by Mo Hayder
Caffery took the phone from the officer and, using the lightweight steps the CSI team had put up, scrambled out of the pit, crossed the lock-up to the window and leaned there, blinking, in the freezing daylight. ‘Inspector Caffery – how can I help?’
‘Sir, can you get over here ASAP?’ It was the Bradleys’ FLO. The tall brunette with the shiny hair. He recognized the slight Welsh lilt immediately. ‘Like now.’
‘Get over where?’
‘Here – to the Bradleys’ safe-house. Please. I need some advice.’
Caffery put a finger in his other ear to block out the sounds of the CSI team behind him. ‘What’s up? You need to speak slowly.’
‘I don’t know what to do. There’s nothing in my training to cover this. It came ten minutes ago and I can’t hide it from her for ever.’
‘Hide what from her for ever?’
‘OK.’ The FLO took a few deep breaths, got herself under control. ‘I was sitting at the breakfast table – usual scene, Rose and Philippa on the sofa, Jonathan making another cup of tea, and Rose’s phone’s on the table in front of me and suddenly it lights up. Usually she has the ringer on but maybe she doesn’t get many texts because she’s got that alert turned off. So, anyway, I look at it, just casually – and . . .’
‘And what?’
‘I think it’s from him. It has to be from him. Ted Moon. A text.’
‘Have you read it?’
‘I haven’t got the balls. Just haven’t. I can only read the subject heading. And, anyway, I don’t think it’s a text text. It’s an MMS.’
A photograph. Shit. Caffery stood up straight. ‘Why do you think it’s from him?’
‘From the subject heading.’
‘Which is?’
‘Oh, Christ.’ The FLO’s voice dropped a notch. He could picture the look on her face. ‘Sir – it says, “Martha. The love of my life”.’
‘Don’t do a thing. Don’t move, don’t let Rose see it. I’ll be there within the hour.’
54
On the way back to his car Caffery palmed two paracetamol into his mouth, washing them down with scalding coffee from a support-group officer’s Thermos. He ached everywhere. He had a list of calls to make as he drove the twenty-five miles to the Bradleys’ safe-house, Myrtle lying sleepily on the back seat. House-keeping calls: his superintendent, the Silver commander of the support groups at HQ, the press office. He put in a call to the office and found that Prody had discharged himself from the hospital already, had been debriefed and was back in the incident room, champing at the bit to do something to make up for last night. Caffery told him to find out from Acting Sergeant Wellard whether Flea had turned up anywhere.
‘If she hasn’t . . .’ He pulled up outside the safe-house at HQ. It looked fairly normal. Curtains open. One or two lights on. A dog was yapping inside. ‘. . . speak to the neighbours, find out who her friends are. She’s got some weird shit-for-brains brother somewhere – speak to him. Find yourself a chuck-away phone or one from the unit and text me your number. And call me when you know something.’
‘Yup, OK,’ Prody said. ‘I’ve got a couple of theories already.’
It was the FLO who opened the door and he could tell right away, just from her face, that things were even worse than when she’d made the phone call. She didn’t give him her sarcastic, appraising raised eyebrows. She didn’t even comment on his filthy suit. She just shook her head.
‘What? What’s up?’
She stepped back in against the wall, opening the door wide so he could see along the hallway. Rose Bradley was sitting on the stairs in a pink housecoat and slippers. Her arms were tucked into her stomach, her head drooping. A thin, mewling sound was coming from her mouth. Philippa and Jonathan stood in the living-room doorway watching her helplessly, their faces like stone. Philippa held Sophie by the collar. The spaniel had stopped barking but was eyeing Caffery suspiciously, her hindquarters twitching.
‘She got the phone,’ the FLO murmured. ‘She’s like a bloodhound when it comes to the damned thing. She managed to get it off me.’
Rose rocked back and forth. ‘Don’t make me give it to you. You’re not going to see it. It’s my phone.’
Caffery took off his coat and dropped it on to a chair next to the door. The hallway was hot and slightly damp. The walls were covered with blue-swirled anaglypta wallpaper. This was supposed to be accommodation for visiting police chiefs but it was awful. Truly awful. ‘Has she opened it?’
