by Mo Hayder
The kettle boils. Caffery makes his coffee. He’s pouring in a little milk, and is about to spoon in the sugar when something becomes clear to him. He stops what he’s doing and jerks his head up, looking across the room.
The map. The fucking map.
He puts down the spoon, crosses the room, and stands, arms folded, staring at it.
There it is, plain as day. Just below Upton Farm, a tiny annotation, written in the Old English calligraphy beloved of OS maps:
The Wilds.
How to Tell the Truth
AT LAST AJ gets up the courage to go and tell Melanie about Jack Caffery. He knocks on her door and when he goes in she is sitting at her desk, smiling up at him.
‘Hi,’ he says cautiously. ‘Earlier – did you come to see me for something?’
‘Only to give you a hug. Say hi.’ She gives a sheepish smile. There’s no suggestion she knows he’s lied about the phone call. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. I mean, sort of.’
‘Sort of?’
‘Yes, I … I need to speak to you. Something’s happened.’
‘Something?’
He sits down. Puts his keys and phone on the desk – looks her in the eye. He fumbles in his head for the first sentence of the speech he’s prepared. But when he opens his mouth, what pops out is: ‘Stewart’s ill. He’s been at the vet.’
Melanie’s face falls. ‘The vet? Is he OK?’
‘Yeah – he’s going to be fine. Patience dealt with it.’
‘God, I’m sorry. Poor Stewart. Maybe he ate something while he was – you know …’ She wrinkles her brow. ‘Wherever it is he keeps yomping off to.’
‘Maybe. But it’s OK. He’s going to be fine.’
‘That’s good.’ She smiles again, and he smiles stupidly back at her. She’s waiting for him to speak, but he can’t bring himself to say the words. He’s a wuss. A coward. A lily-livered surrender monkey. He casts around for a way of changing the subject, a way of justifying being here. ‘So.’ He indicates the corridor that leads from the director’s office to the kitchenette. ‘So. Do you mind if I make some coffee?’
‘Be my guest. I’ll have a cup too.’
He can feel her eyes on him as he leaves the office. He knows she knows there’s something more. He will say it. He will. He fills up the coffee-maker, clicks it on and starts getting the jewelled cups out, repeating under his breath: ‘I’ve lied to you, not because I’m like the others, but because I was trying to do the right thing …’
He puts milk and sugar on the tray. The coffee-maker pings, and he pours coffee into the cups. His heart is thudding.
He puts two biscuits on a plate and carries the tray through, sets it in front of her.
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
She sips the coffee and he places his cup on the desk. But instead of sitting and drinking he remains standing. Not speaking. Eventually she notices. She lowers her cup and raises her eyes to him.
‘AJ? What is it?’
‘Zelda Lornton. Pauline. Moses. The police want to open an investigation.’
The response is instantaneous, and exactly what he’d dreaded. Her face drains of colour. ‘What?’ she murmurs, disbelieving. ‘What?’
The Wilds
PENNY PILSON ISN’T answering her phone. Caffery leaves a message – ‘When you have time I want to ask you something. Wonder what you meant when you said Handel would be “off into the wilds”. Give me a call.’ Then he checks his watch. The super is in a meeting at HQ and he’s going to be there until lunchtime. AJ LeGrande has Caffery’s mobile number. There’s nothing keeping him here. He finds his keys, and at the last minute gets his North Face Triclimate jacket from the cupboard and his walking boots.
Wotton-under-Edge is named because it sits under the edge of the Cotswolds. An old market town, it retains that atmosphere of a place people gather. But at this time on a chilly late-October day it is peopled only by a few shoppers, ducking in and out of the brightly lit shops. Caffery drives through, watches the town dwindle in his rear-view mirror. Upton Farm is only two miles from here. Wotton would have been the place the Handel family shopped. He wonders if Isaac has been here more recently. Whether he’s sat in that bus shelter or on that bench and watched people coming and going.
Wire and pliers. Something left unfinished?
