Gone

by Mo Hayder

  Yes. It all made perfect sense.

  71

  In spite of the fire Janice was freezing. Her head was like stone. Cold and hard. Everyone was staring at her, expecting her to do or say something. She folded her arms and tucked her hands under her armpits to stop them trembling. Tried to gather herself.

  ‘Maybe – uh – maybe Rose is right.’ Her teeth were chattering. Banging together uncontrollably. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time the police were wrong. Maybe Ted Moon is the wrong man.’ She thought of all the men Emily had come into contact with over the years. A string of faces unfurled in her head – teachers at school, a lanky football coach with bad skin who was always too friendly with the mums, the milkman who sometimes spoke to Emily on the doorstep. ‘Maybe we’re all connected to someone else. Someone we haven’t even thought of.’

  ‘But who?’

  ‘I don’t know . . . I don’t know.’

  A long silence descended on the group. Outside, Janice’s sister and Nick were showing Philippa Bradley the garden. She had brought her spaniel to play with the Labradors. From time to time the three women could be seen from the french windows, muffled in their coats and scarves, walking back and forth, throwing balls. They made black footprints in the frosted lawn. Janice stared at them. She remembered Emily playing out there as a toddler, laughing because she could hide behind the lavender beds and make Janice come out and act scared, say: Oh, no! My little girl’s gone! Where’s my Emily? Has the monster got her?

  Not Ted Moon? If so, then who? Who connected her and Cory to these five other people?

  From the corner Damien spoke in a subdued voice. ‘Look.’ He opened his hands, turned to face the people behind him. ‘I ain’t never met that son-of-a-bitch in the photo neither, but I ought to say something.’ He levelled a finger at Jonathan. ‘You, man. Sorry to say it, but I know you from somewhere. Been thinking it since I came in.’

  Everyone looked at Jonathan. He frowned. ‘From the papers, you mean? I’ve been all over the papers this week.’

  ‘No. I saw the pictures on the news and I never recognized you otherwise I’d’ve said something to the police. But when I came in just now I saw you and I thought, I do – I know that man from somewhere.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Maybe I’m imagining it.’

  ‘Do you go to church?’

  ‘Not since I was a kid. The Deptford Seventh Day Adventists. Not since I got away from home. No disrespect but you wouldn’t catch me dead.’

  ‘And your child,’ Jonathan said. ‘Your daughter. What was her name?’

  ‘Alysha.’

  ‘That’s right. The police asked me. I did know an Alysha once, but it wasn’t Alysha Graham. It was Alysha Morefield, or Morton. I can’t remember.’

  Damien stared at him. ‘Moreby. Alysha Moreby. Moreby’s her mother’s name – the name Lorna schooled her under.’

  Colour crept into Jonathan’s face. Everyone in the room had inched forward a little and was staring at the two men. ‘Moreby. Alysha Moreby. I know her.’

  ‘Where do you know her from? We never took her to church.’

  Jonathan’s mouth was half open. As if a terrible, terrible truth was about to reveal itself. Something that had been there all along and could have saved the world if only he’d thought of it early enough. ‘School,’ he said distantly. ‘Before I was ordained I was a headmaster.’

  ‘Got it.’ Damien slapped his thighs. Dug a finger in the air. ‘Mr Bradley – of course. I remember you, man. I mean, I never met you, like – Lorna always did Alysha’s school stuff. But I seen you. I seen you – at the gates an’ shit.’

  Janice sat forward, heart thumping. ‘Someone at the school. You both knew people at the school.’

  ‘No. I never came to anything at the school,’ said Damien. ‘Hardly anything. It was Lorna’s thing, the school run.’

  ‘No PTA meetings?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fêtes or fairs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You really didn’t meet the other parents?’

  ‘I swear – just never got involved. That’s how it’s always been in our family – woman does the school thing.’

  ‘But your wife,’ Jonathan said woodenly, ‘she was friendly with the other parents. I know because I remember her well. She always had a group of friends at the school gates.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’ said Simone.

