Mo Hayder - Ritual

He went round the base of the tower to make sure there wasn't a back way out, but it was built as a square, with the lift shaft tacked on at the side. On the other side of the tower there were more front doors — no rear ones. He waited, looking at them, at the boarded-up windows, getting his breath back, and suddenly knew where he was — back on the Hopewell estate, just come at it from a different angle. Jonah's tower was the one in the far distance. He couldn't see them but there'd be about twenty coppers crawling up and down its stairwells right now. On this tower most of the bottom-floor windows were boarded. He watched those windows carefully, so silent in the midday heat. A little trickle of sweat broke from between his shoulder-blades and ran down his spine. He went back to the other side. And now, for the first time, he saw there was something wrong with Flea.

'Number eleven,' she murmured. 'It's number eleven.'

'Yeah,' he said. 'What about it?'

She tilted her head, then walked back a few yards, beckoning him. He followed, going nearer the cars until they couldn't be seen from the flat. He had to bend slightly to hear what she was saying.

'I know who lives here,' she whispered. 'I mean, he's a friend of mine.'

'Oh, great. Fucking great.'

'Yeah — and you. You — you know him too. Tommy Baines. Tig. The guy at the drug centre in Mangotsfield. The one with the eye.'

Caffery was trying to work this out in his head. 'The one with the-' He broke off. 'How the hell do you know him?'

She closed her eyes briefly, her face pale as if she couldn't believe this was happening. 'I've — oh, Christ, I've known him for ages, OK? But I've seen him recently too. He told me you'd questioned him.'

'Fucking magnificent. It really helps matters when people around you can't keep their mouths buttoned and when-'

'Wait a second,' she muttered, her face clouding. 'Just because someone's gone into his flat doesn't mean he's got anything to hide so don't get arsey with me. I mean, it could be nothing — it could just be that…' A thought stopped her in her tracks. She closed her mouth abruptly, and her eyes went up a bit, as if she was focusing on a place in the sky. 'Oh, shit,' she said. She rapped her knuckles on her forehead. 'Shit and double shit.'

'What?'

'That's me royally fucked.'

'What?'

She sighed, dropped her hand and walked across the sun-baked tarmac to her car. He watched her throw open the door and haul out her holdall, then rummage through it. She straightened up, then slid something that looked like a holstered knife, a dive knife, maybe, into the back of her trousers. Then she shut the door and was coming back, holding two Kevlar body-armour vests, one kitted out, the other with empty pockets. She stopped in front of him. 'The day we found the hand in the harbour?'

'Yes?'

'I got a text on my phone from him. From Tig.' She pushed the kitted-out vest towards Caffery. 'He wanted to see me. Hadn't spoken to him for ages, then suddenly he's in touch again. And when I came over he dug a bit, tried to get me to tell him what was happening with the case.' She made a face. 'There,' she said. 'I'm an idiot. Probably lose my job now, won't I?'

There was a short silence. Caffery was remembering the physical sensation he'd got around Tig, the one that had made him itch to thump him. It was coming back to him now.

'OK,' he said, ignoring the kitted vest and reaching for the empty one. 'Let's not jump to conclusions. Like you said, just because someone's run into his flat doesn't mean anything. Let's check it out before we jump. OK?'

When they both had their vests on Flea pushed her hair off her face, stood up straight and stiff and knocked loudly on the door.

There was silence. She stood on tiptoe and tried to peer through the little glazed section. 'Tig?' she yelled, banging hard on the wood with the flat of her hand. 'Tig! Are you in there? It's me.'

From the other side of the door came the sound of whispers, of people moving around quickly. A door slammed.

'Tig? Just a quick word.'

More noise. A long silence. Then another door opening and suddenly, on the other side a hand pulled back the curtain. There was a shuffling noise, then a face appeared at the grimy glass.

'Mrs Baines.' Flea put her hand on the glass. 'It's me. Are you all right? Can I come in?'

The woman stared as if she didn't recognize her.

'It's me. Can I come in?'

There was a sound of latches being unfastened, then a frail woman in a tattered housecoat opened the door. 'I don't know where he is, lovey. He's off somewhere with the blacks again.'

Caffery peered into the dingy hallway. Inside, the flat was a mess — piles of newspapers everywhere, all sorted out and organized into separate carrier-bags. Written in felt-tip above each pile were dates: 1999–2006. There was a smell of tomato soup and something else — something he couldn't put his finger on. All the doors leading from the hallway were closed.

Tightening the side fastening on the body armour, he stepped inside. 'You on your own, my love?'

'Yes, yes. Always left on me own.'

Caffery opened a door. A kitchen, small and cluttered with washing-up in the sink. No one in it. 'It's just we know there are some people living here.'

'Do you, dear?' She seemed unconcerned as Flea went into the living room, checking behind the sofa, the curtains. 'Well, you'll have to ask my son about that.'

Caffery opened another door and then another. 'Is he here?'

'Oh, no. Not properly here. Not in the way you'd think.'

'What does that mean?'

She gave a toothless grin. 'Lord knows. I'm a bit doo-lally. That's what they keep telling me — that I'm not all there.' She tapped her head. 'Not what I used to be.'

'Look, Mrs Baines, is your son here or not?'

'Oh, no. Of course he ain't.'

Caffery looked at the darting eyes, at the soiled quilted housecoat and the thinning hair. He had a mother somewhere; as far as he knew she was still alive. She'd given up on him when Ewan had gone missing, and thirty years later he'd even stopped wondering where she was.

'Got your scanner on, have you?' Flea asked.

'Me scanner? Oh, no, gone orf it — watching the telly now.'

'All right if I have a look at it?' Caffery said.

She waved her hand, as if she was dismissing them. 'Oh, do what you want. See if I care.'

He went into her bedroom, with its unmade bed, its closed curtains, four or five mugs crammed on the bedside table. It was small and it didn't take him long to work out there was no one in it. He looked at the scanner. Like she said, it was switched off. There was a cold feeling in the room, as if stale air was being pumped in from somewhere. He went back into the hallway and found her scowling at him, holding up a finger as if she was warning him. 'You'll have to get the police in anyway,' she said. 'To stop what he's up to.' She smiled. 'That's all I'm saying.'

Caffery glanced at Flea. She was standing just inside the living-room door, frowning at Mrs Baines. 'What does that mean, Mrs Baines? Stop what he's up to?'

'What I said. That the police'll need to come to sort it out, I shouldn't wonder. With him letting the blacks run over the place all the time and what they get up to together. But don't worry about me. Don't you worry about me.' She tapped the side of her head and limped back inside her bedroom, closing the door firmly. There was a pause, then the sound of the television. Flea turned to the door, as if to follow her, then seemed to change her mind. Instead she turned to the one door they hadn't tried.

'His room,' she muttered. 'I've never been in there.'

'Still got that knife in your knickers?' Caffery asked.

'You saw it?'

He didn't answer. He pressed his back against the wall and lifted his foot, putting just enough pressure on the latch to open it. It swung wide and they found themselves looking into a darkened box room, a tatty blue bedspread hung over the window. There was a wardrobe against the far wall, a computer desk in the corner, and a teenager's metal bunk bed taking up most of the space. Keeping his back to the wall Caffery reached inside and clicked on a light.