The road winds up the escarpment until he’s cresting along the summit, passing Westridge and North Nibley. Using his phone and his memory of the map, he locates a small farm track that leads through an abandoned orchard. A rusting skip lies on its side under the gnarled trees, as if some giant has got fed up apple picking and cast it aside. The grass hasn’t been cut – it lies flat and bedraggled under the sodden heaps of rotting apples.
Where the track stops, Caffery parks. He pulls on the boots and jacket, and from under the driver’s seat takes a torch. It is weighty and solid and feels good in his hand. He locks the car, turns up his collar, and heads off down the footpath that leads into the trees.
It takes him fifteen minutes to pick his way to the place named The Wilds. Several times his phone drops its GPS connection and finds it again. As he comes down a path and sees daylight ahead where it opens into a glade, the signal flashes to SOS, and then, in the next moment: No Service. He tucks it inside his jacket and continues.
The moment he gets to the clearing the shape leaps out at him. A mountain – a white-boned giant. It’s a tree, he recognizes that immediately, but like no other tree he’s ever seen: it is huge and dead in the thin light. The collapsed skeleton of an ogre.
He scans the surrounding woods, then, drawn to the tree, moves forward a few steps, approaching it slowly, his feet crunching the dead leaves. As he circles it he finds, half hidden, an arch leading to an empty chasm where its heart must have once been. One hand on the nearest root arch, he bends and shines the light inside. He sees beer cans, a soaking wet sleeping bag on an unfolded cardboard box.
‘Hello?’ The torch picks up the gnarled interior of the tree, pocked with sealed knots and bumps – like polished rock walls. ‘Anyone home?’
Silence. He flicks the torch on from side to side – as if the movement will shake anything hiding in the tree out into the open. He switches it off and waits, his breath held. There is no noise at all. Nothing.
He sniffs. There’s a strong smell of wet earth and leaf mould – and something else. A lower keynote under the damp that touches a deep nerve and makes him hold his mouth open slightly like a cat testing a scent. He’s smelled it recently – it’s too familiar. The uncared for, urinated-on funk of Handel’s dolls.
He stoops and, bent almost double, enters. It’s impossible to stand up inside. The smell is so strong it makes him cover his mouth. He finds a broken stick on the ground and uses it to poke through the items on the floor. It’s like going through a recycling bin. Beer cans are squashed into bumpy discs. There are flattened plastic bottles and a few empty crisp bags. He uses the stick to lift the corner of the sleeping bag. Sees that lying on top of the cardboard, serving as a half-hearted waterproof layer, is a Wickes carrier bag.
‘Hello, mate,’ he murmurs under his breath. ‘Nice to find you at last.’
Level Pegging
AJ BADLY WANTS to sit down next to Melanie, but he’s got to stay standing, whatever. ‘I had to get the police involved.’ He tries to sound reasonable. ‘I mean, let’s face it, we’ve both known it for a long time. It’s not just Isaac being in your garden, it’s so many other things putting an arrow over his head.’
‘Oh God.’ Melanie covers her mouth, drops her face. ‘Oh God,’ she says. ‘Oh God.’
‘He’s clever, Melanie, much cleverer than we ever realized. He knew how to manipulate people. Zelda, and maybe Moses too. Maybe even Pauline. They were all scared – so many of the witnesses say they were scared in the days leading up to …’
His voice peters out. Melanie is raking her hands through her hair. Digging the nails in and
turning her head from side to side, like someone being tortured. He keeps up the conscious effort not to go and comfort her. Stands silent and still – feet together, hands in his pockets. He’s got to see this through. He waits, watches her tearing herself apart. Shaking her head and saying ‘no’, over and over.
When she at last puts her face up there’s a complete clarity. A couple of streaks of mascara where she’s cried, but otherwise her face is completely calm. It’s as if she’s made the decision to wipe it clean.
‘AJ?’
‘Melanie?’
‘AJ.’
It is half a question, half an admission. And suddenly something he hadn’t even dreamed of swims into glaring, blinding focus. Melanie’s been hiding something else. The muscles in his jaw loosen, because he realizes on some level he’s always suspected it. Always been aware of what she wasn’t saying.
‘You knew,’ he murmurs. ‘You knew what happened. You knew it was him.’
