Gone

by Mo Hayder

47

  ‘My colleagues are having a look around your place. You’ve seen the warrant, it’s all kosher. You can stay here as long as you don’t try to obstruct the search.’

  It was just before seven in the morning and Caffery was back in the Moons’ damp little flat. There were the remains of a fried breakfast on the table, ketchup and Daddie’s sauce bottles, with two smeared plates. Dirty pans were piled in the sink in the kitchen. Outside it was still dark. Not that they could see out: the little paraffin heater in the corner had steamed up the windows and condensation ran in wriggling rivulets down the glass. The two men, father and son, sat on the sofa. Richard Moon wore a pair of joggers that had been split at the ankle cuffs to allow his enormous calves to fit through and a navy T-shirt, with the word ‘VISIONARY’ on the chest and sweat-stains under the arms. He was staring fixedly at Caffery, sweat beading on his upper lip.

  ‘Odd, isn’t it,’ Caffery sat at the table, regarding him carefully, ‘that you never mentioned your brother yesterday?’ He leaned forward, holding out the photo ID Ted Moon had used to get in and out of MCIU’s offices. ‘Ted. Why didn’t you mention him? Seems odd to me.’

  Richard Moon glanced at his father, who raised his eyebrows warningly. Richard lowered his eyes.

  ‘I said, it seems odd, Richard.’

  ‘No comment,’ he muttered.

  ‘No comment? Is that an answer?’

  Richard’s eyes shifted around, as if there were lies in the air and they needed a place to hide. ‘No comment.’

  ‘What is this no-comment shit? Have you been watching The Bill? You’re not under arrest, you know. I’m not recording this, you haven’t got a brief, and the only thing you’ll achieve with your no-comments is to royally piss me off. And then I might change my mind and decide you are under arrest. Now, why didn’t you tell us about your brother?’

  ‘No comment,’ said Peter Moon. His eyes were cold and hard.

  ‘You didn’t think it was relevant?’ He pulled out the sheet Turner had printed from the Guardian’s database. The CPS were going to pull their files to fill in the details but the stark facts on this printout were quite enough to tell Caffery what they were dealing with. Moon had killed thirteen-year-old Sharon Macy. He’d concealed the body somewhere – it had never been found – but he’d been convicted anyway on the DNA evidence. According to the intelligence there hadn’t been any problem with that because Sharon’s blood had been all over Ted Moon’s clothes and bedding. The bedroom floor had been so deep in blood it had soaked through the boards in some places. The stains on the ceiling in the room below had still been spreading when the team arrived to arrest him. He’d done ten years for it until, a year ago, the home secretary had agreed with what the RMO, the responsible medical officer, had said: that Moon was no longer a danger to himself or to others. He had been released from Broadmoor on a conditional discharge.

  ‘Your brother did that.’ Caffery pushed the database printout in front of Richard Moon’s face. ‘What sort of bitter pig kills a thirteen-year-old girl? Do you know what the coroner said at the time? That her head would have had to have half come off to make that much blood. Don’t know about you but it makes me queasy just thinking about it.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Here’s the deal. You tell me now where he is and we can talk about you bypassing an obstruction charge for not mentioning it earlier.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Do you know how long you can get banged up for obstruction? Eh? Six months. How much of that time do you think you’d last, fat boy? Especially when they hear you were protecting a nonce. Now, where is he?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Richard!’ His father silenced him. He put a finger to his lips.

  Richard Moon looked at him for a moment, then dropped his head back. Sweat was running down into the neck of his T-shirt. ‘No comment,’ he muttered. ‘No comment.’

  ‘Boss?’

  They turned.

  Turner was standing in the doorway holding a bulky envelope wrapped in a freezer bag. ‘This was in the lavvy cistern.’

  ‘Open it, then.’

  Turner unzipped it, poked around dubiously. ‘Papers. Mostly.’

  ‘What are those doing in your cistern, Mr Moon? Seems a strange place to keep your filing.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Jesus. Turner, give me that. Have you got any gloves?’ Turner put the envelope on the table and got a spare pair from his pocket. Caffery pulled them on and shook out the contents of the envelope. It consisted mostly of bills, the name Edward Moon popping up over and over again. ‘And . . . ah – what’s this?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘It looks fascinating.’ Using his thumb and forefinger he pulled out a passport. Flipped it open. ‘The missing passport. As I live and breathe. What are the chances of that? Some arsehole breaks in here, steals all your stuff, comes back years later and leaves it in the bog. I love happy endings.’