‘No! No, I haven’t.’ She rocked harder, her forehead on her knees, tears soaking into the housecoat. ‘I haven’t opened it. But it’s going to be a picture of her, isn’t it? It’s going to be a picture of her.’
‘Please.’ Jonathan had his finger against his temple. He looked as if he might fall over at any moment. ‘You don’t know that. We don’t know what it is.’
Caffery stood on the staircase two steps down from Rose and looked up at her. She hadn’t washed her hair and an unpleasant, spicy odour was coming from her. ‘Rose?’ He held out a hand. Either for her to put her own hand into, or the phone. ‘You know that whatever it is, whatever is on the photograph, it could help us find her.’
‘You saw that letter. You know what he said he was going to do to her. It was terrible what he said he’d do. I know because if it hadn’t been awful you would have let me see it. What if he’s done one of the things he said he’d do and what if this is a photograph of it?’ Her voice rose. It was tight and sore, as if the vocal cords were chafing against each other from constant grief. ‘What if that’s what the photograph is? What if that’s what it is?’
‘We won’t know until we’ve had a look. Now, you’ve got to give me the phone.’
‘Not unless I can see what’s on it. You’re not hiding anything else from me. You can’t.’
Caffery glanced at the FLO, who was standing with her back to the door, her arms folded. When she saw his face, realized what he was going to do, she raised her hands resignedly, as if to say, It’s your funeral.
‘Philippa,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a laptop, haven’t you? Have you got a USB for the phone?’
‘No. It’s Bluetooth.’
‘Then, get it.’
She hesitated, moving her lips as if her mouth had dried. ‘We’re not going to look at it, are we?’
‘Your mother won’t give me the phone otherwise.’ He kept his face still, expressionless. ‘We have to respect her wishes.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’ She shuddered. She pulled Sophie into the living room. ‘Jesus.’
They sat at the dining table and waited while Philippa assembled the laptop. Her hands were shaking. Jonathan had gone into the kitchen and was banging around, probably doing more washing-up. He was having none of this. Only Rose wasn’t trembling. An icy calm had come over her and she was sitting at the table, quite steady, staring into the middle distance. When the laptop was assembled she unfolded her arms and placed the phone in the centre of the table. For a moment everyone stared at it in silence.
‘OK,’ Caffery said. ‘I can take it from here.’
Philippa nodded and turned away. She threw herself on to the sofa and sat with her knees drawn up, a cushion pressed to her face, her eyes above it wide, as if she was watching the most appalling movie and couldn’t quite drag them away.
‘Are you sure, Rose?’
‘Quite sure.’
He established the Bluetooth pairing and transferred the jpeg across. Martha, the love of my life.jpg Everyone sat with their eyes glued to the screen as the photo slowly downloaded, from the bottom up, the picture filling itself in line by line. At first it showed a blue carpet. Then the divan drawer of a child’s bed came into view.
‘Her bed,’ Rose said matter-of-factly. ‘Martha’s. He’s taken a picture of her bed. The stickers on the base. We had an argument about them. I—’ She broke off. Her hand went to her mouth as the rest of the photograph filled in.
‘What?’ Philippa said from the sofa. ‘Mum? What i
s it?’
No one answered. No one breathed. They all inched a little closer to the screen. The picture showed Martha’s bed: white, covered with stickers, pink bed linen. On the wallpaper behind it there was a border, ballerinas pirouetting along it. But no one was looking at the walls, or the bedcovers: they were looking at what was on the bed. Or, rather, who was on the bed.
A man in jeans and a T-shirt, his muscles clearly defined. His hands were gripping his crotch. His face and neck were covered with a full-bearded Santa Claus mask. Caffery didn’t need to see under the mask to know what Moon’s face would be like. Underneath it he’d be grinning.
