‘I think so. I think they really were from a deer.’
She lets out a long breath. ‘Why? Why would anyone do that?’
‘I don’t know. Some people are just sick by nature.’
‘But that’s awful. All the things they did. That … stuff.’ She thinks about the jewellery – the rings. Sophie Hurst-Lloyd had been given a ring by Hugo and it had disappeared – it was taken by Minnet Kable and it never turned up again. ‘Then they must know Minnet – they must have been in jail with him.’
Lucia says, ‘It’s OK, Mum. We’re lucky they’re gone and that all they did was rob us.’
‘But they’re insane – they’re as bad as he was, they’re copying him. We’ve got to tell someone! They’re going to do it again, to someone else, and it’s—’
‘Stop now, Mum, please. We got away lightly.’
But Matilda can’t stop the shock and the anger. And the relief that Minnet Kable isn’t out there, stalking around the house. ‘My wedding ring – they’ve taken the ring you gave me, Oliver.’
‘We can replace it.’
‘Why did they have to do all of that? If they just wanted to rob us, why go to so much trouble? They’re worse than Kable even – worse.’
‘I know, but they’re gone now. They’re gone.’ He coughs and repositions himself. ‘Really, darling, they’ve got what they wanted and they’re gone.’
Eventually she subsides. Ollie and Lucia are right, of course. The family is lucky to have got away with just being robbed. Being handcuffed to the table is nothing compared to having to face Minnet Kable in the woods – or being cut to pieces with a Stanley knife. Having her stomach opened and her breasts cut off.
Except then she realizes something even worse. She snaps her eyes over to Oliver.
‘What?’ he says. ‘What is it?’
She shakes her head quickly. She’s noticed what the other two haven’t. They are all tied, all manacled, they have no phone, no signal. No means of escape. They could be here for hours and hours. Overnight even. Oliver needs his medication. And he needs it soon.
The Last Stone
WHEN CAFFERY LEAVES Jacqui Kitson, swearing and shouting on the roadside, he drives for a long time. He goes in no particular direction, sees nothing of his surroundings, and ends up lost. It doesn’t matter. All he needs is to be moving. He needs the time to work through what’s happening.
His headache has vanished and at last he sees where the sickness was coming from. He can’t believe he hasn’t identified it earlier; perhaps subconsciously he’s avoided thinking about it. What Jacqui said about turning every stone has knocked something loose in his head. And it’s got a name on it.
The name is Tracey Lamb.
Tracey Lamb. She was Caffery’s last stone. The one that wasn’t turned in the search for Ewan. She died two weeks ago, in Holloway. When he heard the news he told himself it didn’t matter, that he’d closed that chapter of his life, but now he sees of course it matters. Very much. Her death was the end of his hope of finding Ewan, and the beginning of his sickness. He might have tried to convince himself he wasn’t affected by it, his body has been telling him something different.
He pulls the car into a lay-by. Sits for a while breathing slowly. He reaches up and angles the driving mirror so he can see his surly reflection. Eyes himself suspiciously. If Ewan had lived he would now be mid-forties. Maybe he’d look the way Jack does now, maybe not. Somehow Jack thinks Ewan would be heavier – stockier and taller. He tries to imagine Ewan doing this in a similar mirror in a similar car somewhere and finds he can’t.
You think there must be one stone that hasn’t been turned.
It’s all broken open again. Come back to haunt him. He can’t leave it, won’t ever leave it.
He taps his fingers on the dashboard, his head working fast. Where does he start? He’s already done everything a human being could do. He’s torn the world apart looking for Ewan’s body. But he’s got to be tenacious. What do skilled cops do when the trail runs cold? They go back to the beginning and they revise …
He pulls out his phone and dials a number in London. Johnny Patel is an old friend. He retired after his thirty in the Met and is now a probate detective in Catford, South London. Every day for hour after hour Patel sits in front of a computer screen searching the birth, marriage and death records – the hatch, match and dispatch records, he calls them – in an effort to track down the rightful heirs to unclaimed estates. Back in the days when Caffery was Patel’s inspector in Sydenham he used to turn a blind eye when Johnny would slip away early, knowing, as everyone else knew, that Patel was using the job as a cover for the affair he was having. Patel’s affair went wrong, his marriage was wrecked, but at least he kept his job.
