Gone

  The cop turned the torch on her again and studied her cagoule. If he noticed the sticky boots he didn’t dwell on them. He came a couple of steps nearer her.

  She reached into the inside pocket of her jacket. The cop’s reaction was lightning fast: in under a second he had jammed the torch under his arm. He had his right hand on the radio, the left on the canister of CS gas in his holster.

  ‘It’s OK.’ She lowered her hand, unzipped the jacket and opened it so he could see the lining. ‘Here.’ She pointed to the pocket inside. ‘In here. My authority for being here. Can I show you?’

  ‘Authority?’ The cop didn’t take his eyes off the pocket. ‘What sort of authority is that?’

  ‘Here.’ She stepped forward and held the jacket out to him. ‘You do it. If it makes you less nervous.’

  The cop licked his lips. He took his hand off the radio and reached out. He rested his fingers on the edge of the pocket.

  ‘There’s nothing sharp in here, is there? Anything sharp I could cut myself on?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’d better be telling the truth, young lady.’

  ‘I am.’

  He slowly slid his hand into the pocket, felt what was in there. He let his fingers run over it. A frown crossed his face. He pulled the object out and studied it.

  A police warrant card. In a standard black leather wallet.

  ‘A cop?’ he said slowly. He opened it, read the name. ‘Sergeant Marley? I’ve heard of you.’

  ‘Uh-huh. I run the Underwater Search Unit.’

  He handed her back the card. ‘What the hell’re you doing out here?’

  ‘I’m thinking of running a training session in the quarry next week. This is a recce.’ She looked up dubiously at the clouds. ‘In this weather you may as well be freezing your arse off under water as top side.’

  The cop switched off his torch, shrugged his coat a little closer round his shoulders. ‘USU?’ he said.

  ‘That’s the one. Underwater Search.’

  ‘I hear a lot of things about your unit. It’s been bad – hasn’t it?’ She didn’t answer but felt a hard, cold click in the back of her head at the mention of the unit’s problems.

  ‘Visits from the chief superintendent, I heard. Professional Standards starting an investigation, are they?’

  Flea made her face go light. Pleasant. She folded the wallet and put it back in her pocket. ‘Can’t dwell on past mistakes. We’ve got a job to do. Just like you.’

  The cop nodded. He seemed about to say something but must have changed his mind. He put a finger to his cap, turned and walked slowly back to the car. He got in and reversed about ten yards, did a sweeping three-point turn, and drove back up through the gates. The car slowed a little as he passed Flea’s car, hidden in the bushes. He gave it a good look over, then put his foot down and was gone.

  She stood, motionless, the rain pouring down on her.

  I hear a lot of things about your unit . . . It’s been bad – hasn’t it?

  She shivered, zipped up her jacket and looked around at the deserted quarry. The rain dripped down her cheeks like tears. No one had said anything about the unit to her face. Not so far. When she tested how it made her feel she was surprised to find the truth. It hurt that the team was in trouble. Something solid in her chest buckled a bit. Something that had been put there at the same time as she’d hidden the corpse in the cave. She took a breath, pulled the solid thing back together. Held it in tight. Kept breathing slow and sure until the feeling went away.

  4

  By eight thirty that evening there was still no sign of Martha. But the investigation already had some legs. A lead had come in. A woman in Frome had seen the local news bulletin about the carjacking and decided she had something to tell the police. She gave the statement to the local officers, who passed it on to MCIU.

  Caffery drove there using the minor routes, the country lanes where he knew he could go fast and not get a tug from some bored traffic cop. It had stopped raining, but it was still blowing a gale. Every time it seemed the wind had died down to nothing it sprang out of nowhere and raced down the road, shaking raindrops from the trees, sending them arcing across his headlamps. The woman’s house was centrally heated, but he couldn’t get comfortable there. He declined tea, spoke to her for ten minutes, then went and got a takeaway cappuccino from a service station, took it back to her street and stood drinking it outside her house, coat buttoned against the wind. He wanted to get a feel for the road and the area.

  This lunchtime, about an hour before Rose Bradley had been attacked, a man had pulled up here in a dark-blue car. The woman in the house had watched him from the window because he’d looked nervous. He had his collar turned up, so she never saw his face, but she was fairly sure he was white, with dark hair. He was wearing a black Puffa jacket and carrying, in his left hand, what she didn’t recognize at the time but thought, in retrospect, might have been a rubber mask of some sort. She’d noticed him leave the car, but a phone call had diverted her attention and when she came back the street was empty. The car stayed there, though. All day. It was only when she saw the news bulletin and looked out of the window that she saw it had gone. It must have been collected at some point in the evening.

  She was fairly sure the car had been a Vauxhall – she wasn’t good at car marques but it had a dragon on it, she was sure – and when Caffery’d taken her outside and found a Vauxhall sitting under a streetlamp a few doors down she’d looked at the badge and nodded. Yes. In dark blue. Not very clean. And it may have had WW at the end of the numberplate, though she wouldn’t swear to it. Apart from that she couldn’t recall anything, much as she wanted to help.