She looks back at him steadily.
‘Melanie? Did you know?’
Now he can’t keep his stiff posture. He sinks into the chair opposite and stares at her.
‘You knew – you knew what Isaac was doing.’
She lowers her forehead again and puts her elegant fingers to her temples.
‘AJ, we’ve slept together, we’ve done things that are probably illegal together and I suppose that means we should share everything—’
‘Just answer me. Did you know?’
‘Not know as such. But if I’m honest I … suspected.’
‘Suspected?’
‘Everyone has the right to make up for what they’ve done. They all need a chance at rehabilitation. That’s what my ethics have always been founded on.’
‘Ethics? You bent over backwards to have Isaac fucking Handel released? Knowing what he’d been up to?’
‘Not knowing. Suspecting.’
‘Suspecting, even.’ He puts his head back, opens his hands, as if he’s asking God for help. ‘I can’t believe this.’
‘That’s because you’ve never been in my position. You’ve never had to face that pressure. I’m not blaming you, I’m not, but you cannot imagine what it’s like. It’s the curse of middle management, being the ham in the sandwich – which, if you’re the bottom of the sandwich, probably sounds a privileged place to be, but the truth is, it’s hell. The crap comes from both sides. To everyone in the unit I’ve got to be a figure of authority – whatever bullshit that means – but to the Trust I’m a tool. I have to take whatever they say and convert it into something that my staff can understand and respond to.’
‘I’m not all that interested, to be honest. You finessed Isaac’s tribunal so he’d be let out.’
‘Hysteria spreading through the patient population.’
‘And it still is spreading. Except now it’s outside the unit – so you’ve really shot yourself in the foot. Isaac is missing from his placement, and you and I both know he’s been in your garden. For all I know, he may have been to my place too. Maybe he even poisoned Stewart. I’m sorry, Melanie, but I’m finding it all a bit too much to take in at the moment.’
‘AJ, my job was on the line. Completely on the line. You don’t know the sacrifices I’ve made to stay in this job, the shitty things I had to do to get here in the first place. I wasn’t to know he’d come back. OK, I’m an idiot – I realize that. I do.’
‘It’s nothing to do with Jonathan, is it? Nothing he put you up to?’
She blinks. ‘What? No, of course not. What’s he got to do with this?’
‘I don’t know. Nothing – it’s just all so … You lied to me.’
‘You lied to me too. Lots, it seems. So maybe we’re level pegging?’
‘Level pegging?’ He nearly loses it then. For a man who never suspected himself of having much in the way of moral fibre, he finds it surprising how much all this bothers him. He gets up and walks from one side of the room to the other, trying to order everything in his mind in a way that makes sense.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says timidly. ‘I really am sorry.’
He keeps walking, trying not to look at her. A detached part of him knows it’s all illogical and unfair; it also knows he’ll probably forgive her. Because she is Melanie and he is in love with her.
‘AJ? AJ?’
He looks at her. She is standing, smiling hopefully, her hands out to him. He frowns, still uncomfortable.
‘AJ? Come on? Truce?’
Eventually, grudgingly, he embraces her. Her arms go up under his, her hands crossed on his shoulder blade, her face squashed against his shirt. ‘AJ, I’m sorry – I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’ He strokes her hair, a little rigidly. ‘All OK. Everything will be fine.’
‘I get so insecure. At work.’
‘I know. I know.’ He continues stroking her hair, still not quite sure what to think. A long silence passes while all he can feel is her heart beating fast and shallow against his arm. Out of the window the old clock on the tower ticks towards three o’clock. AJ imagines what they look like from outside. People who care about each other? Or people who are angry?
‘I’ve got an idea.’ Melanie takes a step back. She fumbles a handkerchief out of her cardigan pocket and wipes her nose. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Go?’
‘Yes. Just go.’ She makes her hand into an aeroplane and directs it towards the window. ‘Let’s disappear until it blows over. You can tell the police you were mistaken and we can both take, I dunno, sick leave, or annual leave or whatever – and head off. I’ve got strings I can pull in HR. A desert island, maybe. Sun, sand and sex.’ She lifts her face to him. ‘I once drank six pina coladas at lunchtime and fell in the swimming pool.’
