Gone

  ‘Yeah – he’s upstairs in bed.’ Peter Moon stood back from the door and Caffery peered past him into the hallway and up the stairs. The carpet was shabby and covered with mud. The walls were marked with years of use and nicotine, lines of brown at waist height where hands had scuffed and trailed over the years. ‘Do you want to come in? I’ll go and get him.’

  ‘No. I want you to step outside, sir, if you don’t mind. You can wait here with my colleagues.’

  Peter Moon stepped out into the street, shivering at the cold. ‘Jesus. What’s going on?’

  ‘Any questions, Sergeant Wellard?’ said Caffery. ‘Got any queries for him?’

  ‘Yes. Mr Moon, there aren’t any firearms on the premises as far as you know?’

  ‘Not in a million years.’

  ‘And your son’s not armed?’

  ‘Armed?’

  ‘Yes. Is he armed?’

  Peter Moon looked carefully at Wellard. His eyes were dead. ‘Give me a break.’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘No. And you’re going to frighten the crap out of him. He doesn’t like unexpected visitors. That’s just Richard’s way.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll understand. Under the circumstances. He’s in bed, then? So how many bedrooms are there?’

  ‘Two. You go through the living room down the corridor – there’s one on the left, then a bathroom and the door at the back is his bedroom. Mind you, I wouldn’t go too near the bathroom at the moment. Richard’s just been in it. Smells like something crawled up inside him and died. Don’t know how he does it.’

  ‘End of the corridor.’ Caffery jerked his head at the door. ‘Wellard? You got it? We good to go?’

  Wellard nodded. On a count of three they went: the three-man shield team first, running up the stairs, shouting at the top of their voices: ‘Police, police, police!’ The hallway filled with noise and the smell of sweat. Wellard followed with three of his men, and Caffery brought up the rear, taking the steps two at a time.

  At the top a large room was heated by a paraffin stove, and crowded with cheap MFI furniture and pictures. The team swarmed all over it, dragging out sofas, checking behind curtains and on top of a large cupboard. Wellard held up a hand flat – the unit’s signal for a clear. He pointed at the kitchen. They searched and cleared it. They continued down the corridor, switching on lights, past the bathroom: ‘I’d do them a favour and open a fucking window if I didn’t think he’d use it as any excuse to leg it,’ Wellard muttered, under his breath. They cleared the second bedroom and arrived outside a flimsy veneer door at the end of the corridor.

  ‘Ready?’ Wellard murmured to Caffery. He nodded to the bottom of the door, getting Caffery to register there was no light coming from under it. ‘This is it.’

  ‘Right – but remember. Expect the unexpected.’

  Wellard turned the knob, pushed the door open a crack and stepped back. ‘Police,’ he said loudly. ‘We are the police.’

  Nothing happened so he pushed the door wider with his foot, reached in and clicked on the light.

  ‘Police!’

  He waited again. The team stood in the corridor with their backs to the wall, sweat on their foreheads, only their eyes moving, darting around, coming back to Wellard’s face. When there was no answer from inside Wellard gave them a signal and pushed the door wide. Immediately the team ran in, adopting the defensive stance behind their shields. From where Caffery stood in the hallway he could see the vague reflection of a room on their polycarbonate visors. A window, curtains open. A bed. No more. Behind the reflection, the officers’ eyes flicked back and forth, assessing what was in front of them.

  ‘Duvet,’ an officer mouthed to Wellard.

  He leaned into the crack in the door and shouted, ‘Throw the duvet off, please, sir. Please throw the duvet on to the floor in front of my officers so they can see it.’

  There was a pause, then the soft sound of it falling. Caffery could see it on the floor – a dingy cover with a geometric design.

  ‘Sir?’ The nearest man relaxed his hold on the shield a little. ‘It’s a compliant. You can come in.’

  ‘A compliant,’ Wellard told Caffery, pulling his quickcuffs from his body armour. ‘You can do the caution.’ He shouldered the door aside and paused when he saw what was inside the room. ‘Uh.’ He turned to Caffery. ‘Maybe you need to come in.’