  Caffery stood at the place the car had been parked and tried to picture the scene, tried to work out who else might have seen it. At the very end of the dark, windswept street, a convenience store blasted light into the night: plastic shop sign above the window, offers posters pasted to the glass, a waste-paper bin with the local newspaper poster flapping under the chicken wire. He crossed the street, draining the last of the coffee, and dropped the cup into the bin as he entered the building.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, holding up his warrant card to the Asian woman behind the till. ‘Manager in?’

  ‘That’s me.’ She squinted at the card. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Caffery – Jack, if you’d like first-name basis.’

  ‘And what are you? A detective?’

  ‘That’s one word for it.’ He nodded at the camera above the till. ‘Is that thing loaded?’

  She glanced up. ‘Are you going to give me back my chip?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘The robbery?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about a robbery. I’m a centralized unit. I wouldn’t get that sort of information. What robbery?’

  There was a line of customers waiting. The manageress gestured to a young man stacking shelves to take over from her. She pulled her till fob out, hung it round her neck on a pink rubber spring, and motioned Caffery to follow her. They went past the lottery-ticket station, past two post-office booths, blinds down, and into a stock room at the back of the shop. They stood among the Walkers crisps boxes and unsold magazines that had been bundled up ready for return.

  ‘Someone came in last week and pulled out a knife. A couple of boys, you know, hoodies. I wasn’t here. They only got about forty pounds.’

  ‘Boys, though. Not men?’

  ‘No. I think I’ve got a good idea who they are. It’s just a question of making the police believe me. They’re still looking at the footage.’

  In the corner a black-and-white TV monitor showed the back of the sales assistant’s head as he cashed up a lottery ticket, beyond him the rows of sweets, and beyond that the street outside, litter blowing around in the dark. Caffery scrutinized the screen. In the bottom left-hand corner, past all the posters and magazines and parked cars, was the space where the woman had said the blue Vauxhall had been parked. ‘There was a
carjacking this morning.’

  ‘I know.’ The manageress shook her head. ‘In town. That little girl. It’s terrible. Just terrible. Everyone’s talking about it. Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘Someone we’d like to speak to about it might have parked here.’ He tapped the screen. ‘The car was there all day. Can you pull up the footage?’

  The woman unlocked a unit sunk into the wall using another key on the pink springy necklace. A door swung open to reveal a video recorder. She dropped the key and pressed a button. She frowned, pressed another button. A message appeared on screen: Insert media card. Swearing under her breath she hit another button. The screen cleared, for a second or two, then the message popped back up again. Insert media card. She was silent. She stood with her back to Caffery, not moving for several seconds. When she turned to him her face had changed.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s not running.’

  ‘What do you mean it’s not running?’

  ‘It’s not switched on.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. No.’ She waved a hand, dismissing the words. ‘That’s a lie. I do know. When the police took the chip?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘They said they’d put another card in it and switched it back on. I didn’t check. This card’s completely empty. I’m the only one’s got the keys so there’s nothing on it since Monday when the police came for the pictures of the robbery.’

  Caffery opened the door and stood looking through the shop, past the customers with their magazines and bottles of cheap wine to the road, to the cars parked in the pools of light dropped by the streetlamps.

  ‘I can tell you one thing.’ The manageress came and stood beside him, looking at the road. ‘If he parked up there to walk into town he’d have been coming from Buckland.’

  ‘Buckland? I’m new here. What direction’s Buckland?’

  ‘It’s Radstock way. Midsomer Norton? You know?’

  ‘Doesn’t ring any bells.’

  ‘Well, that’s where he’d have been coming from. Radstock, Midsomer Norton.’ She fiddled with the key fob on the spring around her neck. She smelt of a floral perfume – light and summery but cheap. The sort of thing you’d get from a corner chemist. Caffery’s father had been a racist, in the sort of casual, everyday-pub-conversation way a lot of people had been back in those days. Lackadaisical and thoughtless. He’d told his sons that ‘the Pakis’ were OK and hard-working, but smelt of curry. Simple as that. Curry and onions. Now, in the back of his head, Caffery realized part of him still expected it to be true. And part of him was still surprised when it wasn’t. That, he thought, showed how deep parenting could burrow. Showed how raw and skinless a child’s mind was.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Her face pursed. It seemed to close in at the mouth and the nose to a small point. ‘Just one question?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘That little girl. Martha. What do you think he’s going to do with her? What terrible thing is that man going to do to her?’

  Caffery took a long, deep breath, stretched a good, calm smile across his face. ‘Nothing. He’s going to do nothing. He’s going to drop her somewhere – somewhere safe where she can be found. And then he’s going to run for the hills.’

  5

  Night had set in with a sort of vengeful permanence. Caffery decided he didn’t need to pay the Bradleys another visit. There was nothing to tell them, and anyway, said the FLO, they were being swamped with well-wishers – neighbours and friends and members of the congregation bringing over flowers and cakes and bottles of wine to keep their spirits up. Caffery made sure the details of the Vauxhall were on the wire to all the ANPR points and then, because of the shitload of paperwork he had to catch up on, he drove back to the unit’s offices, tucked behind a police station in Kingswood, on the north-easterly tip of the sprawling octopus that made up Bristol’s suburbs.

