Gone

  ‘Seven different trails.’ The CSM waved at the ground as they skirted the cordon. ‘It looks like a jumble but there are actually seven distinct trails. They fan out in every direction and they all stop at the edge of the wood. No one can get anything after that. They could go anywhere – into the fields, through the plant and out on to the road. The teams are doing their best, but it’s too big an area. He’s tricking us. Clever little shit.’

  Yeah, Caffery thought, peering into the woods as they walked, and he’ll be liking how pissed off we are right now. He couldn’t figure it out. Had this really been the place the jacker had taken Martha out of the car or had that happened somewhere else? Had he taken her miles away, knowing that the carousel of police expertise would descend on these woods and keep them occupied while he did his ugly business with her elsewhere? Not for the first time on this case Caffery had the feeling he was having his chain yanked.

  Past the cordoned-off area, in the lumber-yard, teams were still working, moving around like ghosts in their forensics suits, the bitter smells of sap from the log sawmill hanging on the air. Next to a shed stacked with the stained dovecotes the yard produced, a temporary trestle table had been set up on which all the evidence the teams had gathered was being examined. The disused factory had been the worst to search – full of fly-tipped household waste: rotting old sofas and fridges, a child’s tricycle, even a carrier bag of used nappies. The CSM and the exhibits officer had the job of deciding what to discard and what to tag and bag. They’d got the serious hump dealing with the nappies.

  ‘I’m out of ideas on this.’ The CSM took the plastic wrapping from a cast and placed it in front of Caffery. ‘Can’t work out what he’s used here.’

  A few people gathered round to look. Caffery got down on his haunches at eye level and stared at the cast. The bottom layer showed some traces of the footprints, but where the jacker had scored through them the plaster-of-paris had trickled deep into the holes made by the sharp instrument, creating spikes and peaks when the cast was reversed.

  ‘Any idea what he used to make those gouges? Recognize that shape?’

  The CSM shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Something sharp, but not with a blade. Something long, thin. Ten inches – a foot? Made a good job of it. We’re not going to get any readable footprints.’

  ‘Can I see?’ Sergeant Flea Marley came forward from the group, holding a polystyrene cup of coffee. She was bedraggled from the search – her hair was a mess, her black coat unzipped to show her sweat-stained police T-shirt. Her face was different from the way she’d looked the other night outside the offices, he thought. A bit calmer. This morning her unit had fallen on its feet for a change and, really, he should be pleased for her. ‘I’d like to look.’

  The CSM held out some nitrile gloves. ‘Want these?’

  She put down the coffee, pulled on the gloves and tilted the cast to one side. Squinted at it.

  ‘What?’ said Caffery.

  ‘Dunno,’ she murmured. ‘Dunno.’ She turned it round and round. She rested her fingers thoughtfully on the tips of the spikes. ‘Weird.’ She handed the cast back to the CSM, turned away and wandered along the trestle table to where the exhibits officer was busily bagging and tagging the various bits and pieces they’d pulled out on the search to take to the forensics lab: tissues, Coke cans, syringes, a length of blue nylon rope. The place was obviously a hang-out for local glue huffers, the number of baggies they’d found. Most had been discarded in the field – along with more than a hundred plastic cider bottles. She stood, arms folded, and scanned the objects.

  Caffery came up to her. ‘See anything?’

  She turned over a six-inch nail. An old plastic coat hanger. Put them back again. Bit her lip and looked back to where the CSM was wrapping the cast.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head. ‘Thought the shape of those gouges reminded me of something. But it doesn’t.’

  ‘Boss?’ DC Turner appeared from the direction of the main road, making his way between the parked cars. In a raincoat, with a little tartan scarf at the neck, he looked weirdly preppy.

  ‘Turner? I thought you were on your way back to the office.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry, but I’ve just got off the phone to Prody. He’s been trying to call – you must have been out of signal range. He’s sent a PDF through to your BlackBerry.’

  Caffery had a new phone and he could get email attachments wherever he was. The Walking Man would say it was typical of him to find more ways of never being absent from work. He fished in his pocket for the phone. The email icon was lit up.