  Caffery put a hand on the door and stepped cautiously inside. The bedroom was small and smelt stale. Men’s clothing was scattered everywhere. There was a cheap chest of drawers with a smeared mirror. But it was the man who lay on the bed that was drawing everyone’s eyes. He was mountainous – and naked. He probably weighed close to thirty stone. His hands were at his sides and he was shaking as if an electric current was going through him. A high-pitched whine, a kind of stridor, came from his mouth.

  ‘Richard Moon?’ Caffery held up his card. ‘Are you Richard Moon?’

  ‘That’s me,’ he wheezed. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, sir. Do you mind if we have a chat?’

  40

  Janice insisted that Nick let them go shopping. She couldn’t sit around any more without some home comforts. She got the joint credit card out, and Nick drove them to Cribbs Causeway. She bought sheets, duvets and a Cath Kidston teapot in John Lewis and a carrier bag of cleaning equipment from a pound store at the end of the mall. Then they trailed around Marks & Spencer, buying anything that took their fancy: nightgowns for Janice’s mother, slippers with pompoms for Emily, a lipstick and a cardigan for Janice. Nick found a ‘Juicy’ T-shirt she liked and Janice insisted on buying it for her. They went into the food hall and loaded their baskets with exotic tea bags, Eccles cakes, a punnet of cherries, half a salmon she’d cook tonight with dill sauce. It was good, seeing the bright lights, the shoppers with their colourful clothes. Made her feel Christmas might be quite good this year.

  When they got back to the little flat a man in a charcoal suit was waiting for them in a blue Peugeot. As Nick pulled up he got out, holding up his warrant card. ‘Mrs Costello?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I’m DC Prody, MCIU.’

  ‘I thought I recognized you. How are you?’

  ‘All right.’

  Her smile faded. ‘What? Why are you here?’

  ‘I’ve come to see if you’ve settled in.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Can I come in?’ he said. ‘It’s cold out here.’

  She gave him a long, thoughtful look. Then she handed him a carrier bag and made for the front door.

  The central heating was on and the flat was warm. While Emily helped Nick and Janice’s mother unload the shopping, Janice put on the kettle. ‘I’m going to make some tea,’ she told Prody. ‘I’ve been desperate for a decent cup and now I’m going to have one. Emily’s got some reading to do – she can do that with my mum while you sit down with me and tell me what’s happening. Because I’m not stupid. I know something’s changed.’

  When she’d made the tea they went into the front room. It bordered on pleasant, with a modern brushed stainless-steel gas fire, a sea-grass carpet and clean furniture. A table near the window bore a bowl of silk flowers. Corny, but it made the place feel as though someone had actually spent some time on it. It was a little musty and cold but with the fire on it soon warmed up.

  ‘Well?’ Janice unloaded the cakes and the Cath Kidston teapot from the tray and arranged them on the table. ‘Are you going to tell me, or are we going to have a little dance first?’

  Prody sat down, his face serious. ‘We know who it is.’

  Janice paused. Her mouth was suddenly dry. ‘That’s good,’ she said carefully. ‘That’s very good. Does it mean you’ve got him?’

  ‘I said we know who it is. That’s a very significant step.’

  ‘That’s not what I want to hear – it’s not what I was hoping to hear.’ She finished unloading the tray, filled their cups with tea, handed
him a plate and put a cake on her own. She sat down and looked at it, then put the plate back on the table. ‘So? Who is he? What does he look like?’

  Prody reached into his pocket and brought out a folded sheet of paper. At the top left-hand corner there was a photograph of a man – the sort taken in photo-booths. ‘Ever seen him before?’

  She expected the face to bring with it some emotional punch, but no: he just looked like an ordinary bloke. A chubby guy in his twenties, his hair cut very short and a constellation of spots at either corner of his mouth. She saw the neckline of a khaki T-shirt. She was about to hand the paper back to Prody when she noticed some details on the form. ‘Avon and Somerset’, it said. ‘What’s this? Some kind of arrest . . .’ she trailed off. She’d just seen the words ‘POLICE STAFF’ at the bottom.

  ‘I may as well tell you, because you’ll find out eventually, that he works for us. He’s a handyman.’

  She put a hand to her throat. ‘He’s a . . . He works for you?’

  ‘Yes. One of our part-time staff.’

