by Mo Hayder
‘Do you want me to scatter them? Make them run away in twenty different directions?’
‘Can you?’
She shrugged. ‘Only if you want me to.’
‘Can I stay here? Can I put the lock on the door and stay here?’
‘If you want.’
‘Then yes. Do it.’
Zoë hoisted up her trousers, tightened the belt a notch and felt in her pocket for her warrant card. ‘Are you ready to close the door?’
‘I’m ready.’
‘Then here goes.’
God knew, Zoë had cleared enough rooms in her life, and on a scale of one to ten the bikers rated pretty low. They didn’t exactly scatter to the four winds, hands over their faces in shame, but at least they didn’t jump up and get in her face, poke fingers at her, like some people did. The bikers were old hands at this: they knew how far the craic could go and when to back off. So when she walked round the house unplugging lights and CD players, dropping the place into silence, yelling, ‘Police,’ at the top of her voice, the bikers did the right thing. They picked up their lids, gloves and tobacco tins and slouched, grumbling, to the door. She stood on the driveway and watched them, talking politely to them – even helped one to get his sluggish chopper going.
When she went back inside Jason was sitting on the stairs. He’d stripped off his wet jeans and was wrapped in a fluffy white bath sheet. With the goosebumps on his bare legs and the way the towel peaked in a cowl above his head, he looked as wretched as a refugee. His eyes were like holes in his face. She had to stop herself sitting down and putting an arm round his shoulders.
‘You OK?’
‘You never said you were police.’
‘Because I’m not. I’m a veterinary nurse.’
‘A veterinary …’ He shut his mouth hard with a clunk of his teeth. Frowned. ‘But how did you make them think you …’
‘Showed them my driver’s licence. Said it was police ID.’
‘What? And they believed it?’
‘Yup.’ She pulled her licence out of her wallet and waved it in front of his face so fast he couldn’t read the name. ‘You’d be amazed what people will fall for. Just got to style it right.’
Jason gulped and put his hands to his temples. ‘Christ. This is all going so fast.’
‘I know. Have you seen the mess?’
‘I am so not going to survive this. What’m I going to do?’
‘You’re going to have a cup of coffee. It won’t make you less drunk, but it might wake you up a bit. We’re going to clean the place up.’ She helped him down the stairs, one hand under his elbow. Once or twice he lost his balance and nearly dropped the towel. She got glimpses of his pale body, the sparse hair, underneath, his old-fashioned lilac underpants, with a damp patch on the crotch. She got him downstairs, wedged him upright on a chair just inside the kitchen doorway and switched the kettle on.
She went back past him to the hall and tried the door of the study. ‘No one been in here?’
‘Eh? I dunno. I hope not.’
‘I can’t tell. It’s locked.’
‘No. It’s just stiff. Give it a boot.’
She blinked at him, then let out a laugh. A slow, huffing laugh of disbelief.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Nothing.’ She shook her head. The door had been open all the time – she could have walked straight in this afternoon and not gone to all this trouble. ‘Believe me. It’s nothing.’
She put a shoulder against the door, turned the handle three hundred and sixty degrees, and hefted all her weight into it. The door gave a clunk, then swung open. Everything was there – the banker’s lamp on the desk, the leather armchair and footstool. The files. ‘You just about got away with that one. No casualties in there – or nothing serious.’ She came out and drew the door towards her, leaving it slightly ajar. ‘Tell you what – are you sure you want that coffee? You look like you should just lie down. I’ll do the rest. You helped me earlier.’
Jason nodded numbly. He let her lead him into the living room and settle him on the sofa. She found some coats hanging in the cloakroom and piled them on top of him. ‘And if you’re going to be sick, don’t make it any worse for yourself – at least get yourself to the toilet.’
‘I’m not going to be sick. I’m just tired.’
‘Then sleep.’ She stood in the doorway, her hand resting on the wall and watched him for a while. The french windows faced east, and before long the room was filled with pink first light. Like someone igniting a bonfire out in the garden. It didn’t disturb Jason. He closed his eyes and within seconds was breathing low and hard. ‘Suppose you won’t be needing the coffee, then.’ She waited another five minutes to be sure, then, very quietly, moved down the corridor, picking up a couple of beer cans as she went.
