by Mo Hayder
‘Where did the pie come from?’
Jonathan’s pupils were like pinpricks. ‘From the neighbour,’ he said faintly. ‘Mrs Fosse.’
‘She’s been bringing food over since this started.’ The FLO put her spoon down with a clatter. ‘She’s trying to help.’
Caffery pushed away his plate and felt automatically in his pocket for his mobile, not taking his eyes off the tooth. ‘Where does she live? What number?’
Jonathan didn’t answer. He bent over and spat a mouthful of pie into his bowl, then glanced apologetically at his wife, his eyes red, watery. He scraped his chair back as if he was going to get up. Instead he leaned over the plate again. This time when he opened his mouth vomit came out, splashing into the plate, little white trails of sputum and cream flecking the table.
Everyone stared at him as he mopped his mouth with a kitchen towel, dabbed at the mess. No one said a word. A long, cold silence spread around the kitchen as if no one had the confidence to speak. Even Caffery was silent, staring at the tooth, at Jonathan dejectedly cleaning the table. Then, as Caffery was about to stand, to do something constructive, get a cloth to help, Rose Bradley came to life. ‘You pig!’ She pushed her chair back with a loud scraping noise and jumped to her feet, pointing a finger at her husband. ‘You absolute hateful pig, Jonathan. You think that if we just pretend everything’s normal it’ll all go away.’ She reached across the table and in one move sent the plate flying off the table to crack into pieces against the cooker. ‘You think pie and tea and mountains of bloody cakes are going to bring her back. You do. You really do.’
She snatched up the tooth and, ignoring the FLO who had half risen out of her chair, her hands up to calm the situation, left the room, slamming the door. A moment later, Philippa shot her father a filthy look and followed her mother, slamming the door again. Their footsteps sounded on the stairs, another door slammed. There was a thump, and then the sound of muffled sobbing.
In the kitchen no one spoke. Everyone sat in silence, staring at their feet.
16
Ten miles to the south in a street on the outskirts of the small town of Mere, Janice Costello, a thirty-six-year-old mother of one, parked her Audi and cut the engine. She turned to the back, where her four-year-old daughter was strapped into her car seat, ready for bed in pyjamas, Hello Kitty slippers and a hot-water bottle. She had a duvet tucked around her.
‘Emily, sweetheart? You OK, poppet?’
Emily yawned and looked blearily out of the window. ‘Where are we, Mummy?’
‘Where are we? We’re . . .’ Janice bit her lip and ducked her head down to look out of the window. ‘We’re near the shops, darling. And Mummy’s going to be just two minutes. Just two minutes, OK?’
‘I’ve got Jasper.’ She waggled her toy rabbit. ‘We’re having a cuddle.’
‘Good girl.’ Janice leaned over and tickled Emily under the chin, making her jam it down and wriggle gleefully.
‘Stop it! Stop it!’
Janice smiled. ‘That’s a good girl. You keep Jasper warm, and I’ll be straight back.’
She unbuckled and got out of the car, central-locking it. She gave Emily a last glance, straightened and stood under the streetlamp, looking anxiously up and down the road. She was lying to Emily. There weren’t any shops round here. What was here, just around the corner, was an NHS clinic. It was playing host to a group counselling session. Three men and three women: they met every Monday and they’d be coming out – she checked her watch – any minute now. She went to the corner and stood with her back against the wall, craning her neck so she could see the building. The lights were on in the porch and in two of the front windows – maybe where the session was taking place – the blinds were drawn tight.
Janice Costello was about as certain as she could be that her husband was having an affair. Cory had been coming to this group-therapy session for three years, and she was pretty sure he’d developed a ‘friendship’ with one of the women. At first it had been just a nagging suspicion, just a sense that something wasn’t right – a distance about him, not coming to bed when she did and long, unexplained absences when he took his car and claimed to have ‘just been driving around thinking’. There were unexpected arguments over unimportant things – the way she answered the phone or put vegetables on the plate at dinner, even the mustard she chose. Mustard. How stupid was that? A stand-up screaming match over the fact he wanted grains because English mustard was ‘so parochial. For Christ’s sake, Janice, can’t you see that?’