  ‘Is that how he put the device on our car?’

  Prody nodded.

  ‘Christ. I can’t . . . Did you know him?’

  ‘Not really – I saw him around the place. He painted my office.’

  ‘You spoke to him, then?’

  ‘A few times.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. There’s no excuse – I was a prat. My mind was elsewhere.’

  ‘And what was he like?’

  ‘Unremarkable. Didn’t stand out in a crowd.’

  ‘What do you think he’s done to Martha?’

  Prody folded the paper. Once, twice, three times, making the creases very neat with his thumbnail. He put it back into his pocket.

  ‘Mr Prody? I said, what do you think he’s done to Martha?’

  ‘Can we change the subject?’

  ‘Not really.’ The fear, the absolute rage, was building in her. ‘Your unit’s made a God-awful balls-up and I nearly lost my little girl through it.’ It wasn’t his fault, she knew, but she wanted to fly at him. She had to force herself to bite her lip and lower her face. She picked up the plate and pushed the cake around with her finger, waiting for the anger to fizzle away.

  Prody bent his head a little, trying to see her expression under the fall of her hair. ‘This has been awful for you, hasn’t it?’

  She raised her eyes and met his, which were somewhere between brown and green with gold flecks. Seeing the compassion in them, suddenly, out of nowhere, she wanted to cry. Shakily, she put the plate down. ‘Uh . . .’ She pushed up the sleeves of her top and rubbed her arms. ‘Well, yes. Without sounding too dramatic, these have been some of the worst days of my life.’

  ‘We’ll get you through it.’

  She nodded and picked up her plate again. She fingered the cake, moved it sideways, broke it in half but didn’t eat. There was a knot in her throat and she didn’t think she could swallow. ‘So how come you got the fuzzy end of the lollipop?’ She gave a weak smile. ‘Why did you have to come out and get my wrath between the eyes?’

  ‘It was lots of things. Maybe the tipping point was that my DI thinks I’m an arse.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Not in the way he thinks.’

  She smiled. ‘Can I ask you something? Something really inappropriate.’

  He gave a small laugh. ‘Well, I’m a man. Men don’t always agree with women about what’s inappropriate.’

  Her smile grew wider. Out of nowhere she felt like laughing. Yes, Mr Prody, she thought. In spite of how bloody horrible this has been, one thing I can see for sure is that you’re a man, a nice one. Strong and sort of good-looking too. Meanwhile Cory, my husband, feels like more of a stranger to me than you do at this precise moment.

  ‘What?’ Prody said. ‘Have I put my foot in it?’

  ‘Not at all. I was going to ask you . . . if I went to Mr Caffery and said I was really scared – scared of my own shadow – would he let you stay here for a few hours with me and Emily and Nick and Mum? I know it’ll be boring for you – but it would make things feel so much easier. You don’t even have to talk to us – just watch the TV, make phone calls, read the newspaper, whatever. It’d just be nice to have someone around.’

  ‘Why do you think I’m here.’

  ‘Oh. Is that a yes?’

  ‘What does it sound like?’

  ‘Sounds like a yes.’

  41

  Caffery had the taste of tobacco in his mouth. While scrawny little Peter Moon had helped his son get dressed, supported him as he walked down the corridor into the living room, Caffery had gone outside to where his car was parked, stood next to the window nearest to Myrtle and rolled his first cigarette in days. His fingers were shaking. The rain made the paper dissolve. But he kept at it and lit it, his hand round the lighter flame. He blew the smoke upwards in a thin blue line, Myrtle watching him steadily. Caffery ignored her. He didn’t know what trick he’d expected of the jacker, but it wasn’t this at all.

  The tobacco helped. When he went back into the living room he felt toxic and tight, but at least he wasn’t still trembling. Peter Moon had made tea, strong and not too milky. The pot sat on the scruffy little peeling veneer table, along with a plate of Battenberg cake, carefully sliced. Caffery hadn’t seen a Battenberg in years. It made him think of his mother and Songs of Praise on a Sunday. Not of mean little council flats like this. Next to the cake lay Moon’s photo ID, which the force’s HR department had hung on to. It showed the handyman – soft jaw, dark hair. Overweight, but nothing like the Richard Moon who sat on the sofa, wheezing, as his father busied himself around him, supporting him with cushions, getting his legs raised, putting a mug of tea into his swollen hands.