The study was the only place people hadn’t been smoking. She propped the door open, so the smell could permeate from the hallway, dropped a couple of the cans on the desk, pushed the armchair to one side and scuffed the rug so it would look as if the bikers had been in there. Then she began to sift through the files. There were whole boxes devoted to Jason’s schooling – he’d gone to St Paul’s and the invoices were eye-watering. She wondered if Julian was still paying Millie’s fees at Kingsmead. Report cards, sports-day cards, uniform lists and details of overseas school trips were all tucked together. Whatever unpleasantness Mooney had inflicted on the women of Priština, he did at least love his son. Or, rather, he had ambitions for him. In other boxes she found details of pension plans, with the MoD and a private company, mortgage papers, rental papers on a property the Mooneys seemed to own in Salamanca. There were medical reports and details of a legal case relating to a car accident Mrs Mooney had had in 2005. His bank statements were there. Zoë took them to the armchair and sat down with them, began to sift through them.
Over the impossibly expensive tiles of the next-door roof the sky was brightening by the minute, one or two clouds, still with their grey night pelts on them, hanging above the chimney pots. As she worked it grew lighter and lighter, until the sun found its way into the gap between the houses, and crept through the leaded window into the study. She searched the accounts for almost an hour and found nothing. Her heart was sinking. After all this, the answer wasn’t here. Zhang and Watling had been right: if Mooney had paid someone to drop Goldrab, he’d brushed the ground clean behind him with his tail. She rested her chin in her hands and stared blankly at the photos on the wall. Pictures of Mr and Mrs Mooney holding hands in front of the Taj Mahal. One of Mooney shaking hands with someone she thought was high up in the US government – Alan Greenspan or someone. Krugerrands, she wondered. Who the hell in the West Country would take Krugerrands and know what to do with them? You’d have to go to one of those bloody horrible streets in Bristol or Birmingham. Going round those with a warrant card in her hand would be a nightmare. Impossible—
Something in one of the photos struck her. She pushed the chair back and went to the picture. It showed Dominic Mooney, wearing a standard Barbour and green Hunters. A Holland and Holland shotgun, the breech cracked open, dangled from one hand. He was smiling into the camera. Behind him a snatch of horizon was visible, a distinctive shape black against the blue of the sky. The Caterpillar opposite Hanging Hill. And in his hand, which was lifted to the camera, a brace of pheasants.
The gamekeeper. She pushed aside the file. The fucking gamekeeper. Jake had said someone was raising pheasants for Goldrab. Mooney had been shooting at Lightpil House and had to have spoken to the gamekeeper. She put the file away, shoved the photo into her jacket and buttoned it up. Jesus Jesus Jesus. Everyone knew what gamekeepers were like – mad as fishes. And dangerous. With gun licences and plenty of ways for disappearing bodies. If she was Mooney and wanted something done to Goldrab, the gamekeeper would be the first place she’d start.
She went into the living room. Jason was still asleep. She leaned over, put her head close to his face and listened to his breathing. Low an
d steady. He wasn’t that pissed. Not die-in-a-ditch pissed. He’d live. She crouched and hoisted him further on to the sofa so he wouldn’t roll off in his sleep. ‘Night, dude,’ she murmured. ‘And Godspeed to Mars. You’re going to need that rocket when Mum and Dad get home.’
25
Sally didn’t go to bed. She snoozed for an hour or so on the sofa in the living room, but woke, her heart thumping, thinking about that cottage. The snaking path that led down to the bottom garden. She showered and dressed. Steve must have listened to her and gone on to that dinner meeting, because he hadn’t called. And she was determined not to call him. There was a sweater of his he’d left lying around and she pulled it on, stopping for a moment to sniff the sleeve. Then she went into the kitchen and began to get breakfast ready. Millie appeared in the doorway, yawning and rubbing her eyes.
‘Hi.’ Sally stood at the sink, feeling as stiff as a wooden doll. Sore-eyed. ‘Did you sleep OK?’