It was the casual mentions of ‘Clare’ that really tipped her off, though. Clare says this, Clare says the other. When Janice quizzed him he gave her a look as if he didn’t know what she was talking about.
‘Clare,’ she repeated. ‘You’ve just said her name about twenty times. Clare?’
‘Oh, Clare. From Group, you mean. What about her?’
Janice didn’t push it any further, but when she subtly slipped his phone out of his pocket later that night, when he’d fallen asleep in front of the TV, she found two calls from ‘Clare P’. And now it had got to the point where she wanted to know. It should be easy. All she’d have to do was see him with the woman. She’d know instantly from his mannerisms.
The lights in the window went off and another came on in the hallway. The end of the session. Her heart began to pound. Someone was going to come to the door any second. Her phone rang in her pocket. Shit, she’d forgotten to turn it off. She pulled it out, ready to kill it, but when she saw who was calling her finger came off the red button and she stared at it, not knowing what to do.
Cory. Cory was calling her. He was only ten yards away in the building and the moment the door opened he’d hear her phone ringing through the cold air. Her finger went back to the kill button, hesitated, then moved and hit the green.
‘Hi.’ Her voice was bright. She twisted back round the corner and stood facing the wall, one finger in her ear. ‘How’d it go?’
‘Yeah, you know.’ Cory sounded tired, moody. ‘Same old, same old. Where are you?’
‘Where am I? I’m . . . I’m at home, of course. Why?’
‘Home? I’ve just been calling you on the landline. Didn’t you hear?’
‘No – I mean, I was in the kitchen. Busy with dinner.’
There was a pause. ‘Shall I call you on it now, save the bill?’
‘No! No – that’s . . . Don’t, Cory. You’ll wake Emily.’
‘She’s asleep? It’s not even six o’clock yet.’
‘Yeah, but you know – school tomorrow—’ She broke off. Emily was in Reception: she was quite old enough to tell Cory they hadn’t been at home tonight. She was getting into deep lies now. Deep trouble. She swallowed. ‘Are you coming home?’
There was a long pause. Then he said, ‘Janice? Are you sure you’re at home? You sound like you’re outside somewhere.’
‘Of course I’m at home. Of course.’ Her pulse was racing: she could feel the adrenalin making her fingers tingle. ‘I’ve got to go, Cory. She’s crying. I’ve got to go.’
She jammed her finger on the red button and dropped back against the wall, breathing hard. She was shaking. There was too much to think about. Too much. She’d have to make up a story about how she and Emily remembered they didn’t have something – milk or coffee or something – and how they’d had to go out to the shops. Then she’d have to buy something to prove it. Or she’d have to say Emily wouldn’t stop crying so she’d bundled her into the car and driven her around for a while hoping it would soothe her, the way it had when she was a colicky baby. She should go straight home and smooth it all out – make it fit the lie she was going to tell. But she’d come all this way and she couldn’t just back off now. She had to see Clare.
Steeling herself she poked her head round the wall again. Jerked it straight back. The front door had opened. The bloody door had opened and there were people there, light spilling out on to the pavement, voices. She pulled the hood of her quilted jacket up, dr
agged it down low over her eyes and gingerly peered out again. A woman came out – an older woman with severely cut white hair and a long tartan coat – followed by another in a brown coat, belted. Janice didn’t think either of them was Clare. They were too old. Too masculine-looking.
But then the door opened wider and Cory stepped out, zipping his jacket. He was walking half sideways, turning back to the building to say something to a tall thin woman with very pale straight hair. She was dressed in a long leather coat and high-heeled boots. She had a sharp, slightly bent nose, and was laughing at what he was saying. She stopped on the steps to the clinic and wrapped a scarf around her neck. Cory paused on the pavement and looked up at her. One or two people came out behind, filtered around them. The woman spoke and Cory shrugged. Rubbed his nose. Then he glanced thoughtfully up and down the street.
‘What is it?’ The woman’s voice came through the air as clear as a bell. ‘What’s the matter?’
