Mo Hayder - Gone

‘I’m a medical secretary. I work for a team of osteopaths in Frenchay.’ She waited for someone to comment. No one did. She gave a sad smile. ‘Not very interesting, I know.’

‘Damien?’

‘I work for BMW. Working my way up through sales. Always think sales is where it’s at. If you can do well in sales you can have the world in your hand. But you got to want the chase, got to love the kill—’ He broke off – everyone was staring at him silently. He sank back, his hands up. ‘Yeah, well,’ he muttered, ‘that’s me. Car sales. BMW. In Cribbs Causeway.’

‘You, Janice? What do you do for a living?’

‘Publishing. I used to be a copy-editor. Now I’m freelance. And Cory’s a—’

‘Consultant to a printing company.’ Cory didn’t look at anyone when he spoke. ‘I advise them in marketing strategy. Tell them how to greenwash their image.’

Simone cleared her throat. ‘Financial analyst. And Neil works for the Citizens’ Advice Bureau in Midsomer Norton. Specializes in custody cases during divorce. But that doesn’t ring any bells for any of you. Does it?’

‘No.’

‘Sorry. No.’

‘Maybe we’re looking at it all wrong.’

Everyone turned. Rose Bradley was hunched in her chair, slightly embarrassed, slightly stubborn. She’d pulled her cardigan high around her shoulders so it came halfway up the back of her head – like a scared lizard in oversized skin. Her pale eyes peered out uncertainly from under lowered eyebrows.

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Simone.

‘I said maybe we’re looking at it all wrong. Maybe we do know him after all.’

Everyone exchanged glances.

‘But we’ve just agreed we don’t,’ said Simone. ‘None of us has even heard of Ted Moon.’

‘What if it’s not him?’

‘What if who ’s not him?’

‘The kidnapper. The person who’s doing all this. I mean, we’re sitting here assuming the police are right. That it’s Ted Moon. What if they’re wrong?’

‘But . . .’ said someone, then let the sentence die. Everyone in the room had stopped talking and moving. Their faces had gone slack. There was a long pause as this idea worked its way into their heads. One by one everyone turned away from Rose to Janice with expectant expressions. It was the exact way children would look at a teacher. Waiting for the person in control to come along and sort out the mess they’d got themselves into.

The baby seat had been another of the storm of presents that had hailed down on them at Charlie’s arrival. From Nigel’s parents this time. It was blue with yellow anchors embossed all over it. At eight fifteen on that cold morning it was sitting on the hallway floor, waiting to be picked up and strapped into the car. Charlie’s bag sat next to it, all ready: nappies and toys and a change of clothes.

Skye was gulping down a third cup of coffee, standing in the kitchen in her huge sweater, looking blankly at the condensation on the windowpanes. There was frost on the trees in the garden and she could feel the freezing air from outside coming through the gaps in the rattly sash windows. She thought about last night. About the opened window. The dustbin lid. She rinsed the cup and put it on the draining-board. Turned the thermostat up a little and checked that the windows were locked. In the hallway her red coat hung on the peg near the door, and next to it her handbag. Going out this morning made sense. A visit to the office. Just to show off Charlie to the partners. Why not?

Yes. It all made perfect sense.

In spite of the fire Janice was freezing. Her head was like stone. Cold and hard. Everyone was staring at her, expecting her to do or say something. She folded her arms and tucked her hands under her armpits to stop them trembling. Tried to gather herself.

‘Maybe – uh – maybe Rose is right.’ Her teeth were chattering. Banging together uncontrollably. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time the police were wrong. Maybe Ted Moon is the wrong man.’ She thought of all the men Emily had come into contact with over the years. A string of faces unfurled in her head – teachers at school, a lanky football coach with bad skin who was always too friendly with the mums, the milkman who sometimes spoke to Emily on the doorstep. ‘Maybe we’re all connected to someone else. Someone we haven’t even thought of.’

‘But who?’

‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know.’

A long silence descended on the group. Outside, Janice’s sister and Nick were showing Philippa Bradley the garden. She had brought her spaniel to play with the Labradors. From time to time the three women could be seen from the french windows, muffled in their coats and scarves, walking back and forth, throwing balls. They made black footprints in the frosted lawn. Janice stared at them. She remembered Emily playing out there as a toddler, laughing because she could hide behind the lavender beds and make Janice come out and act scared, say: Oh, no! My little girl’s gone! Where’s my Emily? Has the monster got her?

Not Ted Moon? If so, then who? Who connected her and Cory to these five other people?

From the corner Damien spoke in a subdued voice. ‘Look.’ He opened his hands, turned to face the people behind him. ‘I ain’t never met that son-of-a-bitch in the photo neither, but I ought to say something.’ He levelled a finger at Jonathan. ‘You, man. Sorry to say it, but I know you from somewhere. Been thinking it since I came in.’

Everyone looked at Jonathan. He frowned. ‘From the papers, you mean? I’ve been all over the papers this week.’

‘No. I saw the pictures on the news and I never recognized you otherwise I’d’ve said something to the police. But when I came in just now I saw you and I thought, I do – I know that man from somewhere.’

‘From where?’

‘I can’t remember. Maybe I’m imagining it.’

‘Do you go to church?’

‘Not since I was a kid. The Deptford Seventh Day Adventists. Not since I got away from home. No disrespect but you wouldn’t catch me dead.’

‘And your child,’ Jonathan said. ‘Your daughter. What was her name?’

‘Alysha.’

‘That’s right. The police asked me. I did know an Alysha once, but it wasn’t Alysha Graham. It was Alysha Morefield, or Morton. I can’t remember.’

Damien stared at him. ‘More by . Alysha Moreby. Moreby’s her mother’s name – the name Lorna schooled her under.’

Colour crept into Jonathan’s face. Everyone in the room had inched forward a little and was staring at the two men. ‘Moreby. Alysha Moreby. I know her.’

‘Where do you know her from? We never took her to church.’

Jonathan’s mouth was half open. As if a terrible, terrible truth was about to reveal itself. Something that had been there all along and could have saved the world if only he’d thought of it early enough. ‘School,’ he said distantly. ‘Before I was ordained I was a headmaster.’

‘Got it.’ Damien slapped his thighs. Dug a finger in the air. ‘Mr Bradley – of course . I remember you , man. I mean, I never met you, like – Lorna always did Alysha’s school stuff. But I seen you. I seen you – at the gates an’ shit.’

Janice sat forward, heart thumping. ‘Someone at the school. You both knew people at the school.’

‘No. I never came to anything at the school,’ said Damien. ‘Hardly anything. It was Lorna’s thing, the school run.’

‘No PTA meetings?’

‘No.’

‘Fêtes or fairs?’

‘No.’

‘You really didn’t meet the other parents?’

‘I swear – just never got involved. That’s how it’s always been in our family – woman does the school thing.’