  He stopped the car at the electronic gate and got out in the full glare of the security lights, pulled back the sleeve of his shirt and studied the number scrawled in pen on his inner wrist. They’d had a theft from this car park three weeks ago – one of the unit cars had disappeared from right under their noses. Red faces all round and new access codes for everyone and he was still having problems remembering this one. He’d got half of the number on his wrist tapped in when he realized someone was watching him.

  He paused, his hand on the pad, and turned. It was Sergeant Flea Marley. She was next to a car, holding the driver’s door open. She slammed it and began to make her way towards him. The security light timed out and snapped off. He lowered his hand and pulled down his sleeve, feeling irrationally trapped by her.

  Caffery was nearly forty, and for years he thought he’d known what he needed from women. Most of the time they half-broke his heart so he’d learned to be precise and utilitarian about it. But the woman coming across the street had started him wondering if it was less efficiency he was carrying around and more a ragged, hard ball of loneliness. Six months ago he’d been getting closer to doing something about that, until the moment everything he’d thought he’d known about her had had a bomb dropped on it when he’d seen her do something that meant she was nothing like the person he’d imagined. The chance discovery he’d made had gone through him like a storm, taken away everything he’d thought he felt about her, leaving him confused, puzzled and choked. Choked and disappointed in a way that was more like something from childhood than adulthood. From a time when Pakis smelt of curry and things went deep. Like being on the losing football team. Or not getting the bike he wanted for Christmas. Since then he’d bumped into Flea at work once or twice and knew he should tell her what he’d seen, but the words weren’t there yet. Because he still hadn’t worked out in his head why she’d done what she’d done.

  She stopped a few yards away. She wore standard support-group winter kit – black cargoes, a sweatshirt and a waterproof. Her wild blonde hair, usually tied back, hung loose to her shoulders. Really and truly a support-group sergeant shouldn’t look anything like she did. ‘Jack,’ she said.

  He reached over and slammed the Mondeo door. Put some height and breadth into his shoulders. Made his face hard. His eyes ached from not looking too closely at her.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, as she got nearer. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  6

  Flea was still unnerved and on guard from what had happened at the quarry earlier. Then, this evening, the news about the carjacking had trickled though the force, reaching her distant unit just before down-tools and giving her serious spikes in the head. Realistically there was only one person she could talk to about it. DI Caffery. At the end of her late shift she drove straight out to the MCIU offices in Kingswood.

  He was at the gate near his car, surrounded by yellow pools of light that bounced out of the office windows behind him and reflected up from the puddles. He wore a heavy coat and was standing quite still watching her approach. He was dark-haired, medium height, lean under the coat and, even if you didn’t know it from experience, which she did, you could tell from the way he stood that he knew how to look after himself. He was a good detective, a brilliant one, some would say, but everyone whispered about him. Because there was something a bit sideways about Caffery. Something a bit wild and alone. You could tell it from his eyes.

  He didn’t look pleased to see her. Not at all. She hesitated. Gave him an uncertain smile.

  He took his hand down from the security pad he’d been jamming numbers into. ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Good.’ She nodded, still a bit thrown by the expression. There had been a time, months ago, when he’d looked at her completely differently – looked at her in the way a man is supposed to look at a woman. Once or twice. He wasn’t doing that now. Now he was regarding her as if she disappointed him. ‘You?’

  ‘Oh, you know – same shit, different day. I heard your unit’s got some problems.’

  News travelled fa
st around this force. USU had botched a few things lately – an operation over in Bridgewater when they’d been diving for a suicide victim in a river and had swum straight past the body. Plus the small matter of a grand’s worth of diving equipment lost at the bottom of Bristol harbour. And other things – little mistakes and lapses that added up to the fat ugly truth of the Underwater Search Unit on its knees, performance targets missed, competency pay on hold, with only one person, the sergeant, to blame. This was the second time today someone’d thought to point it out.

  ‘Getting tired of hearing it,’ she said. ‘We’ve had our problems, but we’ve turned the corner. I’m confident of that.’

  He gave an unconvinced nod, and glanced up the road as if he was trying to see any good reason for them both still to be standing there. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What’s on your mind, Sergeant Marley?’

  She took a breath. Held it. For a moment she considered not telling him, just for the dull, unimpressed way he was communicating with her. It was like all the disappointment in the world was heaping out of him on to her shoulders. She exhaled. ‘OK. I heard about the carjacker on the news.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Thought you should know. He’s done it before.’

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘The guy who’s just taken that Yaris? He’s done it before. And he’s not just a carjacker.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘A guy, yes? In a Santa mask? He snatched a car. There was a kid in it? Well, this is the third time.’

  ‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on a second.’

  ‘Look, I can’t be the one who told you this. I got into shit over it the first time. I put my nose in it a bit too deep, eventually got a slap down from my inspector – told to lay off, stop hanging around the Bridewell station. No one got killed or anything so, really, I was wasting my time. None of this is coming from me. Right?’