55
As the day wore on past midday, a bank of cumulus clouds that had been lowering on the western horizon eventually began to move east. Caffery glanced at them from time to time on the way to the vicarage in Oakhill. They looked like the towers of wild heathen cities, trundling across the sky. He rode on the passenger seat of an unmarked Mercedes van driven by a traffic officer, who’d taken off his epaulettes and tie. Caffery had dropped Myrtle back in his office at Kingswood, parked there and ordered the lift. Behind him, on the bench seat, sat Philippa and Rose; Jonathan and the FLO were in a Beemer behind. Rose was still convinced Martha would try to call her and didn’t want to be more than a few steps away from her phone, but Caffery had managed to finesse it away from her by saying it needed to be with a professional in case Moon called. Truth was, the only professional who should have had the phone was a hostage negotiator. Caffery didn’t mention that. From the get-go he’d been determined not to cede the case to one of those. The phone was tucked into his back pocket, all alerts switched to loud.
They arrived at the vicarage just before one o’clock. The driver switched off the engine and Caffery sat for a moment, looking at the scene. The curtains were closed, there was still an empty milkbottle holder on the front step, but apart from that the place was nothing like it had been the day he’d evacuated the Bradleys. Now it was swarming with cops, lights flashing, blue and white tape fluttering, vans parked everywhere. A unit from Taunton had come out and checked the place over. There was a dog handlers’ van parked outside, dogs staring out through the back-window grilles. Caffery was secretly pleased not to see the dogs out. He hadn’t expected Moon to be waiting there for them in the vicarage, his hands up, but he didn’t need to be reminded by a dog how clever the bastard was. What a piss-poor show the force had put up so far. He didn’t think he could stand another tracker German shepherd turning in confused, whining circles.
An unmarked Renault van was parked about ten metres away, three plainclothes officers lingering around it, smoking cigarettes and talking among themselves. The surveillance team who had been watching the house since the Bradleys had left, hoping Moon would come back, show his face.
Caffery unsnapped his seatbelt, got out of the car and crossed to them. He stood a few feet away, his arms folded, not saying a word. He didn’t need to speak. The force of his expression was loud enough. The men’s conversation died and, one by one, they turned to him. One put his cigarette behind his back and gave Caffery a brave smile; the second stood to attention, looking at a point over Caffery’s shoulder, as if Caffery was a drill sergeant. The third just lowered his eyes, began nervously to smooth his shirt. Oh, great, Caffery thought, the three monkeys.
‘I swear,’ one began, holding up his hand, but Caffery cut him off with a look, shook his head disappointedly. He turned and walked back to the house, where Jonathan stood, pale and drawn.
‘I’m coming in with you. I want to see her bedroom.’
‘No. That’s not a good idea.’
‘Please.’
‘Jonathan, what’s it going to achieve?’
‘I want to check he hasn’t . . .’ he looked up at the window ‘. . . done anything in there. Just want to be sure.’
Caffery wanted to look at the room too. Not for the same reason. He wanted to see if he could do what the Walking Man could: soak up something about Ted Moon just by being there. ‘Come on, then. But don’t touch anything.’
The front door was open and they went in. Jonathan’s face was a mask. He stood for a moment, gazing around the familiar hall, the surfaces covered with black fingerprint dust. A member of the CSI team that had been through – dusting the place, tweezering hairs from Martha’s pillow, removing all the bed linen – wandered past in his spacesuit, collecting up bits and pieces of equipment. Caffery stopped him. ‘Found a forced entry?’
‘Not yet. It’s a mystery at this point.’ He did the na na na na, na na na na Twilight Zone theme and realized too late that the two men were gazing at him stiffly. He made his face go serious and pointed sternly at their feet. ‘You coming in here?’
‘Give us some bootees and nitriles. We’ll be good.’
The CSI gave Caffery a pair of each and passed a set to Jonathan. They pulled them on and Caffery held out a hand to indicate the stairs. ‘Shall we?’
Caffery went up first, Jonathan following him despondently. Martha’s room was just as the jacker’s photo had shown it: pictures framed on the walls, ballerinas twirling along a pink border, Hannah Montana stickers on the divan drawer. Except now the mattress was bare, stripped right back. And the divan, walls and windows were covered with fingerprint dust.
‘Looks shabby.’ Jonathan turned slowly, taking it all in. ‘You live somewhere for so long and you don’t notice it’s getting shabby.’ He went to the window, his gloved finger resting on the pane, and for the first time Caffery noticed the guy had lost weight. Just like that – in spite of the lectures on keeping up the family’s strength, in spite of his apparent loading on of food, Jonathan was the one, not Rose or Philippa, who was becoming scrawny around the neck, trousers a bit baggy. He’d taken on the look of a sick, ageing vulture.