  The Moons stared back at him dully. Peter Moon had gone a deep, almost bluish red. Caffery couldn’t tell if it was anger or fear. He threw the passport on to the table with the bills. ‘Did you let your brother use this to get him through that CRB sweep? You’re clean but he’s dirty. Particularly dirty, if you ask me.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘You’re going to have to make a comment eventually. Or start praying your pad-mate hasn’t got AIDS, fat boy.’

  ‘Don’t call him that.’

  ‘Ah.’ Caffery turned to the father. ‘You going to speak to me now, are you?’

  There was a pause. Peter Moon closed his lips and moved them up and down as if he was fighting the words. His face was like a red fist.

  ‘Well?’ Caffery put his head politely on one side. ‘Are you going to tell me where your son is?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Caffery slammed his hands on the table. ‘Right – that does it. Turner?’ He raised his chin at the two men sitting on the sofa. ‘Take them in. I’ve had enough of this. You can come in and do the real thing, Mr Moon. You can have your own brief, give him the no-comment treatment and then we’ll see about whether . . .’ He trailed off.

  ‘Boss?’ Turner, who had pulled out his quickcuffs, was waiting for Caffery to give him instructions. ‘Where are we taking them? Local shop?’

  Caffery didn’t answer. He was transfixed by one of the bills.

  ‘Boss?’

  Caffery raised his eyes slowly. ‘We need to speak to Ops,’ he murmured. ‘I think this might be something.’

  Turner came to him. Studied the piece of paper Caffery was holding. He let out a low whistle. ‘Christ.’

  ‘Christ indeed.’ It was a commercial property-leasing statement. It showed that for at least the last eleven years Ted Moon had been renting a lock-up garage in Gloucestershire. It had a secure steel roller door and a hundred square metres of storage. It was all there in the spec. And the address was in Tarlton, Gloucestershire.

  Just half a mile from the Sapperton tunnel.

  48

  Caffery didn’t believe in coincidences. In his book Ted Moon’s lock-up was about as concrete a lead as ever winged its way to an officer of the law. While another DC got the Moons cautioned and into the car, Caffery sat in the shabby little flat making phone calls. Within ten minutes he had two support units on their way to meet him at the lock-up. ‘No time for a warrant,’ he told Turner, as he swung into the Mondeo. ‘We’ll Section 17 it. Threat to life and limb. No need to bother the nice beak. See you up there.’

  He drove as fast as he could through the morning traffic, row after row of red brakelights coming on and off in the queues, down the A432 and along the M4 behind Turner’s Sierra. They were less than four miles from the lock-up when Caffery’s phone rang. He shoved the dongle in his ear and answered. It was Nick, the Costellos’ FLO, sounding panicky: ‘I’m sorry to keep hassling you but I’m really worried now. I’ve left three messages and I do think it’s serious.’

  ‘I’ve been a bit tuc
ked up here. Had the phone on silent. What’s up?’

  ‘I’m at the Costellos’, the new flat in—’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I was due to turn up for an hour, just to see how they were doing, but I’m here now and I can’t get in.’

  ‘They’re not there?’

  ‘I think they are, but they’re not coming to the door.’

  ‘You’ve got keys, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t open the door. They’ve got the chain on inside.’

  ‘Isn’t there a PC with them?’

  ‘No. He got stood down last night by DC Prody. But Prody must’ve forgotten he was supposed to tell the local shop when he left because no one was rostered to replace him.’

  ‘Call him.’

  ‘I have. His phone’s switched off.’

  ‘The Costellos, then. Have you tried them?’

  ‘Of course. I’ve spoken to Cory but he’s not in the flat. Says he didn’t even spend the night there. I think he and Janice had a disagreement. He’s on the way over now. He’s called Janice, too, but she’s not picking up for him either.’

  ‘Shit.’ Caffery tapped the steering-wheel. They were just coming up to the exit for the A46. He could either go left to Sapperton, or right to Pucklechurch, where the Costellos’ flat was. ‘Shit.’

