Mo Hayder - Skin

He watched them take Gerber’s body away. When his fingers were tested there’d be gunpowder residue on them. There’d be a stray bullet found in the ceiling of the corridor that must have been fired off reflexively by Gerber after the initial suicide bullet. The only fingerprints on the 45 Hardballer and on the rounds still in it would be Gerber’s. Otherwise it would be clean. The only fibres they’d find on it would come from a tea towel they’d recover from a drawer in his office where he must have been storing it for years. There’d be none of Caffery’s blood or footsteps or fingerprints anywhere above the ground floor, only what he’d left in the break-in – a misdemeanour he’d put his hands up to straight away. There’d be no mention of Amos Chipeta.

Caffery stayed long enough to see the ballistics officers recover the Hardballer from the floor of the corridor. Seven hundred nicker down the drain. Shame. It was an effective gun: ugly, but effective. Given time, it might even find its way back out on to the street. Then he’d have to buy it all over again. Outside he stopped for a moment in the evening sun and looked back at the place, at the manhole cover and the swimming-pool. He thought about Tanzania. What it would be like to grow up deformed and in poverty. What England would look like through Chipeta’s eyes.

Two paramedics stood in the front doorway watching him. They’d been trailing him around the place all afternoon, patiently trying to coax him into the ambulance. Now he gave them a friendly smile and, before they could stop him, got into the Mondeo, lifted the bad leg into the driver’s footwell and started the car. The hospital was twenty miles away. He didn’t need an ambulance. He gave the paramedics a small wave as he pulled out of the driveway. If he could survive what he’d survived today he figured he could manage twenty miles on his own.

The call came at half past eight in the evening when Caffery was lying on the bed in A and E, face down, head on his arms, his ripped trousers on the chair next to the bed. He was a cop so they’d triaged and assessed him double-quick. It was a superficial wound, no nerves, ligaments or bones involved, but even so if he wanted his leg to look near-presentable in a year’s time he’d need specialized surgery. He should be admitted. He’d refused. He just wanted to be patched up and get out. So now he had a junior doctor who looked like a surly male catalogue model sitting on the bed behind him, jacking Naropin and sutures into the back of his leg and sniffing loudly at the foul clothes Caffery was still wearing. When the phone rang Caffery had to push himself up on his elbows to get at it in his breast pocket.

‘Yeah – DI Caffery,’ he mumbled.

‘There’s another.’ It was Turnbull. ‘Came in this afternoon. First attending thought it was a suicide and sent it over to the Royal United, but someone in the call centre got thinking about it after work and – bright spark – put it together with our job, did a Crimesnitch number and picked up the phone. It’s the same MO. They found her in her car – pills, knife, same shit as before.’

For a moment Caffery didn’t answer. The doctor had stopped his work and was standing at the head of the bed, arms folded, eyebrows raised at the sign on the wall – a picture of a phone with a line through it. Caffery held up his thumb, giving him a bear-with-me-I-won’t-be-a-minute look, and stuck his finger in his left ear.

‘Yeah, go on. Who is it?’

‘Woman called Lindermilk.’

‘Lindermilk? I’ve seen that name somewhere.’

‘Ruth Lindermilk? Lives out near Farleigh Hall in one of those hamlets we were searching. She was kind of a recluse. You’re going to love who her niece is. Was , mind.’

‘Let me guess. It was Mahoney.’

‘No. It was Hopkins.’

‘Christ.’

‘Yes, and Lindermilk had an appointment at the Rothersfield clinic this morning. Surgeon’s name?’

‘Gerber. That’s where I saw her name – in his records.’

‘And meantime,’ said Turnbull, ‘while they’re giving it duhs at the site they found her, another call comes in. Lindermilk’s house has been screwed. Place is trashed.’

‘From when Gerber killed her?’

‘Don’t think so. From her body it seems like she went without a struggle. We’re thinking this happened afterwards . He did her, then went back and screwed her house. Just like with Mahoney, ’cept not as discreet.’

‘Who found it?’

‘Lindermilk’s son. He hears what’s happened to his mother and – get this for the calibre of human being we’re dealing with here – because she’s got some property or other he wants before the police seal the place off, he goes straight over and lets himself into the place. He’s got a key apparently. Except when he gets there, someone’s beaten him to it. Nearly catches them too. He hears them jumping out of a window at the back. That’s how close he came.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Two or three hours ago.’

‘Then it can’t have been Gerber.’

‘Lindermilk’s got some history of pissing off the neighbours. Couple of disputes there. Maybe it was one of them.’

The doctor, apparently at the end of his tether, walked out of the cubicle, leaving only a half-stitched wound, a few syringes in the kidney bowl, a blood-soaked sheet and a little sway of the curtain to prove he’d been there.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Turnbull said.

A huge wave of tiredness came over Caffery. He didn’t think he had it in him to get up and keep going. He wanted to eat, drink and sleep. Nothing else. ‘Dunno,’ he muttered thickly. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘Up at the mortuary. We’re waiting to hear when the PM’s going to be. The CSI are heading down to the house now. Do you want to have a look at it?’

Caffery inched his legs around, easing them carefully off the bed. He waited a moment or two for his head to stop spinning, then looked around for the call button. ‘I’ll be there, just as soon as I can find a doctor in this place.’

The first thing Caffery noticed was how near to Farleigh Park Hall Ruth Lindermilk’s place was. In fact, now he thought about it, he remembered driving past the hamlet only a few days ago. He got a rush of adrenalin as he pulled off the road and parked behind the marked police cruiser outside the bungalow. No way Misty Kitson could have been on Gerber’s list too? No. That would be too, too neat. Wouldn’t it?

First things first. Check out the burglary. Then think about Misty. He looked around. The scene-of-crime guys’ cars were lined up by the bottom of the road and one or two neighbours were standing in the dark lane, arms folded, coats over their shoulders, trying to get a glimpse of what was going on inside. Someone had put screens outside Lindermilk’s front door. Maybe that was why the rest of the village were so interested.

He’d been given an antibiotic shot, packets of hospital pharmacy tramadol and codeine. They’d send him to sleep so for now he was sticking to ibuprofen 400s and a top-up of paracetamol. Giving into a rare burst of professionalism, he’d stopped at his cottage to dump his suit in a bag for the CSI guys. Now he was in black jeans and a black nylon warm-up jacket, but the limp still gave it away. That, and the swollen nose and the way his face creased every time he put weight on his foot. The district officer waiting for him in the house came forward, hands out instinctively to help him along the path.

‘’S OK.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s OK.’

Pulling on the gloves the CSIs gave him, Caffery followed the officer along the tread plates into the little lighted dining room where a stubby, thick-bodied man dressed in a grey polo neck sat at the polished oak table. He was in profile, his chin resting on his fist, his mouth pursed. In front of him on the table was a brass telescope.