  ‘It arrived at the office an hour ago,’ Turner said. ‘Prody scanned it and sent it straight over to you.’ He gave an apologetic shrug, as if this whole thing was his fault. ‘Another letter. Same as the one in the car. Same handwriting, same paper. Has a stamp on it but no postmark. Came through internal so we’re trying to trace it back – but so far no one knows where it originated, how it got in the damned post.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Caffery pulled out his phone. He could feel a vein pulsing in his temple. ‘Get back to the office, Turner. I want you doing liaison for those search warrants the POLSA’s after.’

  He went further up the track to stand where he couldn’t be seen, at the edge of the lumber-yard, behind an open-sided barn piled with the trunks of Norway spruces. He opened the attachment on the phone. It took a minute or two to download but when it came through he knew instantly it was from the jacker. Knew it wasn’t a hoax.

  Martha says hello. Martha says hello and says tell Mummy and daddy she’s being really brave. But she doesn’t like the cold very much does she. And she’s not a big talker. Not any more. I’ve tried to have a conversation with her, but she won’t speak a lot. Oh except for one thing: she’s said a few times to let you know her mother’s a cunt. Which maybe she’s right about! Who knows! One thing’s for sure: her mothers fat. Fat AND a cunt. Christ, life doesn’t shine clean on some of us, does it? What a fat cunt she is. I look at someone like Martha and think that’s the tragedy, isn’t it, that she has to grow up and turn into a fat cunt like her mother? What does Mummy think about that? Does she think it’s a shame her daughter has to grow up? Probably scared of what will happen when she leaves the house. I mean when Martha’s gone who’s Daddy going to diddle? Have to go back to having a ride on big tit Mama.

  Caffery hadn’t realized until now he’d been holding his breath. He let it out all at once. Scrolled up to the top of the letter and read it through again. Then, almost as if he might be caught reading a dirty mag or something, he shoved the phone in his pocket and looked around him. The vein in his temple was aching. On the other side of the yard Sergeant Marley had started the van and was reversing it back up the track. He pressed a finger to the vein, held it there for a count of ten. Then he made his way back to his car.

  15

  The Bradleys’ was easy to spot as you drove on to the estate: there was a press pack camped opposite it, and in the front garden a pile of flowers and gifts that had been left by well-wishers. Caffery knew a private way in: he parked at the top of the estate and walked away into the grounds, wading through carpets of rustling leaves, looping round and coming at the house from the back. There was a door in the garden fence that the press hadn’t found. The police and the Bradley family had reached an agreement: two or three times a day one of the family would show their face at the front door, just enough to keep the pack happy. The rest of the time they used the back entrance, coming through the garden. At three thirty p.m. it was almost dark, and Caffery slipped into the garden unnoticed.

  On the back step there was a basket covered, like something out of a Delia Smith book, with a gingham cloth. When the family liaison officer opened the door Caffery pointed to it. She picked it up and beckoned him inside. ‘The neighbour,’ she whispered, closing the door behind him. ‘She thinks they need feeding. We have to keep throwing stuff away – no one in this family’s eatin
g anything. Come on.’

  The kitchen was warm and clean, despite its shabbiness. Caffery knew that for the Bradleys it was comforting – they looked as if they’d spent most of the last three days in there. A rickety portable TV had been brought in and stood on a table in the corner. It was showing the twenty-four-hour news channel. Something about the economy and the Chinese government. Jonathan Bradley was at the sink, his back turned to the TV, his neck bent wearily. He was studiously washing a plate. He wore jeans and, Caffery noticed, mismatched slippers. Rose watched the TV from the kitchen table, dressed in a pink housecoat, an untouched cup of tea in front of her. She still looked medicated, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She was well built, Caffery thought, but not obviously obese and you wouldn’t notice it if she was wearing an outdoor coat. Either the jacker was taking a shot in the dark, or it was just his own species of abuse. Or he’d seen her without a coat some time before the kidnap.

  ‘Detective Caffery,’ the FLO announced to the family, putting the basket on the table. ‘I hope that’s still OK.’