  ‘No. But . . .’ Jonathan’s eyes rolled up as if he was recalling something.

  ‘What is it?’ Janice was half out of her chair. ‘What?’

  ‘She got involved. In an incident.’ He looked at Damien. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘What sort of incident?’

  ‘With one of the other parents. It got unpleasant.’

  ‘The sweetie jar? Is that what you’re talking about?’

  Jonathan loosened his collar and turned bloodshot eyes to Janice. The room was suddenly hot. As if it was full of electricity. ‘It was the Monday after a fête. Lorna, Mr Graham’s partner, came into my office. She was holding a sweetie jar. She said she’d bought it at the fair. I remember it clearly because it all seemed so very odd at the time.’

  ‘A sweetie jar?’

  ‘I’d asked the parents to bring old jars filled with sweets to sell at the fair. For a pound, or whatever. It was to raise funds for the school roof that year, but when Mrs Graham got her jar home she found—’

  ‘A note in it,’ said Damien. ‘A little Post-it. Some writing scribbled on it.’

  ‘Lorna, Mrs Graham, read the note and brought it straight to me. She would have taken it to the police, but she was concerned it could have been a prank. She didn’t want the school in trouble.’

  ‘What did the note say?’

  ‘It said,’ he looked at her gravely, ‘ “Daddy hits us. He locks Mummy up.” ’

  ‘Daddy hits us. Locks Mummy up?’ The words put ice into Janice’s veins and made her want to stop breathing. ‘Did you find out who wrote it?’

  ‘Yes. Two of my pupils. I remember them very well, brothers. I think their parents were going through a divorce. I took it very seriously and, yes, I got Social Services involved. It didn’t take long to find out it was true. Two boys being abused by their father. Months before the sweet jar they’d been off school for a week. Came back looking very subdued.’ He rubbed his arms as if the memory made him cold. ‘Once Social Services were on board the mother got custody of the children. Father never went to court. He was police, I seem to recall. Backed down and never fought the custody case . . .’ He trailed off. Janice, Cory and Neil Blunt were sitting forward, their faces white. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What have I said?’

  In her chair, her legs still crossed at the ankles, Janice began to shake.

  72

  A man, quite a large man, crouched unnoticed in the lee of an old olive-green telephone switching box on a residential street in Southville and stared intently at a front garden on the other side of the road. He wore jeans, a sweatshirt and a nylon jogging jacket. Nothing remarkable, really, but from his back pocket hung a length of coloured rubber. A face, sloppy and limp. The grinning mouth of a rubber Santa Claus mask – the sort of thing that could be picked up from any novelty shop for a few pounds. His dark-blue Peugeot was parked a few hundred yards away. Since the woman in Frome had seen him outside her house he’d learned to keep his distance better.

  A woman came out of the front door, dressed in a bright-red coat and carrying two bags and a blue and yellow baby seat. She loaded up the car: baby seat first, safely strapped to the back seat, blanket all tucked in neatly. Then handbag on the front seat, nappy bag in the footwell. She got an ice-scraper from the glove compartment and leaned across the bonnet to get to the windscreen. Her back was turned to the man for a moment and he took the opportunity to creep from the shadow of the switching box. He walked calmly across the street, back straight, checking all around him as he did. He ducked into a neighbour’s
front driveway and crossed the frosted lawn. He stopped in the line of shrubs that divided the two houses and watched as the woman walked around the back of the car, lifted the rear wiper to scrape the glass. The woman gave the windows one last brush and went to the front. Paused to wipe the wing mirrors and got into the driver’s seat, blowing on her cold hands, fumbling with the key.

  The man pulled on the Santa Claus mask, stepped over the low stone wall – a wolf taking its time – and walked calmly to her side of the car. Opened the door.

  ‘Get out.’

  The woman’s response was to throw her hands into the air. It was an instinctive thing, to protect her face, and it succeeded only in clearing the way for him to reach over and unfasten her seatbelt. By the time she realized her mistake it was too late. He was already pulling her out of the car.