Cory shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ He looked up and down the street again, as if he was turning something over in his head. He went back up two steps, put his hand on the woman’s elbow, dropped his face and murmured something to her.
She frowned, raised her eyes to him. He spoke again and she held up her hand, four fingers splayed. Then she turned them into a bright little wave. ‘Whatever,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Whatever, Cory. See you next week.’
Cory stepped away, still checking cautiously over his shoulder. He thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out his car keys and began to walk purposefully away from the clinic. A bolt of panic went through Janice. Fumbling for her keys she trotted as fast as she could back to the Audi.
As she got nearer she could see something was wrong with the car. Her heart thudded, low and hard. The Audi sat about twenty yards away, under a streetlight. And Emily wasn’t in it. ‘Emily?’ she murmured. ‘Emily?’
She broke into a run, not caring who saw her now. Her scarf unwound itself and flew off. She nearly dropped her keys. She got to the car, slammed her hands on the window, put her face to the glass.
Emily was crouched in the footwell under the back seat, surprised by her mother’s horrified face. She’d unbuckled herself, crawled down there and was playing with Jasper. He was at arm’s length, turned to face her as if they’d been having a conversation.
Janice dropped against the car, her hand over her heart.
‘Mummy!’ Emily shouted at the window-pane. She bounced up and down on the back seat. ‘Mummy, guess what?’
Taking a deep breath Janice went round to the front, got in and turned to her little girl. ‘What? What am I guessing, sweetheart?’
‘Jasper’s done a poo. In his pants. Did you get some nappies from the shop for him?’
‘Shop’s shut, sweetheart.’ She forced a smile. ‘Didn’t get nappies. No shop, no nappies – I’m sorry. Get yourself strapped in, darling. We’re going home.’
17
Caffery was glad he never got offered that glass of wine. If he’d had even a sniff of booze he’d have ballsed up the whole logistical nightmare that came after the tooth appeared in his mouth.
The neighbour, Mrs Fosse, a nosy, birdlike woman who wore slippers and two knitted sweaters, one over the other, had nothing to hide. He was confident of that after speaking to her for twenty minutes. She’d made the pie and put it on the doorstep with the other things at one o’clock. Hadn’t liked to knock because she found it awkward, not knowing what to say: she hoped the little gifts expressed her feelings properly. Which meant the jacker had come into the garden and pressed the tooth into the pie some time in those two hours. He must have teased it down through the twin steam holes Mrs Fosse had made with a knife.
The Walking Man was right, Caffery thought: this man was cleverer than anyone he’d dealt with before. He decided to get the Bradleys the hell out of the vicarage as soon as possible.
‘I hate you. I really, really hate you.’ In the utility room Philippa was glaring at Caffery. Her face was white, her hands were in tight fists. The side door was open and an officer from the dog-handling unit waited on the doorstep, holding both of the family dogs on leashes and trying hard not to get sucked into this argument. ‘I can’t believe you’re doing this.’
Caffery sighed. It had taken him more than two hours and ten different calls, first, to get permission for the move and, second, to find somewhere to take the family. In the end it meant that a team of senior investigating officers on an exchange exercise from Holland were turned out of the suites reserved for visiting police chiefs in the training block at HQ. Now the family were ready with their bags and their coats on. ‘Philippa,’ he said, ‘I promise you – the dogs will be OK.’
‘They can’t be with someone they don’t know.’ She had tears in her eyes. ‘Not at a time like this.’
‘Listen,’ he said carefully. He knew he had to be really cautious – the last thing he needed was a hysterical teenager upsetting this scenario. He’d called the two patrol cars that had been waiting just off the estate, out of the view of the press. They’d be rolling up any minute now, and when they did he wanted the whole family in and away before the reporters had time to wonder what the hell was going on. The head of Corporate Communications had been dragged out of a darts game in Brislington and was in hasty negotiations with some of the major newspapers. The jacker had tracked the Bradleys here from press photos of them coming and going from the house. It was a symbiotic relationship, and if the media wanted any more co-operation from the police they’d have to lay off any further coverage of the Bradleys.
