hayder - Gone

‘What about Peter Moon and Macy’s mother? Any urty-urty going on there?’

‘No affair. I believed her too.’

‘Fuck.’ He pushed his hair back off his face. Why was it that when it came to Ted Moon every alley Caffery turned down seemed to have a stonking great brick wall at the end of it? Fitting Moon and his actions together just wasn’t smooth. Not like the best cases where the connections, when they came, felt as liquid and natural as honey. ‘What about the others? The Bradleys, the Blunts?’

‘No. And that’s straight from the FLOs, who, as we know, usually get to the truth. Statistical anomaly maybe, but these might be the only couples in the whole UK who aren’t doing the bad thang on the side.’

‘Damien? He’s not with his wife.’

‘But it wasn’t him called time on that marriage. It was Lorna. If it was a marriage. He says they were married, but we can’t find any record of it. Call it more of an international arrangement, shall we?’

Caffery got to his feet and went to the whiteboard. He studied the pictures of the Costellos’ safe-house Moon had broken into: the kitchen, the empty double bed where Emily and Janice had slept. There should be progress by now. There should be a new perspective. He stared at the mock-up of the dark blue Vauxhall, the pictures of the Costellos’ car in the CSI surgery. He scrutinized the faces – Cory Costello looking seriously into the camera – and all the lines he’d drawn between the photos, connecting them to Ted Moon at the top. Caffery lifted his face and looked into Moon’s eyes again. He felt nothing. No flicker.

Without a word he took a chair and placed it at the window. Sat with his back to the room, facing out into the dismal street. The sky was a uniform lead colour. Passing cars swished through puddles. He felt old. So old. Once he’d fought this case, what would be next? Another mugger or rapist or child abductor to strip the skin from his back, make his bones ache?

‘Sir?’ Lollapalooza began, but Turner stopped her with a sssh.

Caffery didn’t turn to them. He knew what that sssh meant. It meant Turner didn’t want Lollapalooza to interrupt him. Because he believed Caffery sitting at the window meant he was thinking, was taking all the information he’d been given and was making alchemy of it with his brilliant brain. Turner really, really thought Caffery was going to spin round on his chair and pull out a theory, like a bright bunch of circus flowers from a hat.

Well, he thought despondently, welcome to the land of crashing disappointment, mate. Hope you like it here, because we’re going to be making it our home for a while.

Not long after dawn and the huge garden in Yatton Keynell was covered with frost. But inside the cottage it was warm – Nick had built a fire in the living-room grate and Janice sat near it, in a chair next to the window, the bleak winter sunlight throwing her into sharp silhouette. She didn’t move as her sister opened the front door at the appointed time and showed the guests through. No one pointed Janice out, but they all knew immediately who she was. It must have been something to do with the way she was sitting. They automatically came forward and introduced themselves to her, muttering things under their breath.

‘ I’m so sorry to hear about your little girl .’

‘ Thank you for calling. We really wanted to speak to someone else .’

‘ The police have pulled our place apart. I can’t believe he’s been watching us .’

Janice nodded, shook their hands and tried to smile. But her heart was cold. The Blunts came first. Neil was tall and slim, with Cory’s Scottish colouring – sandy hair, eyelashes and brows. Simone had blonde hair, slightly olive skin, brown eyes. Janice studied them. Had some similarity in their appearances tipped something in Moon’s mind? Made him target them? Rose and Jonathan Bradley were even more worn down than they’d looked in the newspaper photos. Rose had fine-blonde hair, her skin so washed out and thin you could see the veins through it. She was wearing sensible stretch trousers, soft shoes, a pink floral sweater and a pink scarf tied at the neck. There was something pathetic about that scarf – about the attempt to keep up appearances. She and Jonathan shook Janice’s hand and slouched almost apologetically into their chairs, sitting a pace away and clutching the cups of tea Janice’s sister had poured from the pot standing next to the fire. Then Damien Graham came in and Janice knew for sure that the idea of physical similarities was nuts. He was tall and black with powerful thighs and shoulders, his hair cropped close to his skull. Nothing like Cory, nothing like Jonathan, nothing like Neil.

‘Alysha’s mum can’t make it.’ He was a little shy, out of place in this delicate country room. He settled on the last chair – a fragile, ornate winged affair that made him look even more powerful – and sat self-consciously plucking at the creases on his trousers. ‘Lorna.’ He crossed one leg over the other, making the little chair creak.

Janice stared at him dully, an enormous weariness coming over her. People talked about feeling empty, numb, at times like this. She wished she could feel either of those things. Either would be better than this hard, sharp ache under her ribs where her stomach used to be. ‘Look. I should introduce myself to you all properly. I’m Janice Costello. That’s my husband Cory over in the corner.’ She waited for everyone to turn and hold their hands up to him in greeting. ‘You won’t have heard our names because they kept it quiet when our little . . . little girl was taken.’

‘The papers said there’s been another,’ said Simone Blunt. ‘Everyone knows it’s happened. Just no one knows your name.’

‘They kept it quiet because they were protecting us.’

‘The cameras,’ Rose murmured. ‘Did he put cameras in your place?’

Janice nodded. She rested her hands on her lap and looked down at them, at the veins on the backs, showing through the skin. She couldn’t inject any expression or enthusiasm into her voice. Every word out of her mouth was an effort. Eventually she lifted her head again. ‘I know the police have spoken to you. I know they’ve gone through it over and over again and they can’t see what we’ve got in common. But I thought maybe if we got together we might work out why he’s chosen us. We might be able to guess who he’s going to do it to next. Because I think he will do it again. And the police do too. Even if they’re not saying it. And if we could figure out who’s next that might be a chance to catch him – to find out what he’s done to our . . .’ She took a breath, held it. Avoided Rose’s eyes, knowing what would be in there and that just glimpsing it would unhitch the spring coiled inside her. When her voice was under control again she released the breath. ‘But now I’ve met you all I’m starting to think I’m just an idiot. I sort of hoped that maybe we’d be really similar. I thought we’d look the same, maybe, like the same things, live in similar houses, have similar situations, but we don’t. I can just see from looking at us that we couldn’t be more different. I’m sorry.’ She was exhausted. So exhausted. ‘Really sorry.’

‘No.’ Neil Blunt sat forward, pushing his head out so she was forced to look at his face. ‘Don’t be sorry. You’ve got a feeling about it so hang on to that. Maybe you’re right. Maybe there really is something connecting us. Something not obvious.’

‘No. Look at us.’

‘There has to be something,’ he persisted. ‘Something. Maybe we remind him of someone. In his childhood.’

‘Our jobs?’ Simone said. ‘Something about our jobs.’ She turned to Jonathan. ‘I know what you do, Jonathan, it’s been in all the papers. But, Rose, what do you do?’