‘I can picture it.’
‘The lifeguard had to get me out.’
‘I can picture that too. I’m jealous.’
She flashes a watery smile at him. ‘Shall we? Shall we just go?’
‘Oh, Melanie, Melanie.’
‘What?’
‘I can’t go away.’
‘Why?’
‘We can’t just pretend it’s not happening.’
‘OK. OK.’ Deflated, she bites her lip. ‘I understand.’
‘And there’s Stewart too – he’s, well, God only knows what’s up with Stewart, but I can’t leave Stewie. Not when he’s ill.’
‘I understand.’
She looks around herself helplessly – as if she’s trying to find something to divert attention. He doesn’t say anything. He knows when to keep his mouth shut. ‘I um … AJ … I …’ She begins to gather up her belongings – her handbag, her phone, her keys. ‘I think I’m just going to have a quick walk, maybe a drive. Get some fresh air, you know?’
‘It’s probably a good idea.’
She nods. ‘Yes. A good idea.’ She pulls on her cream raincoat, jams the hood down over her face and, without waiting to hear if he’s going to speak, heads for the door. A moment later he sees her out of the window: she’s gone through the pinch-point security gate in the stem corridor, through the admin corridor and has appeared outside – walking fast across the car park, her car keys out. The security lights on the Beetle flash on and off and she jumps in.
There is a moment where he sees her face lit by the dashboard, her honey-blonde hair hanging bedraggled around her face, and he sees she is crying again. Then she is through the security gates and gone, leaving him staring into nothing.
Eat Me Cake
CAFFERY LEANS BACK against the inside of the tree, in a half-sitting position, his back supported, his head contorted like Alice after the EAT ME cake. He shines the torch on the sleeping bag, thinking about what it would be like, sleeping out here. Sheltered from the wind, at least. Isaac Handel knew this area as a child – he must have, it’s so close to Upton Farm. But Caffery’s not sure what it means, that he’s gravitated back here. Is it only because it’s familiar? Or is there another reason? Some unfinished business?
> The pliers and the wire and the other things Handel bought at Wickes aren’t here. Maybe they’re elsewhere in the woods. Caffery starts to manoeuvre himself backwards out of the cave, ticking off in his head the searches and permissions he’s going to need. Surveillance. The superintendent should OK the surveillance spend, but he can’t picture anyone in the Force Targeting Team relishing the prospect of staking out this place. They have a limited overtime allowance and they’re not going to waste it. They want a nice warm car to sit in. Not bird watchers’ gear, sou’westers and peeing in a bottle.
Something dangles near Caffery’s face. He freezes, half bent over. His eyes rotate slowly, and he lifts the torch, partly as a weapon. The object is inches away from his eyes – so close it takes a moment to focus. It’s the crudely stitched face of a doll. It must have been wedged between the roots overhead and Caffery has dislodged it. It hangs from its legs, upside down, swinging with the momentum of its drop.
It bears all the hallmarks of one of Isaac’s poppets. The mix of textures – in this case a butterscotch-coloured fake leather for the skin, highly polished porcelain for the face, and a strange little dress made from a scrap of white lace. Caffery doesn’t touch it. He scrambles his glasses out from the pocket of his North Face, crams them on his face and cants his head round so he can study it in the torchlight.
Yes, it’s similar to the others. But there’s more. This one is different, nastier. It’s a female with long yellow strands of wool, like blonde hair, that sway as she rocks to and fro upside down. Her hair is free, but nothing else is. She is gagged with a narrow strip of duct tape and her arms are folded across her chest, stitched there. As if to secure her arms further the wrists have been bound with a delicate silver chain wrapped tightly around them.
Caffery is now sufficiently conversant with Handel’s style to understand. This means a woman, a flesh-and-blood woman in the real world that Handel has plans for. She has blonde hair and in her wardrobe will be a lace dress or a blouse with a tiny, unnoticed tear in it. Missing from her jewellery box will be a silver bracelet.