  ‘I’ve got to tell you – I’m scared.’ Nick’s voice was wobbly. ‘Something’s wrong here. All the curtains are closed tight. There’s no reply at all.’

  ‘I’ll come over.’

  ‘We’ll need an entry team. These chains are solid.’

  ‘Will do.’

  He swerved the car to the right, got on to the southbound A46 and pulled out his phone. Thumbed in Turner’s number. ‘Change of plan, mate.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Get the units assembled and the lock-up covered. Ring it – wide – but don’t do anything yet. Wait for me. And I want you to get another entry team over to the Costellos’ place. Something’s gone seriously Pete Tong down there.’

  ‘Three entry teams? Ops are going to love us.’

  ‘Well, tell them their reward’ll be in heaven.’

  49

  The road to Pucklechurch had a forty-miles-per-hour speed limit. Caffery did sixty whenever the dreary trails of commuters thinned enough to let him. When he arrived it was getting light and the streetlamps had been switched off. Nick was standing on the front path wearing a houndstooth coat and smart high-heeled boots. She was looking up and down the road, biting her fingernails. She shot to the kerb when she saw him and tugged open his door. ‘I can smell something. I got the door open just enough and got my head through the crack and there’s a smell.’

  ‘Gas?’

  ‘More like a solvent. The way glueheads always smell – you know?’

  Caffery got out of the car and looked up at the flat, the closed windows, tight curtains. Nick had left the front door open as far as it would go on the two chains. He could just see the blue carpet on the stairs inside, a few scuffmarks on the walls. He glanced at his watch. The entry team should be here any minute. They didn’t have far to come.

  ‘Hold this.’ He pulled off his jacket and handed it to her. ‘And look the other way.’

  Nick took a few steps back and held up her hand to shield her eyes. Caffery threw himself at the door, half turning so his shoulder made the contact. The door leaped on its hinges, shuddered noisily, but the chains held and he ricocheted back on to the path. He hopped a little, got his balance and came back at it. He gripped the wooden frame that lined the small porch with both hands, braced himself and shoved his foot at the door. Once. Twice. Three times. Each time it shivered, made deafening splintering noises, and each time it bounced straight back into the frame.

  ‘Fuck.’ He stood on the path, sweating. His shoulders were aching, his back was jarred from the kicks. ‘Getting too old for this.’

  ‘It’s supposed to be a safe-house.’ Nick took her hands from her eyes and looked at the door dubiously. ‘And it is. Safe, I mean.’

  He looked up at the windows again. ‘I hope you’re right.’

  A white armoured Mercedes Sprinter pulled up. Caffery and Nick watched six men in riot gear pile out – 727: Flea’s unit.

  ‘We meet again.’ As the rest of the team pulled the red battering ram out of the van Wellard came forward to shake Caffery’s hand. ‘Starting to think you fancy me.’

  ‘Yeah, well, the uniform’s kind of rugged. You acting again?’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘Where’s your sergeant?’

  ‘Honestly? I don’t know. Never turned up at work today. It’s not like her, but recently nothing’s like her.’ He tipped his visor back and looked up at the side of the house. ‘What’ve we got here? Think I know this place. This the old rape suite, is it?’

  ‘We’ve got a vulnerable family inside, lodged for witness protection. Lady over here,’ he gestured to Nick, ‘turns up half an hour ago. She’s expected but no one comes to the door. Chains are on inside. There’s a smell too. Like a solvent.’

  ‘How many souls?’

  ‘Three, we think. Woman in her thirties, another woman in her sixties and a little girl. Four.’

  Wellard raised his eyebrows. He looked at the flat again, then at Nick and Caffery, and silently beckoned to the men. They trotted over, carrying the battering ram between them. They flanked the door and swung the ram at it. With three deafening thuds the door splintered in two, one half hanging off the two security chains, the other on the hinges.

  Wellard and two of his men stepped over the door and into the hallway, shields at the ready. They streamed up the stairs, yelling as they had in the Moons’ flat – ‘Police, police!’

  Caffery followed, face screwed up at the astringent fumes. ‘Open some windows, someone,’ he yelled.

  As he got to the top of the stairs he saw Wellard at the end of the landing, holding a door open. ‘Your lady in her sixties.’