‘You can’t take the dogs with you, Philippa. We can’t have animals in the safe-house. They’ll be looked after by the dog handlers. And you’re going to have to understand how serious this is. You’re going to have to understand that the man who did this to your sister is . . .’
‘Is what?’
He rubbed a finger across his forehead. He wanted to say, Is cleverer than anyone I’ve dealt with? Cleverer and twice, no, three times, as weird?
‘You can take one dog. One. The other’ll have to go with the handler. OK? But you have to take this seriously, Philippa. Do I have your promise that you will? For your parents’ sake. For Martha’s sake.’
She looked at him sullenly, her dyed black hair flopping down over half of her face. Her bottom lip moved almost imperceptibly, and for a moment he thought she was going to scream. Or tear around the utility room kicking things. But she didn’t. She muttered an almost inaudible ‘S’pose.’
‘Which one?’
She looked across at the dogs. They looked back at her. The spaniel tentatively banged its tail on the floor, wondering if this human discussion was an elaborate preamble to a walk. Seeing them together like this Caffery noticed just how old and infirm the collie was compared to the spaniel.
‘Sophie.’
Hearing her name, the spaniel straightened eagerly, her tail metronoming side to side.
‘The spaniel?’
‘She’s the best guard dog,’ Philippa said defensively, taking the lead from the handler. ‘She’ll look after us best.’
The collie watched Sophie take her place next to Philippa.
‘What’re you going to do with the other one?’ Caffery asked the handler.
‘Probably ask around the force.’ He looked down at the collie, which had put its head back and was looking up at him, as if it already knew he was the new person in charge. ‘There’s usually an idiot on some unit or other soft enough to be a foster-parent for a day or two. Until the whole thing blows over.’
Caffery sighed. ‘Jesus.’ He felt in his pocket for his car keys. ‘Here.’ He chucked the keys to the handler. ‘Put it in my car.’ The collie raised its eyes to him, dropped its head on one side. He sighed. ‘Yeah, OK – don’t make a big thing of it.’
He took Philippa and Sophie into the hallway, where her parents and the FLO were waiting among the hastily packed suitcases. He stood next to the window and peered out through the cr
ack in the curtains. He’d told the cars not to use their blues and twos. Didn’t want to stretch out the warning the reporters would get. ‘Now, you know the deal. Our press office doesn’t want you covering your faces when you go out there. The flashes will go off – just ignore them. Don’t be baited. Just go about this business as quickly and calmly as you can. Pretend it’s a fire drill. No panicking but just get everything moved along, OK?’
The family nodded. Caffery checked out of the window, looking along the silent estate. Still no cars. He was about to reach into his pocket for the phone when the door to the kitchen opened and one of the CSI officers who had turned up to forensicate the back garden, the basket and the pie dish appeared in the hallway.
‘What?’ Caffery turned from the window. ‘What is it?’
The man, who seemed barely out of his teens and still had pimples on his chin, gave Rose Bradley an uncomfortable look. ‘Mrs Bradley?’
Rose backed to the wall, her hands tucked tightly under her armpits.
‘What is it?’ Caffery said.
‘I’m sorry, sir. It’s the tooth you wanted to have tested.’
‘You don’t need it.’ Tears welled in Rose’s sore eyes. ‘You don’t need it.’
‘We do need it, Rose,’ the FLO said gently. ‘Really. We do.’
‘You don’t. You can take my word for it. It’s hers. The first tooth she lost and she never wanted to let go of it. We had it put into a locket for her. I promise – I’d know it anywhere.’
Outside, the cars were sweeping into the driveway. Caffery sighed. Great timing.
‘Rose, please, give the gentleman the tooth.’ He glanced out of the window. No time to head them off now. They’d have to start the whole exercise again. ‘We can’t help Martha unless you give it to him.’
‘No! I won’t. You have my word for it, it’s her tooth.’ The tears plopped out of her eyes. She lowered her chin and tried to wipe them on the shoulders of her blouse. ‘It is her tooth. I promise it is.’