He owes Caffery.
‘Jack!’ he says. ‘You’ve been on my mind.’
‘How so?’
‘I was trying to work out when I last saw you face to face. It was ten years ago – at that retirement thing? The one where the two girls had a fight?’
‘I don’t remember it.’
‘On the floor – proper catfight? No mud, of course, but one of them was wearing a mini-skirt.’
‘Amazing, your powers of recall.’
‘I know it. Why do you think the Met valued me so highly? Cop’s memory. Mind you,’ he adds ruefully, ‘that fight – it was a difficult thing to watch. It’s all stored – every second – just can’t wipe the memory. Very traumatic.’
Caffery shakes his head. Some things never change. ‘I feel your pain, mate, feel it like a knife. Johnny, do you remember Tracey Lamb? Died in prison recently?’
‘Tracey Lamb, the fat slag. Overdosed on pork pies. They banned that cartoon, didn’t they – “The Fat Slags”. All the fat slags in the North of England got together and said it violated their rights to heiferdom. They should have formed a political party, if you want my opinion.’
‘Is there any way of knowing if she left a will?’
‘Every way. That’s my job.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘Twenty minutes. Leave it with me.’
Caffery finishes the call. He puts the phone on his knee and stares out of the window at the row of shops he’s come to a halt near. Their hoardings, their posters and adverts. He sees none of it. His brain is cantering forward.
On his knee the phone jerks to life. He turns it, sees it’s DS Paluzzi.
‘Jack, Jack,’ she says, ‘you are in so much shit. Why can’t you be nice?’
‘I take it Jacqui called.’
‘Yes, and this is a gentle heads-up – the superintendent is going to be calling you any second now and he is going to eat you alive.’
‘Thank you. Can you give him a message?’
She sighs. ‘As long as there are no rude words in it. Only words I could use in conversation with my mother, OK?’
‘Of course.’ He digs into his pocket, feeling for the V-Cig. ‘Tell him I’m having a break. I’ll let him know when I’ll be back at work.’
There’s a small intake of breath at the other end of the phone. ‘You can’t expect me to deliver something like that! You know the rocket that comment will launch.’
‘Yup.’ He braces the cartridge between his knees and clicks it into the holder. ‘Well, that’ll be the only communication he’ll get from me. I won’t be answering his calls. And if he’s that worried about me not being in the unit, ask him why he’s used me as a fucking chauffeur today.’
‘You promised, no bad words.’
‘I apologize.’
‘Yes, but not sincerely.’ She pauses. There’s a shuffling noise, then she comes back on, hissing, ‘Too late, he’s here now, he wants to speak to you.’
Caffery hears the superintendent’s voice, the muffled sounds of him talking to Paluzzi. He doesn’t wait to hear what he has to say. Before the superintendent can speak, Caffery kills the call and turns the phone to silent. Then he sits back in the seat and takes a long drag on the V-Ci
g.
It’s the first time since Tracey Lamb died that he feels calm.
The House on the Hill
MATILDA IS EXHAUSTED, trembling uncontrollably. She’s tried over and over again to move the table and she just can’t get the leverage. The only angle she can get her back up to the underside of the table is where an iron brace is mounted, and the metal digs into her shoulder. She’s already bleeding where her thin skin has torn from the friction.
She rubs the sweat from her face on to the other sleeve and breathes, trying to calm herself. She glances up at Oliver.
‘How do you feel?’
He shakes his head, tries to smile. ‘I’m OK. I promise I’m OK.’
‘No, he’s not,’ says Lucia. ‘Look at him.’
‘Honestly, I’m fine. I’m fine. Let’s not panic. Panic is the worst thing we can do.’
Matilda closes her eyes. Three feet away Bear is still twisting and whining, trying to free herself from the leash that strains down over the edge of the sink. Maybe if she struggles enough she’ll slip the leash, thinks Matilda. And then what? If the doors were open she’d be off – she’d run and run, the way she always does. Then someone would find her. She’s got no chip – but surely someone would think she seemed lost. People in the area don’t know Bear, not like they do in London, but a lost dog? Someone would investigate, surely?