  Caffery looked through the door and saw the woman on the bed – Janice’s mother. In cream pyjamas, her short white hair pushed back from her tanned face, she lay on her side, one arm stretched up, the other drooped across her face. She was breathing in a slow, depressed way that made Caffery think of hospices and RTCs. She stirred at the noise and half opened her eyes, her hand lifting vaguely, but she didn’t wake.

  Caffery leaned over the staircase and yelled to the men below, ‘Someone get some paramedics ASA.’

  ‘Adult male here,’ called another officer. He was in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Adult male?’ Caffery joined him. ‘Nick said he’s not . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence. The window in the room was slightly open. There were some washed dishes and mugs on the draining-board, a plate of food covered with clingfilm on the side and an empty wine bottle on top of the fridge. A man lay on the floor, his head bent at a strange angle against the cabinets, vomit covering his white shirt. But it wasn’t Cory Costello. It was DC Prody.

  ‘Jesus Christ – Paul? Hey!’ Caffery crouched and shook him. ‘Wake up. Wake the fuck up.’

  Prody moved his jaw up and down. A long line of drool dangled from his lip. He lifted a hand and made a weak effort to brush it away.

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  Prody’s eyes half opened, then closed again. His head drooped. Caffery went back into the hallway, his eyes watering at the fumes.

  ‘Are those paramedics on their way?’ he yelled down the stairs. ‘They’d better be. And, for the second time, will someone open the fucking windows?’ He stopped and looked to the end of the landing. An officer – Wellard, still with his visor down – was standing at another opened door, at the front of the flat this time. It must be the room that looked out over the road. He was beckoning slowly. He was doing it without turning because whatever was in front of him had him riveted.

  Caffery experienced a moment of pure, full-on fear. Suddenly he wanted out. Suddenly the last thing he wanted to know was what We
llard was looking at.

  His heart bumped low and hard in his chest as he crossed the landing and came to stand next to him. The room in front of them was dark. The curtains were drawn and the windows closed. The chemical smell was much stronger. There were two beds in plain sight: a single pushed up against the window – empty – and a rumpled double bed. A woman lay on it: Janice Costello, from the tangle of dark hair. Her back rose and fell.

  Caffery turned to Wellard, who gave him a strange look. ‘What?’ he hissed. ‘It’s a woman. Isn’t that what you expected?’

  ‘Yes, but what about the little girl? I’ve seen two women and a man but I haven’t seen a little girl. Have you?’

  50

  Dawn broke over the tiny hamlet of Coates. It was a half-hearted, wintry dawn with no orange or speckled skies, just a featureless, ashen light that lifted listlessly over the roofs, past the tower of the neighbourhood church, across the heads of the trees and came down like mist on a tiny clearing deep in a forest on the Bathurst estate. In a grass-choked air shaft, a hundred feet above the canal, the black border between day and night crept slowly down. Heading for the bowels of the earth, it reached a cavern formed by two rockfalls at either end of a short space of tunnel. The swarmy, diffuse light found the black water, formed a shadow under the kitbag that hung motionless at the end of the rope and settled on the humped rocks and debris.

  On the other side of one rockfall, Flea Marley knew nothing about the dawn. She knew nothing except the cold and the old, stale silence of the cavern. She lay on a rough ledge at the foot of the fall. Curled in a ball, like an ammonite fossil, she kept her head tucked in, her hands shoved inside her armpits in an effort to keep warm. She was half asleep, her thoughts flat and exhausted. The darkness pressed on her eyelids, like fingers. Something complex in the optical pathways lit up with dancing lights, with strange and pastel images.

  No caving lights for now. The big torch and her little head lamp were all that had survived the rockfall. She kept them switched off, rationing the batteries, before she had to turn to Dad’s old carbide lamp. There was nothing to see anyway. She knew what a torch beam would pick out: the yawning hole in the ceiling where tons of earth and rock had been dislodged. The debris had brought the floor level up about three feet in some places and covered the original screes at either end of the tunnel section in earth and stone. Both her escape routes had vanished. This time digging by hand wasn’t enough. She’d tried. And exhausted herself. Only a pneumatic drill and earth movers would tunnel through those barriers. If the jacker came back, he’d never get to her now. But that hardly mattered because for her there was no going back. She was trapped.