‘Yeah.’ Millie went to the fridge and poured a glass of juice. She sipped it for a while, then paused and glanced at her mother. ‘Oh, no – you’re looking at me funny again. Like you were last night.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You are. What the hell’s going on?’
Sally filled the cafetière and placed it on the table. Then she was still for a moment or two, contemplating Millie. ‘Sweetheart,’ she said. ‘Remember that day last week when you came to work with me?’
‘Yeah.’ Millie used the back of her hand to wipe her mouth. ‘The medallion man? I remember. Why?’
‘What did you do while I was in the house? Where did you go?’
She frowned. ‘Nothing. I wandered around. Walked to the bottom of the garden. There’s a stream there, but it was too cold to paddle. I sat in a tree for a bit. Read on the lawn. Then Jake turned up.’
‘Did you speak to anyone?’
‘Only the freak.’
‘The freak?’ she said steadily.
‘You know – the gamekeeper. He lives in that cottage.’
Sally’s head seemed to lock in place on her neck. ‘Gamekeeper?’
‘Yeah. The one with the baby pheasants. Why? What’re you giving me that look for?’
‘I’m not. I’m just interested. I’ve never met him.’
‘Well, you see him in town sometimes.’ She put a finger to her temple and circled it. ‘You know, few sandwiches short of a picnic.’
‘No. I don’t think I’ve seen him.’
‘The one they said went to Iraq? Now he’s got metal in his head? Ask Nial – he knows the whole story. Me and the others used to go over there, you know, in the old days if we were bored, except the metal in his head means he’s nuts so we stopped. Peter and the others call him Metalhead.’
Metalhead. Sally knew who that was. Kelvin Burford. He’d been at the same nursery school she and Zoë had gone to as tiny children. Kelvin had been a funny little lad – always teased. She hadn’t seen him much after nursery – he’d gone to one of the schools on the other side of Bath – and if she had seen him, it was only in the street, never to speak to. She’d have forgotten all about him if she hadn’t read about him in the Bath Chronicle – how he’d got into the army, had been blown up in Iraq and nearly died. He’d been given a metal plate to replace parts of his skull, and although the doctors had thought he’d made a full recovery, the army wouldn’t have him back because they said he’d gone mad. His talk was all about nightmares and people having their heads blown off. When she’d read in the papers about him being blown up she’d felt sorry for him – she’d even worried about him from time to time. But Kelvin Burford – the man in the cottage? The one who’d put the lipstick in the car? She wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse.
‘And the day I was working, did you speak to him? To Metalhead?’
‘I just said I did.’
‘What did you say? You didn’t talk about why you were there?’
‘No. I mean, I said hi and that. I said my mum was working at Medallion Man’s house.’
‘Does he know your name? Where you live?’
‘I’m not completely thick, Mum. I went into his back garden. He showed me the baby pheasants and that was it. I came back. He let me put some hoods on them, which was kind of cool. Except you don’t want to get too friendly with him. He attacked a girl in Radstock – went to prison for it. That’s why I didn’t tell you I’d been there. Thought you’d freak.’ She lowered her chin and gave her mother an appraising look. ‘And I was right.’
‘Get dressed, Millie.’ Sally gave an involuntary shiver. ‘I’m taking you to school.’
26
Sally couldn’t face parking in David’s parking area again. It was as if the blood that had seeped out of sight into the ground might mysteriously find her car and soak its sly way up into the tyres, into the sills and the upholstery. So at half past nine, when she arrived after dropping Millie at school, she stopped the Ka twenty yards short and inched it into a passing space, out of sight.
She got out slowly, straightened, her back to the car, and scanned her surroundings. It was a clear day, just a few clouds on the horizon. The distant line of yews that marked the northern perimeter of Lightpil House seemed etched hard against the sky. The roof of the gamekeeper’s cottage, with its mossy tiles, was just visible to her right beyond the trees that ran down to the valley.