Except, the doors are closed. Bear can’t get out. No point in even thinking it. So what else?
The family has a cleaner – Ginny Van Der Bolt – who comes in the day before they arrive to ensure the hot water is on; to stock the fridge with a supply of essentials, such as milk, butter, bread; make up the beds; and in general get the house aired and ready. Usually she makes sure there are some flowers in the windows, on the table. Not this time, Matilda notices now.
Ginny lives locally and often on their second or third day at The Turrets she will make a point of coming all the way up the hill just to say hello and pass the time of day, in the way that people out here have the leisure to do. She brings with her eggs and squares of honeycomb from the hives in the valley, or runner beans piled high in a basket, or great swathes of hollyhocks cut from her garden. Ginny wears a sunny blonde milkmaid’s smile and Matilda cannot think of her without imagining Ginny dressed in an apron and mobcap, dropping little curtseys wherever she goes.
It’s usually the second or third day, Matilda thinks. But sometimes it’s the fourth. Even the fifth.
‘Hey,’ says Lucia. ‘Listen.’
Matilda’s eyes fly open, every nerve on alert. At first she can hear nothing, just the distant cawing of rooks. Then there’s a crunch of gravel outside. A footstep. Ginny?
‘In here,’ she yells. ‘In here – we’re in here.’
‘We’re here.’
Another crunch of gravel – to the side this time, and the family swing their eyes to the door.
‘In here. Here.’
The side door opens. Molina and Honey stand in the doorway. Honey is grinning from ear to ear.
‘You didn’t really think that was it, did you?’
Revision
THE PLACE CAFFERY calls home is a sodden, cramped thatched cottage tucked away on its own in the Mendip Hills of Somerset. The curtains are all drawn – he was in a hurry when he left this morning. He goes around opening them and checking cupboards in a hunt for alcohol. He finds a bottle of scotch and fills a glass. It’s two in the afternoon and the craziest time to be starting to drink but that doesn’t matter. He’s not going anywhere. It’s going to be a long day in this tiny cottage. Just him and his renewed commitment rattling around together.
His phone shows four message icons hovering over the voicemail inbox – the superintendent giving vent to his rage. Caffery doesn’t want to know. This sudden urge, this clarity, this obsession – it’s the closest thing to freedom he can imagine, and nothing will block him now. He deletes the messages, drinks half the scotch in one hit, then carries the glass to the landing and stands looking up at the ceiling where the hatch to the attic is.
Attics. The place all the memories go. Years ago, back in London, he worked on a case where the perpetrator – a particularly disturbed paedophile – had invaded a family’s home by crawling into their attic from the roofspace of the neighbouring house. Ever since then he’s had problems with the damn places. And this cottage – which has never welcomed him – has got something living in the loft. A squirrel, he’s fairly sure, but it keeps him awake at night and he’s been promising to do something about it.
There’s a rubber-tipped pole on top of his wardrobe. He fetches it and uses it to unlatch the hatch and hook down the loft ladder. It comes with a clatter, bringing with it a few tufts of peachy-coloured insulation material. He gives the ladder a couple of rattles to check it’s secure, then climbs up.
This is an old, old house with low ceilings. Parts of it were built before this area of Somerset was drained, when you had to arrive here by boat, but it’s been added to over the years and this section is a modern extension. There’s an electric light up here – just a bare forty-watt lightbulb, but it’s enough to illuminate the timbers and the joists. At the far end there is temporary boarding where he stashed the piles of cardboard boxes brought with him from London. Everything smells of hay and mould and the chemicals he used to get rid of a wasps’ nest a while back.
He crosses the attic carefully, head lowered, stepping from joist to joist. The afternoon outside is so silent he can hear the rain dripping from the trees and the distant roar of a plane. A hundred tonnes of jet fuel hurtling through the crystal-blue sky thousands of feet above the clouds.