  ‘Get out, bitch.’

  ‘No! No! No!’

  But he was strong. He took her by the hair and dragged her out, her hands scrabbling at her scalp, legs kicking, frantically trying to find purchase. She got a knee wedged up under the steering-wheel and her left hand into the sill above the door, but she couldn’t hold it. With one wrench she was out, staggering, dropping once, cutting her knee through the tights. She got her fingers into his gloved hands, tried to get him to release her hair, but he dragged her backwards, ignoring her nails in his hands. She bounced her feet off the ground, kicked and screamed. He could feel little pieces of hair popping out all over her scalp as he flung her up against the front door of the house.

  ‘Fuck off.’ She pushed him away with all her might. ‘Get away from me.’

  He gave her a shove, sent her staggering across the porch. Her arms went up, pinwheeled, slammed into the brick pillar, scraping the skin on her hands. Her left leg shot out, almost stopped the forward momentum, failed. She stumbled, went down, landing on her right shoulder. She rolled on to her side in time to see the man jump into the driver’s seat and start the engine. The radio came to life, pumping ‘When A Child Is Born’ into the cold air. The engine revved, a cloud of fumes shot out of the exhaust, the handbrake came off and he twisted in his seat to reverse the car rapidly out of the driveway.

  The car stopped in the middle of the road just long enough for Prody to change gear, then screamed away. It was only then, with the almighty squeal of brakes rocking round the street, that any of Skye Stephenson’s neighbours realized what was happening. One or two came running out of their doors, down their paths, but it was too late. The cherry-red four-by-four had turned the corner at the end of the road and disappeared from sight.

  73

  Clare Prody didn’t wear makeup and she didn’t colour her lifeless blonde hair. She dressed nicely and plainly in neutral and pastel separates from mid-price high-street stores like Gap. Flat shoes. She looked as if she might come from the same socioeconomic bracket as Janice Costello. But then she opened her mouth and it was pure country bumpkin that came out. A Somerset girl, Bridgewater, and the furthest she’d strayed out of the area had been the train to London twice – once for Les Mis and once for The Phantom. She’d been a trainee nurse at Bristol Royal, dreaming of working with children, when Paul Prody had walked into her life. He’d married her and cajoled her into giving up work and staying at home with the two children, Robert and Josh. Paul had a good job, and Clare was dependent on him. It had taken her years of abuse to get up the courage to leave.

  Caffery scrutinized her where she sat on the other side of his desk. She’d arrived at the offices wearing the first things she’d had to hand when his call came – a jogging T-shirt and khakis. For some reason she also wore a chequered blue blanket around her shoulders, clasped at her chest in bloodless fingers. It wasn’t because she was cold. It was something more. It was because she felt like a refugee. Someone in the permanent process of running away. Her face was pale, as if there wasn’t enough blood in her body, but her nose was an awful chapped red. Since she’d arrived half an hour ago she’d cried enough to break a person’s heart. She simply couldn’t believe this was happening to her. Just couldn’t believe it.

  ‘I can’t think of any more.’ Her eyes were fixed on the names scrawled on the whiteboard over his shoulder. Her lips were quivering. ‘I really can’t.’

  ‘It’s OK. Don’t push yourself. It’ll come.’

  Clare had written the most comprehensive inventory of every person she could think of – anyone her husband might include in his appalling vendetta. Some of the names the team had already thought of, some they hadn’t. A few doors down the corridor a whole room of officers was frantically working through them. Getting on to the local police. Phoning direct warnings. MCIU was at its tensest ever because there wasn’t a person in the unit who wasn’t seized with the absolute conviction that Prody would strike again. And that their biggest hope lay in pinpointing his next victim. Caffery, who, because of his fury, believed he sensed Prody more keenly than anyone in the building, thought it would be soon. Very soon. This morning, maybe.

  ‘They were lucky.’ Clare’s eyes had travelled away from the list of names and had come to rest on the photos pinned up. She looked at Neil and Simone Blunt. At Lorna and Damien Graham. ‘So lucky.’