  Only Jonathan responded. He stopped washing up and nodded. He got a tea-towel and wiped his hands. ‘Of course it is.’ He gave a tight smile and held out his hand. ‘Hello, Mr Caffery.’

  ‘Mr Bradley. Jonathan.’

  They shook and Jonathan pulled a chair up to the table. ‘Here. Have a seat. I’ll make more tea.’

  Caffery sat. It had been cold out in the lumberyard and his hands and feet felt hard and heavy. Finding the tracks should feel like an uptick in their box. Truth was, it hadn’t moved them forward. The teams were still out there on the knock, rousing every householder and farmer. Caffery kept waiting for the POLSA’s number to flash up on his phone screen. He wanted it to happen but, God, please don’t let it happen now, he thought, not here in front of the family.

  ‘You haven’t finished your tea, darling.’ Jonathan put his hands on his wife’s shoulders and bent over to her. ‘I’ll make you a fresh one.’ He took the cup and the basket from the table to the side. ‘Look, Mrs Fosse’s made us something to eat again.’ His voice was unnaturally raised, as if this was an old people’s home and Rose in the last stages of dementia. ‘Nice of her. Need neighbours like that.’ He pulled the linen cloth from the basket and sorted through the few things the woman had left. Some sandwiches, a pie and some fruit. A card, and a bottle of red wine with ‘organic’ printed on the label. Caffery kept his eye on the bottle. He didn’t think he’d refuse if they offered. But the pie went into the microwave and the bottle stayed on the side, unopened, while Jonathan busied himself pouring hot water into a teapot.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ Caffery said, when they had cups of tea and slices of hot apple pie in front of them. Jonathan had seemed determined to keep up an illusion of normality, setting the table, serving food. ‘Interrupting you like this.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ Rose’s voice was a monotone. She didn’t look at him or the food, but kept her eyes on the TV set. ‘I know you haven’t found her. The lady told us.’ She gestured at the FLO, who had settled at the other side of the table and was busy opening a huge file to take notes of the conversation. ‘Told us nothing’s happened. That’s right, isn’t it? Nothing’s happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They told us about the car. They said there was some clothing in it. Martha’s. When you’re ready we’ll have it back, please.’

  ‘Rose,’ said the FLO, ‘we’ve talked about this.’

  ‘I’d like the clothing back, please.’ Rose took her eyes off the TV and turned them to Caffery. They were swollen and red. ‘That’s all I’m asking. Just to have my daughter’s property back now.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Caffery said. ‘We can’t do that. Not yet. It’s evidence.’

  ‘What do you need it for? Why do you have to hold on to it?’

  The underwear was in the lab at HQ. They were desperately throwing test after test at it. So far no trace of the jacker’s semen. Just like in the car. That made Caffery really uneasy, how controlled the guy was. ‘I’m sorry, Rose. I really am. I know this is hard. But I have to ask you some more questions.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry.’ Jonathan set a pot of cream on the table and distributed dessert spoons. ‘It helps to talk. It’s better to be able to talk about it than not. Isn’t it, Rose?’

  Rose nodded numbly. Her mouth fell open a little.

  ‘She’s seen all the papers, hasn’t she?’ Caffery asked the FLO. ‘You showed her the one with Martha on the front page?’

  The FLO got up, took a paper from a sideboard and put it on the table in front of him. It was the Sun. Someone in a women’s clothing store the Bradleys had visited on the Saturday morning had sold the newspaper footage of Rose and Martha browsing near the window thirty minutes before the kidnapping. The newspaper had published a frame with a time stamp and the headline:

  The last photo? Just half an hour before she is snatched by a monster eleven-year-old Martha shops happily with Mum.

  Rose said, ‘Why did they have to write that? Why did they say the last photo? It makes it sound as if . . .’ She pushed the hair off her forehead. ‘It makes it sounds as if – you know. As if it’s all over.’

  Caffery shook his head. ‘It’s not all over.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No. We’re doing absolutely everything we can to bring her home safely.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before. You said it before. You said she’d be having her party.’