‘Mr Caffery?’ He didn’t turn away from the window. ‘I know we can’t talk in front of Rose and Philippa but, man to man, what do you think? What do you think Ted Moon has done with my daughter?’
Caffery studied the back of Jonathan’s head. The hair he’d once thought curly seemed thin. He decided the man had a right to be lied to – because the truth, Mr Bradley, is this: he has raped your daughter. He’s done it as many times as he could manage. And he has killed her – to shut her up, stop her crying. That part has already happened – probably some time on the day after the kidnap. There’s nothing human left in Ted Moon so he might even have used her body after he killed her. He probably went on doing that for as long as he could, but that part’s over too by now. I know that because he took Emily. He needed another. What’s probably happening to Martha now is he’s trying to decide what to do with her body. He’s good at building tunnels. He makes fine, well-engineered tunnels . . .
‘Mr Caffery?’
He looked up, his thoughts broken.
Jonathan was watching him. ‘I said – what do you think he’s done to my daughter?’
He shook his head slowly. ‘Shall we do what we came to do?’
‘I’d hoped that wasn’t what you thought.’
‘I didn’t say I thought anything.’
‘No. But you do. Don’t worry. I won’t ask again.’ Jonathan tried a brave smile and failed. He shuffled away from the window to the centre of the room.
They stood for a few minutes, side by side, neither speaking. Caffery tried to let his mind empty. He let the sounds and smells and colours come into his head. He waited for things to do something – to send a message like a banner shooting into his consciousness. Nothing happened. ‘Well?’ he said eventually. ‘Has he changed anything?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Where do you think the camera was when he took that photo?’ Caffery pulled out Rose’s mobile, looked at Moon lying on the bed and turned it at arm’s length until he got the right angle. ‘He must have had it on a tripod: it’s taken from high up.’
‘Maybe he put it above the door. Rested it on the frame?’
Caffery took a step nearer th
e door. ‘What are those in the wall? Screws?’
‘I think there was a clock up there years ago. I can’t remember, to be honest.’
‘Maybe he put a bracket in the wall.’ Caffery got a chair from under Martha’s desk, pushed it against the door and stood on it. ‘To hold the camera.’ He put on his glasses and peered closely at the screws. One was silver, poking out about half a centimetre, but the second wasn’t a screw: it was a hole. He dug his finger into it and something inside moved. Swearing under his breath, he fished in his pocket for his penknife, pinched out the tweezer tool with his nails and, very carefully, pulled out the object.
He got off the chair, and came to Jonathan with his index finger held up. On top of it rested a tiny black disc, the size of a penny, faint shapes of electrical circuitry embedded in it. On one side was the silvery slip of a lens. It probably weighed less than twenty grams.
‘What’s that?’
Caffery shook his head. Still computing. And then, in a second, it came to him. ‘Fuck.’ He got up on the chair and shoved the thing back into the hole. He got down and led Jonathan out of the room.
‘What?’ Jonathan was staring at him, bewildered.
Caffery put a finger to his lips. He was scrolling through numbers in his phone. The hairs were standing up on the back of his neck.
‘What is it?’
‘Ssh!’ He dialled the number, held it to his ear, listened to it ring.
Jonathan looked at Martha’s door, then back at Caffery. He put his face close to Caffery’s and hissed, ‘Tell me, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Camera,’ Caffery mouthed. ‘That thing’s a camera.’
‘Which means what?’
‘Which means Ted Moon is watching us.’
56
The noise of the hatch opening had shocked Flea so much that it had taken her almost half an hour to get up the courage to move any further. She was paralysed, picturing the sound reverberating around the tunnel ahead, seeing it like waves of black water pulsing up the air shaft and announcing her presence. When at last nothing had happened, and she was sure the jacker wasn’t there, she got her shoulder into the gap and braced herself against the bulkhead, dragging the hatch wide with a long glooping sound. A long, cool draught of daylight and air rushed around her, making her hold her breath – pressing down the crazy fear floating up inside her.
