Mo Hayder - Skin

‘And then I heard you went to a post-mortem.’

‘Yes.’

Powers put a mild, puzzled look on his face. ‘You see, Jack, I’m having problems figuring out what a senior MCIU detective was doing at a routine PM when he’s supposed to be working on the Kitson case with the rest of us. District brought it in as a suicide.’

‘But the pathologist didn’t agree. She thinks it’s a murder. And I think it’s connected to the other “suicide” I told you about. Lucy Mahoney. I want to bring them both into the unit as linked murders.’

‘You what ?’

‘They’re linked. Lucy Mahoney wasn’t a suicide at all, and here the pathologist is starting to agree with me. I want to bring them both in, and the first thing I want is for you to authorize a warrant. I need to open Mahoney’s bank records.’

Powers sighed and ran a hand over his scalp. He didn’t look happy, not happy at all. But he took the time to master himself, did the calming breathing technique again. He got his composure and when he spoke his voice was softer. ‘It’s almost a week into the Kitson case now. Nothing came out of the reconstruction, morale’s at tipping point out there.’ He nodded in the direction of the briefing room. ‘I can just smell it on them. And you, Jack, you mean something to them. They look at you. They might not admit it but they all know what you did in London – you’re poster-boy material to them. One of our CID trainers has got a whole power-point presentation of your Brixton paedophile case. Did you know that?’

‘Great,’ he muttered. ‘Great.’

‘But just because you worked some high-profile cases doesn’t mean you do whatever the hell you want. You go off on that Norway wild-goose chase, giving me the old maverick line, but the moment that gets dropped you’re off chasing another hare. So something, something , is stopping you pulling with us on the Kitson case. Come on – look me in the eye. Tell me what it is.’

Caffery did what he was asked. Looked him in the eye. He concentrated on not blinking, and said the first thing that came into his head. ‘It’s because I can’t be seen working on it publicly.’

‘ What? ’ Powers’s eyes narrowed. He searched Caffery’s face. ‘Are you saying you’ve got a snout?’

‘Yes.’ It was a lie. But it might get Powers off his back for a day or two. ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

‘You’ve been here five minutes and already you’ve got a snout? On something like this? No. You’re sticking one on me here, aren’t you, Jack? You’re taking the piss.’

‘Look, there’s a whole stack of dealers connected with the clinic. There always is with any of these rehab places. Some local yob gagging to cater to the needs of the inmates. For Farleigh Hall they come from Bath and Trowbridge.’

‘Kitson was going to meet a dealer?’

‘That conversation with the boyfriend? What did you think when she said she wanted “time to think”?’

‘That she wanted time to think?’

‘You don’t think it sounded like whitewash? He said, “Where are you going?” and she said, “I’m just going to wander around a bit.” Does that sound right? In the highest-heeled shoes known to man and – here Jimmy Choo would be impressed – she’s going to have a wander around? Visit the local cowpats? And how come she was so specific about when she’d be back?’

‘She wanted to be back for something? I don’t know. Dinner?’

‘Or she knew that what she had to do would only take that long.’

Powers gave a soft whistle. ‘I knew you were hiding something about this case. I knew you had something up your sleeve.’

‘It’s one thing having intel. It’s another making it stand up in court, as we all know. That’s why I’m waiting. I need another piece of the puzzle. Can’t be seen to push it.’

‘You’re as closed as an arsehole, Caffery. What’m I supposed to do with you?’

‘Let me bring in both these cases as a murder.’ He drained the Coke can, crumpled it and chucked it into the bin. ‘I need to let some time go by with Kitson, let it evolve naturally. Let me just ferret away for a bit on the Hopkins and Mahoney murders. I’ll keep the Kitson thing on the back burner, low level, and the moment I get anything on it, I’ll come back to you. What d’you think? Just give me some rope and let me work on it?’

Powers held Caffery’s eyes for a long time. Then he sighed, opening his hands resignedly. ‘I want an update every day on your snout. By Thursday I want to know what’s happening. OK?’

‘Thursday?’

‘That’s right.’

‘OK. It’s a deal. Just one thing. I’m not getting Turnbull this time, am I? I’ve gone off him.’

‘You’re not getting Turnbull this time.’

‘Good. Who am I getting?’

Powers held his eyes, repeated in a monotone: ‘You’re not getting Turnbull this time.’

At nine thirty the next morning in the Almondsbury offices the nine members of the underwater search team sat in a horseshoe shape watching a trainer apply heart pumps to a dummy. Flea and her team were all trained in basic life support – what used to be called CPR – and had annual refresher courses because skills faded and recommendations changed. For example, the board didn’t want fifteen compressions to two breaths any more, explained the trainer, now they wanted thirty to two.

Flea sat at the end of the horseshoe, bolt upright in her chair. Arms folded, back stiff, knee jittering unconsciously up and down. Her eyes were locked on the trainer but she wasn’t seeing what he was doing. She’d drunk four cups of coffee and taken 600 mg of Cuprofen – enough to bring on an instant ulcer – and all she’d got was the jitters. Her face still hurt and she had a headache that wouldn’t shift – tight and stretched, like there was a fist in her head.

‘Boss? Boss? ’ Wellard was next to her, leaning forward, frowning.

‘What?’ she said. Everyone in the room had stopped watching the trainer. They were staring at her. ‘What is it?’

‘Uh – the phone? You know – the one in your pocket?’

And then she got it. Her mobile was ringing and she hadn’t even noticed. She fished in her pocket. ‘Private Number’ flashed on the screen. A work call. She held up her hand to the instructor, pushed back the chair and left the room. ‘Yeah, this is Sergeant Marley. How may I help?’

It was a search adviser. Not Stuart Pearce but the dedicated MCIU search adviser.

‘I want to talk to you about Misty Kitson.’

‘Hang on a second.’ She went into her office and shut the door tight, scratched her head for a moment or two until her heart stopped banging. ‘OK,’ she said slowly. ‘You want to talk about Misty Kitson. What about her?’

‘The chief’s pouring some more money our way. I’m widening the search parameters. Have you got a map there?’

‘I’m looking at it now.’

‘Our radius was two miles. I’m extending that to four. No fingertip searching, but some door-to-door. You usually do some door-to-door for us, don’t you?’

Flea looked at the map on the wall. She didn’t need a compass or measuring gear to show her how far a four-mile radius would reach. It would take in Ruth’s hamlet, which was slap bang in the middle of the new radius.

‘You still there?’

‘Yes.’

‘I said your team’s usually available for some door-to-door, isn’t it? I was going to suggest you took the south-east quadrant. I’ve got some serials out of Taunton to cover the remainder.’

South-east. Ruth’s hamlet. ‘When do we start?’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘My team’s on lates.’