  ‘Rose,’ Jonathan said gently, ‘Mr Caffery’s only trying to help. Now, here.’ He poured some cream on to her plate, then his own. He put a spoon into her hand and, taking his own, loaded it with apple pie and put it into his mouth, chewing carefully, his eyes on hers. He nodded significantly at her plate, trying to get her to copy him.

  ‘She hasn’t eaten a thing,’ the FLO whispered. ‘Not since it happened.’

  ‘Typical you, Dad,’ Philippa said from the sofa. ‘Think food’s going to cure everything.’

  ‘She needs her strength. She really does.’

  Caffery took the cream jug and poured it over his pie. He took a mouthful, and smiled encouragingly at Rose. She stared blankly at the newspaper on the table. ‘Why did they have to write that?’ she repeated.

  ‘They’ll say whatever sells papers,’ Caffery said. ‘There’s not a lot we can do now. We did get the rest of the footage from the shop, though, and we’ve looked through it.’

  ‘Why? Why did you need to do that?’

  He arranged a chunk of pie on his spoon – did it carefully, taking his time. ‘Rose, look. I know you’ve gone through it all before – I know it’s painful, but I want to go back over that morning. I specifically want to talk to you about the shops you and Martha visited.’

  ‘The shops we visited? Why?’

  ‘You said you’d left the food shopping until last.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think you said you were looking for a cardigan? Was that for you or for Martha?’

  ‘For me. Martha wanted tights. We went to Roundabout first and got her some. She wanted ones with hearts . . .’ Rose paused. She pressed her fingers to her throat and struggled to maintain her composure. ‘With hearts,’ she continued, in a small voice. ‘Red ones. And when we’d got those we went to Coco’s. I saw a cardigan in there I liked.’

  ‘Did you try it on?’

  ‘Did she try it on?’ said Jonathan. ‘Does it matter if she tried a cardigan on? I’m sorry to sound rude, but what’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘I’m just trying to establish a bit more about what that morning was like. Did you take your coat off and try the cardigan on?’

  ‘You’re not “trying to establish what the morning was like”.’ Philippa glared at him from the sofa. ‘You’re not doing that at all. I know why you’re asking. It’s because you think he was watching them. You think he was following them before they went anywhere near the car park, don’t you?’

  Caffery took another for
kful of pie and chewed, holding Philippa’s eyes.

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it? I can see from your face. You think he was following them.’

  ‘It’s just one line in our enquiries. In my experience, random is rarely that random.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ve got some more evidence?’ asked Jonathan. ‘Does that mean he’s communicated with you again?’

  There was something small and hard in the mouthful of pie. Caffery didn’t answer while he worked it to the front of his mouth and pushed it with his tongue into the paper napkin. A piece of tooth, covered in pie. A broken tooth right in the middle of a case like this when he really didn’t have time for a trip to the dentist.

  ‘Mr Caffery? Has there been another communication?’

  ‘I meant what I said. I’m trying to establish a little more of what . . .’

  He trailed off, frowning at the napkin. It wasn’t a piece of tooth at all. It was a whole tooth. But it hadn’t come from him. He ran his tongue around his mouth. No gaps. And, anyway, it was too small. Much too small to have come from an adult.

  ‘What is it?’ Jonathan stared at the napkin in Caffery’s hand. ‘What’ve you got there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Puzzled, Caffery wiped the tooth on the napkin and studied it closely. A tiny milk tooth.

  ‘It’s Martha’s.’ Rose was sitting bolt upright, her face absolutely white, her hands gripping the table. ‘It is.’ Her lips were pale. ‘Look, Jonathan, it’s her baby tooth. The one she used to keep in her locket.’

  Philippa shot to her feet, strode to the table and bent over to peer at what Caffery was holding. ‘Mum? Oh, God, Mum, it is. It’s her tooth.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Very, very slowly Caffery put the tooth on the table about ten inches from his plate.

  ‘How come it was in your mouth?’ Next to him the FLO’s voice was low and controlled.

  Caffery looked down into his plate of apple pie and cream. The FLO looked at hers. They met each other’s eyes and turned to Jonathan, who was staring at his own helping, his face ashen.