She moved along the perimeter of David’s property to where the wall ended and a hedge began, and peered over it. In front of her, surrounded by copper beech and leaning poplars, was the cottage. Small, stone-built, a typical eighteenth-century worker’s home, with a low, tiled roof and chimneys. The gardens were a mess – overgrown and filled with junk; a yellow Fiat with a fading canvas roof was parked with its nose in a collapsed hay barn, some rusting disused chicken coops were piled against the far hedge, and, in the centre of the overgrown lawn, an old mower lay on its side, a roll of chicken wire abandoned next to it. Beyond the house was a huge mill shed. Maybe that was where the pheasants were reared. David had talked about his gamekeeper, but she’d forgotten about it until Millie had mentioned him.
After five minutes or more, when nothing in the house or garden had moved, she pushed through the hedge into the garden. The place was eerily quiet, just the faint sound of water running – maybe the stream that came down from Hanging Hill. The driveway was empty. No cars. She turned and went to the bottom of the land – the spoon shape she’d seen on Google Earth. The view here was quite different from up at Lightpil House: this land faced in a more westerly direction, towards Bristol. Where the trees bordering David’s estate stopped, the land fell off, the garden giving way to patchwork farmland. And between them, wide and open like a wound, the yellowish smudge of gravel where it had happened.
She turned and looked up at the cottage. The windows were blank, the sky reflected in them. No movement. Nothing. She glanced again at the parking space, trying to judge what could have been seen. What if there were photographs? What if Kelvin hadn’t only seen her and Steve but had made a record of the whole thing? She thought about Steve, thousands of miles away, sitting in a restaurant in Seattle, drinking wine and those endless glasses of iced water they served out there. She wished she’d asked him to come back, wished she hadn’t been so proud and determined.
A breeze came through the wood, making the branches lift and sigh. Slowly she began to head up the hill towards the cottage. Closer, she saw how old and threadbare it was. There were animal traps everywhere and more bales of chicken wire piled against the wall. He attacked a girl in Radstock – went to prison for it.
The front door was flaked and old, with years of scuffing from wellingtons and maybe dogs. A name, faded by sun and rain to a pink, illegible smudge, had been written on paper and fastened under the bell with a rusting drawing pin. She stood on the step, put her head near the letterbox and listened. Silence. She went around to the back, looking up at the windows, trying to see a way in. Dirty scraps of lace curtain hung beh
ind most of the panes, blocking her view, but she could see through the windows in the back extension – to a galley-shaped kitchen with yellow Formica cabinets. There was a packet of Weetabix on the table, a dirty plate next to it and a couple of Heineken tins flattened ready for the rubbish. No one to be seen. To her surprise, when she stepped back she noticed the door was open a fraction.
She stared at it, her legs suddenly like wood.
No. You can’t …
But she did. She opened the door. The kitchen was small, the floor muddy, and the cupboards streaked with dirt at calf height, as if someone had been walking around wearing wellingtons. At the end a doorway led to the hall. Cautiously, she tiptoed over to it and peered through. It was a small hallway panelled in dark wood. No sound or movement. Just a curtain lifting lazily at the landing window.
There were two rooms opening from the main passageway. With a quick glance upstairs she went to the first, at the front, and peeped round the door. It was a small parlour, still with its picture rails and ornately tiled fireplace intact. The curtains were drawn but enough light was coming through for her to see it was almost empty – just an expensive TV on a black stand positioned about four feet in front of a sofa. The walls were bare, scruffy with years of grime. It didn’t look like the home of someone organized, a person with the sort of technological know-how to have photographed or videoed people in a distant parking space.
The second room, at the back, had been turned into a makeshift office, with an IKEA flatpack desk, covered with piles of paperwork, and a swivel chair, all muddied and scuffed. She went to the desk and began opening drawers. In the top two she found a few boxes of shotgun cartridges and an oil-stained bandoleer. In the bottom one there was a small handbook, divided into sections marked ‘Beaters’, ‘Dogs’, ‘Clients’. She was about to close it when she saw something gold glinting up at her. She squatted and tentatively moved things around it until she could see what it was. A lipstick case. She took it out, removed the lid and twisted up the lipstick. The little that was left of it was a distinct orange-red. She put her head against the desk and took long breaths, thinking of the little boy she’d played Lego with all those years ago, wondering why he’d grown up so angry and dangerous. And what he wanted from her.