  Turner had been in touch with the employment agency the force used for casual staff and the manager who’d hired Moon – put him through his CRB clearance, interviewed him – was here now. A middle-aged Asian man in a camel coat with the beginnings of grey in his hairline. He looked anxious. Caffery wouldn’t have wanted to be in his shoes.

  ‘He’s nothing like the man I employed.’ He scrutinized Richard Moon. ‘The man I employed was a quarter this weight. He was healthy and reasonably fit.’

  ‘What ID did he give you?’

  ‘A passport. A utility bill from this address.’ The folder he’d brought was full of paperwork: photocopies of all the ID evidence he had for Richard Moon. ‘Everything the CRB dictates.’

  Caffery sorted through the paperwork. He pulled out the photocopied sheet of a UK passport. It showed a young man of about twenty-five, grim-faced, a fixed hardness to his face. Richard F. Moon, Caffery held the photograph at arm’s length, compared it to the man on the sofa. ‘Well?’ He pushed it across the table. ‘Is that you?’

  Richard Moon couldn’t lower his head enough to look at it. He could only swivel his eyes to squint at it. He closed his eyes and breathed hard. ‘Yes.’ His voice was high and feminine. ‘That’s me. That’s my passport.’

  ‘That’s him,’ his father said. ‘Twelve years ago. Before he gave up on his life. Look at that photo. Is that the face of someone who doesn’t give a toss? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Stop it, Dad. It hurts when you talk to me like that.’

  ‘Don’t use your therapist speak on me, son. I’ll give you the meaning of hurt.’ Peter Moon looked his son up and down as if he couldn’t believe the monstrosity the world had visited upon him. ‘Seeing you turning into a garage in front of my eyes. That’s the meaning of hurt.’

  ‘Mr Moon,’ Caffery held up his hands to quieten them, ‘can we take this slowly?’ He studied the face in the photo. It was the same forehead, the same eyes, the same hairline. The same dirty blond hair. He looked at Richard. ‘You mean it’s taken you twelve years to go from this,’ he tapped the photo, ‘to what you are now?’

  ‘I’ve had problems—’

  ‘Problems?’ his father interrupted. ‘Problems? Well, you’d win the understatement of the year, son. Yo
u really would. You’re a fucking vegetable. Face it.’

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘You are. You’re a vegetable. I’ve driven cars smaller than you.’

  There was a pause. Then Richard Moon put his hands to his face and began to cry. His shoulders shook, and for a few moments no one spoke. Peter Moon crossed his arms and scowled. Turner and the agency manager looked at their feet.

  Caffery picked up the handyman’s ID card and compared it to the passport photo. The two men were not dissimilar – same wide forehead, same small eyes – but the agency manager must have really been asleep if he hadn’t noticed they weren’t the same man. But bollocking him here and now, in front of the Moons, wouldn’t get them anywhere, so he waited for Richard to stop snivelling and held out the ID card. ‘Know him?’

  Richard wiped his nose. His eyes were so swollen they were barely visible in his face.

  ‘Not a friend of yours you’ve helped out? Someone you’ve loaned your squeaky-clean record to?’

  ‘No,’ he said dully. ‘Never seen him before in my life.’

  ‘Mr Moon?’ He flipped the ID card round.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure? He’s a dangerous, dangerous bastard, and he’s using your son’s name and identity. Have another think.’

  ‘I dunno who he is. Never seen him in my life.’

  ‘This guy is seriously warped – more so than anyone I’ve ever dealt with before. People like him, in my experience, don’t respect anyone, not their victims, not their friends – and certainly not the ones who help them. You help someone like that and nine times out of ten it comes back to bite you on the arse. ‘He looked from father to son and back again. Neither man met his eye. ‘So, have another think. Are you sure one of you hasn’t got some idea of who he is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So how did this,’ he put the passport photocopy on the table, ‘come to be presented as ID documentation for a Criminal Records Bureau search?’

  Peter Moon picked up his mug and sat back on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other. ‘I haven’t seen that passport for years. Have you, son?’