  ‘He let them off lightly.’

  She gave a dry, hopeless laugh. ‘That’s Paul for you. He’s very precise. The punishment always fits the crime. If you’d really upset him you’d get it worse. He wasn’t as angry with Alysha’s mum, with Neil . . .’ she squinted at the name ‘. . . Blunt. I suppose he must have introduced himself at the Citizens’ Advice Bureau, I just don’t remember. I sort of recognize his face but I would never have known his name. I do remember that day, though, because afterwards Paul was waiting for me outside. Threatened to kill me.’ She shook her head as if she still couldn’t quite fathom her own stupidity. ‘I missed it all. Jonathan Bradley used to be Robert and Josh’s headmaster – the boys and I even went up to Oakhill when Martha was kidnapped and left flowers outside his house and I still didn’t make the connection.’

  ‘He’s very, very clever, Clare. Your husband is very clever. Don’t blame yourself.’

  ‘You knew. You worked it out.’

  ‘Yes, but I had help. And, anyway, I’m the police. I’m supposed to make connections.’

  While Caffery wished he could claim some subtle sleuth’s sleight-of-hand here, he couldn’t. It had been a simple phone call from the hospital lab, something routine, that had started the slats falling in his head. Paul Prody still hadn’t brought his shirt in to be tested. The technicians had run out of tests to do for inhalants and were starting to ask themselves if the jacker had used an oral sedative. Prody’s stomach contents would make a very welcome addition to their pipettes and beakers. After the phone call Caffery hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the clean look of Janice’s mouth in the garden yesterday. White and pink and scab-free. Unsettlingly so. And then he’d understood what it was in the photo of the safe-house kitchen that had been bugging him. It was the little line of beakers on the drainingboard. The last thing Paul Prody had done in the safe-flat was serve cocoa to the family. To Janice, her mum and Emily.

  Caffery got to his feet, went to the window, where Myrtle lay on her bed, and looked out at the watery sky. He’d managed a quick rinse in the men’s, with pump-dispenser soap and handdryers, and a shave with the disposable razor he kept locked in his filing cabinet, but his suit was crumpled and somehow he still felt dirty. As if Paul Prody had crawled inside his skin. Waiting to hear was like waiting for a storm to come. Not knowing which direction it would be, which roofs the dark clouds would tower above. But he could feel Prody out there like a vibration in his skin, on this rainy winter’s day, moving nimbly around in the cold city and the countryside. Things were already happening out there: already the force had its tentacles out. They were going to find him today. And when they did they’d find Flea Marley too. Caffery was a hundred per cent sure of that awful reality. A junior DC had left the offices an hour ago to check her house and
the whole of the Underwater Search Unit were being woken from their beds by the telephone team in the next office. But everyone suspected the answer lay with Prody.

  ‘He was a bastard to me,’ Clare said behind Caffery. ‘A bastard. I lost count of the black eyes.’

  ‘Yes.’ Caffery rested his fingers on the window, thinking, You’re coming to us, Prody. You’re coming. ‘It’s a shame you didn’t tell the police.’

  ‘I know. Of course now I can see how stupid it was, but I believed everything he told me – so did the boys. We never thought the police would help us, that’s how brainwashed we were – we thought you were like a club. All in it together and you’d never turn on your own. I was more scared of the police than I was of Paul. So were the boys. It’s just—’ She broke off. There was a moment’s silence. Then he heard her suck in a small, shocked breath.

  He turned. She was staring at a point in the middle of the air, an expression of dawning horror on her face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Christ,’ she said faintly. ‘Oh, Christ.’

  ‘Clare?’

  ‘Dehydration,’ she murmured. ‘Dehydration?’

  ‘Yes.’ She turned her eyes to him. They were glittering. ‘Mr Caffery, do you know how long it takes to die from dehydration?’

  ‘It depends,’ he said cautiously, coming to sit opposite her, ‘on the conditions. Why?’