Mo Hayder - Skin

Mandy was older than Thom by several years: a short, square woman who dressed in sludge-coloured linen with lots of Indian jewellery. Today she was wearing an olive green jacket and white trousers. She’d had her short hair styled and coloured: a deep dark red, almost purple, cut in a bob against her round face. In one hand she was carrying a half-open rucksack with papers and files peeping out of it. Now she set it on the floor and began slowly to unbutton her jacket, her eyes going carefully from Flea to Thom.

‘OK,’ she said, at last. ‘I’ve come in at a bad time.’

There was a moment’s silence. Thom licked his lips. In spite of his reserve, he’d never been brave – he was terrified of Mandy. And she knew it. She dominated him, never letting him out of her sight, expecting him to cook and clean. She’d spent a lot of the inheritance money too, on supporting a fringe theatre group from Easton. Ordinarily she and Flea didn’t have much to say to each other.

‘Mandy, I was just leaving. Thom, you give me a call when you’ve had a think, will you?’

He stared at her, the skin around his mouth faintly blue.

‘Thom?’ she said, meaningfully.

His trance broke. ‘Yes,’ he muttered hurriedly. ‘I’ll call you. Later. I swear.’

A man sat near the door in the waiting room outside the mortuary. He raised his hand as Caffery came through. ‘Hi.’

‘Evening.’ Caffery kept walking, pulling out his phone. He wanted to see if Powers had been on with another nag about the Kitson case, but he also wanted to see if Flea had answered the call he’d made earlier. He’d liked the way she’d looked at him earlier. It had made something in him give a little. It was a good feeling – a clean, loose feeling, the same sensation he sometimes got with the first drink of the day.

‘Excuse me. I need to talk to you.’

Caffery stopped, turned back. The man was on his feet. He was tall, with big hands, polished shoes and neat brown hair. Too brown. A bit of dye helping him out there.

‘Is there any news?’

‘Any news?’

‘On Lucy. You were in there just now, weren’t you?’

‘Who are you?’

‘Colin Mahoney. That’s my wife in there. My ex-wife, but she kept my name. They’re saying she killed herself. Is that right? Is that what the doctor thinks?’

‘Your FLO will talk you through it. I think she’s on her way.’

‘My what?’

‘Weren’t you given an FLO? A family liaison officer to contact when Lucy was missing?’

‘Oh. Her.’ Colin wiped his forehead. ‘Sorry – but I didn’t put much faith in her. She hasn’t even called me today. And now I suppose Lucy’s in there and cut up already.’

‘When your liaison officer gets here she can talk to you. It’s not my place.’

‘Who are you then?’

‘DI Caffery.’ He flashed his warrant card. Didn’t say the words ‘major crime unit’.

‘OK – DI Caffery. You tell me. Did she kill herself?’

‘I can’t answer that question.’

‘Yes, you can.’

Caffery sighed and put the card back into his pocket. ‘It’s not my case, but if it was, what I’d probably say to you at this point is the same thing my oppo in there will tell you when he comes out. The same thing your FLO will tell you.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘That we can’t say anything definitive until the inquest, but at this point we’re not looking for anyone else in connection with her death.’

Mahoney sank into his chair, deflated. He put his elbows on his knees, dropped his head and stared at the carpet. ‘I can’t believe this. Just can’t believe this is happening.’

Caffery watched him and thought about what it must have been like for his own mother. When he’d been just eight Caffery’s older brother Ewan had gone missing from their family home in South London. His body had never been found. It had happened one Saturday afternoon more than thirty years ago, and in those days the Metropolitan Police didn’t have family liaison officers. There’d have been no one to sit his mum down and say, ‘Look, if you want to talk about it, you can. Here’s my number – call any time you want. Would you like a cup of tea, love?’

‘The liaison officer should be here anytime.’

‘No, see, it can’t be right.’ Mahoney looked up. His face was a dull, congested red. ‘If she’s done that to herself, then what happened to Benjy?’

‘Benjy?’

‘The dog. I told the police specifically about Benjy. It was the first thing I said. Lucy took him with her. She must’ve had him in the car because they found dog biscuits on the back seat. He’s never come back.’

‘Mr Mahoney, I really suggest you take this up with your-’

‘That’s how I know it’s wrong. I mean, it was all wrong anyway because if she was planning on doing something to herself she wouldn’t have taken him with her. She’d have made sure he was looked after first. So where is he now?’

Caffery thought about a dog. Abandoned. Lost. Living in the woods. Creeping along the backs of gardens. A wild eye swivelled to take in the human evidence: sheds, hover mowers, strimmers, rusting barbecues, children’s swings. He thought about all the creatures living on the fringes of towns and villages. Not his problem. ‘I’m sure he’ll come back, Mr Mahoney.’

‘He’d have done that already. He’d have found someone. He’s a smart cookie, that one. Smart and loyal.’

‘Mr Mahoney, like I say – this isn’t my job. My commiserations, sincerest commiserations, on what’s happened to Lucy. And I hope Benjy turns up safe and well. But…’ He put his hand on Mahoney’s shoulder and stood for a moment, looking him in the eye. In this job you had to be careful. You couldn’t pull your heart out for every person unfortunate enough to find themselves on the pathologist’s table. Even so, you could take one minute to think about them. To mark their life and your short involvement in it. So he stayed like that for a few short moments, then shook his head and turned away. ‘But you’ll have to take this up with your FLO.’

You took the time to show a little respect. After that you had to move on. Fast.

It was eight o’clock in the evening and there was just one message on Flea’s phone. From Jack Caffery. She hadn’t answered the call. Didn’t much feel like talking. When the message icon popped up she dialled her mailbox and listened. Would she give him a call regarding what they’d talked about earlier? He’d like to take it further. He meant her breasts, of course. That was what he wanted to take further. She sat in the living room in her dad’s old recliner, a mug of tea at her elbow, her body tired, bones aching, and thought, How odd. How odd that she could have been in such a different world only a few short hours ago. Different hopes. Different fears.

Thom hadn’t called. She’d tried to phone him eight times already and always got his mailbox. Mandy did late shifts and would have gone back to work a long time ago, back to the call centre she managed. Which meant what? That he was still avoiding the issue?

Something would have to be done with Misty soon. In this heat it wouldn’t be long before it was impossible to handle her. Her body would liquefy. Flea’d seen it happen to a corpse after only a couple of days in hot weather. It would begin to run through the floor of the car. And the longer those fluids leaked the more tricksy it would be to remove the boot-liner fibres from Misty’s body and put her on the roadside. They couldn’t leave it any longer.

She went upstairs, pulled out an ancient floor fan from one of the junk-filled bedrooms and dragged it down to the garage. She plugged it in, locked the door, double and Chubb, got her keys and her jacket. A little Renault Clio sat on the gravel driveway. She’d hired it when she’d left Thom’s. It was a shiny blue and smelt of upholstery cleaner and Turtle Wax. So different from the Focus. It was almost a pleasure to drive.