He finds the box he wants quickly. The cardboard has been chewed by the squirrel and the notes he made back when he was investigating Tracey Lamb have spilled out. He can’t carry the box so he begins tossing the paperwork towards the hatch. When all the contents of the box have been removed he picks his way back across the rafters and starts pushing it all through the hole on to the landing below. It floats down like giant flakes of ash, some pages slithering down the stairs. He descends the ladder and uses his feet to herd the whole lot downstairs. In the hallway he stoops and carries great armfuls of the paper to the kitchen table.
He takes another slug of whisky and commences sorting the pages into piles. There are reams of scribbled notes and intelligence reports. Penderecki’s paedophile ring was formed before the days of the Internet and was never the huge and internationally coordinated network many people imagine when they think of paedophile rings. It was a loose collection of small-time criminals and persistent offenders who spent their time in jail sharing fantasies and making plans for their release. Most of them knew they would end up back inside. It only made them more determined to make the most of their time on the outside. They didn’t care who or what they hurt. They gave up their obligations to society the day they realized society didn’t want them any more.
Caffery has watched every one of the analogue videos on which the scenes of their abuse are stored. Patel jokes about the images he can’t erase from his mind; there is no trace of humour in the images Caffery cannot erase. He sent the tapes to the CPS ten years ago, but he’s never been able to scrub the memories. And here, amongst these books, in case he ever felt the need to revisit the information, are the notes he made before he surrendered the tapes to the authorities.
His phone pings in his pocket. He takes it out. It’s an email from Johnny Patel.
Ever heard of Derek Yates? He is the sole beneficiary of Tracey Lamb’s will – which looks as if it amounts to about five shillings and sixpence (that’s old money, mate). That’s all I can find for now.
Derek Yates. Caffery stares at the screen. Derek Yates.
The name clips at something in his memory. He can’t say what.
He is still for a very long time. Then he drops the phone and searches frantically through the papers. He stops at a sheet with a list of names he’s transcribed from the video tapes. Members of Penderecki??
?s paedophile ring Caffery’s never traced. Around some of them are question marks he made years ago, but now his attention is sucked straight down to the name at the bottom of the list.
Yatesy.
Yatesy?????
He snatches up the email from Patel – speed-reads it.
Ever heard of Derek Yates?
‘Derek Yates,’ he murmurs to the phone. ‘Derek Yates. Why did Tracey Lamb make you her beneficiary?’
Dead Chickens
APPARENTLY CHICKENS, WHEN they have their heads cut off, will keep running around the farmyard until their heart stops pumping. As if the force of their survival instinct is blind enough to keep going even when there is no longer any control. It’s like the ghost who doesn’t realize he is dead and insists on getting up every day and cleaning his teeth, combing his hair, going about his business. Still mingling with the living.
Oliver has no idea if the story about the dead chickens is an old wives’ tale, he’s never seen a chicken with its head cut off, he’s not a country boy, but what he has seen is people with their heads cut off. He’s seen people injured in unimaginable ways – limbs missing, faces peeled away – and what has always struck him is how humans can mimic that chicken-like inability to stop their momentum. A failure to recognize when things are serious. Car-crash victims fight with the emergency crew, insisting they don’t need to go to hospital, that they’re late for a meeting. Don’t put me in the ambulance, they cry, my arm’s not broken, my eye’s not injured, my skull is not cracked. I’ll be fine, they shout, it’s nothing, just let me keep going. I’ve got to be at that meeting!
The two men, the one called Molina and the one called Honey, are wandering around the kitchen, casually picking up things to inspect, shooting the family the occasional smile, putting their noses into cupboards as if they’ve just arrived at a holiday home and are checking out the arrangements. Honey, the gangly one with the shiny monk’s head, picks up the piece of pottery Matilda’s mother gave them the day Lucia was born and checks under it, as if to decide whether it’s worth anything – in money, or in taste. Then he makes a great performance of taking a stack of ironed napkins out of the drawer and carrying them to the window to study them in a better light. And yet, like the chicken, like the accident victims, in spite of what his eyes and ears are telling him, part of Oliver’s brain won’t adjust.