Mo Hayder - Skin

Caffery’s eyes went back to the window. What had been out there? It hadn’t been much more than a smear of light, but somehow he’d had the impression of eyes.

‘Sir?’

‘Yeah.’ He didn’t glance back. ‘Whatever.’

He came away from the window and limped for the door, holding a hand out to the district officer. ‘Thanks for your help, mate. I’m done now. Get the CSI guys to bag everything up, and when they’re finished, close up, will you?’

His leg hurt more than he liked but he went fast down the stairs, out of a side door into the night, which was cool and muffled, a scent of something like lemon in the air. The back of the house was silent and dark. The lawn was terraced for about a hundred yards: he could see bird-feeders standing skeletal and ghostly in the gloom. Beyond that the road and the hills and the rapeseed field he’d driven past the other night when he’d been looking for the Walking Man.

He stopped at the trees and spoke in a low, clear voice. ‘Are you there? Is that you?’

He could hear his heart thudding. Nothing else.

‘If you’re there, you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to say anything. I won’t give you away.’

He held his breath and listened, but all that came back was a cold, soundless breeze. In his mouth he tasted metal. He thought of the way the breeze had come across the fields, thought of the scents and sounds it must carry. He glanced at the house, at the windows. No one was listening. No CSI guys having a fag on the country lane. He took a few steps into the trees and crouched, his leg sending blue pulses of pain. He put his fingertips on the cold ground and held himself there, staring into the trees.

‘I know what you’ve done.’ He hesitated, not sure how to continue. This was nuts, talking to trees and thin air. ‘You’ve got away with it. But listen.’ His voice got softer. ‘I can’t help you any more. From here you’re on your own. That’s just the way it is.’

He stopped and waited for something to come back. Long minutes passed until his leg ached so much he had to straighten. He put his hands into his pockets and listened again. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting: a movement or a breath. A rustle of leaves or cool clear words, spoken in the darkness.

Nothing came. Nothing. Just the sound of the blood pounding in his head.

I’m not going to say anything. I won’t give you away…

Half frozen in the trees, crouched behind the cylinder of the thermal lance she’d dragged up from the car, Flea stared at Caffery in disbelief.

You’ve got away with it. But I can’t help you any more.

She didn’t move. Just squatted there with her mouth half open, his words freezing her to the spot. What the hell was he talking about? What the hell did he know?

From here you’re on your own. That’s just the way it is…

Something hollow opened inside her. She felt colder and lonelier and more scared than she ever had in her life. She remembered what Mum had said in the quarry. Look after yourself . It hadn’t been a bland imprecation, a throwaway line telling her to be careful. It had been something starker than that. It had meant: you’re on your own, so put yourself first. In front of others. Now she saw clearly what she had to do: saw that the only important thing left was to protect herself. She had to fight for her life.

Caffery stayed there for a long time and gradually, watching his face, the moonlight glancing off his eyes, it dawned on her that maybe he couldn’t see her. She raised a hand in front of her face, moved it back and forward. He didn’t react. Tongue between her teeth she leant forward a little, scrutinizing his eyes. He wasn’t focused on her. She stayed there, weight resting on her knuckles, head lifted, trying to work out what the hell was going on.

When he sighed and straightened, she was sure of it: he didn’t know she was there. The words hadn’t been meant for her at all: whoever he thought he was talking to it wasn’t her, and if the words had meant something it had been a coincidence. But that didn’t change her resolve. As he turned and walked to the front gate, as she let all her breath out and sank back on her haunches, she was resolute, focused and completely calm. At midnight tonight Mandy and Thom were going to get the surprise of their lives. They were going to get the photo, and they were going to get something more, much more. They were going to get Misty’s body. On their front lawn, if necessary. Flea wasn’t going to listen to any arguments or reasoning: from here on it was their mess to clear up.

By ten the CSI team had gone and the house was empty, just a copper on the gate, his back to her, waiting for the maintenance crew to arrive. After ten minutes he got bored of waiting, as she had known he would, and went to sit in his car, from which he could see the front of the cottage, not thinking there was someone round the back, sitting silently in the trees. Neither did he know that Caffery had left the back door open.

So cold her bones were aching, she straightened, the muscles in her legs stiff, gathered up the thermal lance and went painfully across the lawn to the house, then inched her way through the back door. The copper might be lazy but he’d notice light seeping out of the windows, so inside she fumbled the Maglite from her jacket pocket, pointed it at her feet and crept along the hallway in the half-darkness, her ankles brushing against cats as she went. The house was smeared with fingerprint dust from the CSI team, strange pocked light filtering from the broken window, sending shadows across the walls. At the foot of the stairs she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, dressed in the pale blue shirt and jeans she’d thrown on a million hours ago, the cylinder of the lance hiked up on her back, her eyes watering. Her face seemed strangely smooth and young, as if stress had airbrushed it.

The backpack was heavy and the tendons in her knees still hurt from jumping out of the kitchen window so she went slowly up the stairs, careful not to rub against the walls. She wasn’t thinking about fate or twists of destiny. She wasn’t thinking about what Caffery had been doing up here in the bedroom when her movements in the trees had distracted him. She was only thinking that she was cold. And there were less than two hours left to get the photograph over to Thom’s. Which was when everything would begin to change.

Then she shone the torch along the wall to the bed, up to the safe, and found it not closed, but open. Open and completely empty. Yawning, wide and cold. And saw that things might well change in the next two hours. But not in the way she’d expected.

Ten minutes to midnight. Ten minutes to go. Flea slammed on the brakes and came to a halt in the dark street. She switched off the engine and eyed Mandy and Thom’s house. It was dark. The curtains were closed. Just the porch light on.

She went fast up the path and banged on the door. Mandy was in her nightdress when she answered. Her naked calves were white and veined, her eyes puffy without makeup. Her hair stuck out in all directions. She stood in the doorway with her arms folded against her chest, shivering in the cold night, squinting at Flea.

‘I’ve got her in the car, Mandy. She’s in the boot.’

‘Who’s in the car? Who’ve you got?’

‘You can relax. No recording equipment.’

Mandy gave her a puzzled look. ‘What equipment?’

Flea sighed, went back to the car and opened the boot. The body was covered with a blanket, a few flattened cardboard boxes crammed around it. Already water was soaking into the cardboard. She raised her eyes to Mandy. ‘Have a look.’