Enough is enough. He’s been living on four hours’ sleep and coffee for the last seventy-six hours. He shuts down the computer, gets his jacket, and heads for the door. He’s crossing the car park to his Mondeo when he notes a little Renault parked next to the barrier. As he gets closer he sees Flea Marley is sitting at the wheel, the window open, watching him steadily.
He hesitates, looks left and right, half wondering if he can vanish, or find a distraction so he won’t have to speak to her. Then, resignedly, he heads over to the car.
‘Yes, what?’
She doesn’t answer. She is dressed in her regulation black combats and polo shirt. Her hair is tucked under a cap and she wears no make-up. She’s got a faint winter suntan from the long days of fruitless searching around the clinic.
‘Jack, we need to speak.’
‘Here we go again.’
‘Come with me?’
‘What, for another mystery tour that ends nowhere?’
‘Give me a chance.’
He glances all around the car park again. Half hoping for a reason to say no. There isn’t one. He pockets the keys, walks around to the passenger seat, throws his waterproof on the back seat and gets in. The car is tidy, her kit in the back, an iPod on a stand but no music playing. He fastens his seat belt. ‘Where are we going?’
She starts the car and begins to drive. They go out of the security gates and turn on to the feeder canal road, then head over the Lawrence Hill roundabout and on to the motorway. She’s got such a look of purposefulness that Caffery keeps quiet. If she’s going to drive off a cliff in her fury, part of him feels so weary he doesn’t know whether he’d fight. He doesn’t even reach into his pocket for his V-Cigs. Fighting is for those who have something to gain.
On the M4 the sun comes out behind them. He can see in the rear-view mirror the clouds stalling in the west, in a towering bank – almost as if they’ve given up chasing the little Clio and are content just to watch it make its escape. Flea takes the A46 exit, heading south in the direction of Bath. At first Caffery assumes she’s taking him to her house, but she doesn’t. She sails past the turning and continues on the bypass towards Chippenham. Then she takes a sudden left and a right and loses him in a morass of lanes he doesn’t recognize.
He fishes his phone out and tries to keep track of where they are, using his free hand to brace himself against the car frame as she throws the Clio around corners. Are they going to the clinic? If so, it’s not a route he’s taken before. But Flea knows this countryside well – she grew up here. Caffery’s only been here for three years and he is lost – the GPS signal ducks in and out, struggling to keep up. Eventually he gives up and sits in silence, the phone resting on his thigh.
After a quarter of an hour she pulls off the road on to a rutted, rain-soaked track which leads into a forest. It is so rarely used that the trees bend inwards over the car. Branches scrape the roof and brown autumn leaves stick to the windscreen as they bounce over the uneven ground.
About a hundred metres down, the track comes to an end and Flea stops, cuts the engine. Ahead is a stile – mossed and almost invisible with the amount of bramble that covers it. The woods are silent. Just the distant caw of rooks.
‘Right,’ Caffery says, looking around. ‘You want me on my own – probably to explain again why you won’t do it. Because there’s only one other thing you can want privacy for – and I’m guessing from the atmosphere that’s not on the cards.’
She ignores him. Throws the door open and gets out – goes to the back of the car. He doesn’t twist to watch her, he can monitor her in the mirror. Her face is fixed as she opens the boot, pulls something out, and returns to his side of the car. She stands next to his window and drops it at her feet.
He opens the door and peers down at it. It’s a giant holdall – blue and white with a logo on it.
‘Game of tennis?’
She narrows her eyes at him. She loops a GPS unit around her neck, shoulders the bag and heads off towards the stile. She’s wearing black walking boots and she pushes through the brambles as if they’re not there. Caffery is dressed in office shoes and his suit, but he does have his Triclimate jacket on the back seat. He grabs it, and jumps out of the car – follows before he can lose sight of her.
Into the Wild
IN THE ENTRANCE to the dead skeleton tree, AJ LeGrande sits on the ground staring at what is in his hands. Stewart stands next to him, attentive, uncertain. He keeps lifting his face to AJ’s as if asking to be reassured everything is OK.
‘I don’t know, do I?’ AJ says. ‘You’re the one who wanted to come here.’
Inside the tree trunk, behind the door, was a small hollow packed with feathers. In it were lying the two dolls he holds now. If Isaac Handel hasn’t made them, then someone is doing a good job of aping him, because they have his style stamped all over them. They even smell of him. AJ turns them over and over – studying them in the thin white light coming through the branches.
They have been constructed using scraps of fabric; twists of foil and bottle caps – they aren’t as ugly as some of the other things Isaac used to make. Isaac was never shy about depicting the gender of his dolls – he makes that part abundantly clear – one is a male and one is a female. They are depicted embracing. It’s not sex – it’s an affectionate embrace. AJ’s not sure how Isaac has achieved the sense of attachment and love between them. When he tries to untangle them it takes a while. He has to use his keys to snap the cotton that has been used to stitch them together.
He recognizes the male doll. It’s him. AJ.
‘OK,’ he says, shaken. He puts the doll down, takes off his jacket, in spite of the cold, lays it on the wet ground, kneels and lies the dolls carefully on the jacket. ‘OK.’
His hair is made of scraps of wool, and the front of the T-shirt is made from a scrap of the Hawaiian shirt that Patience says is a danger to all people of taste. The female doll means nothing to him. It has bright-red wool for hair and is dressed in a skirt covered in lilac-sprigged flowers. Tiny bangles made of twisted wire cover its arms.
‘Isaac, old mate,’ he whispers. ‘Isaac? What’s all this about?’
He raises his head to survey the clearing, wondering what Isaac wanted from this place. This place that has been in his dreams all these years – just a few miles from his home. With a jolt he sees he’s not alone. On the edge of the trees, about four metres away, a woman stands silently watching him.
‘Jesus.’ He gets up hurriedly. ‘Didn’t see you there.’
She smiles. She is petite and pretty – with a neat elfin helmet of vibrant red hair. She’s wearing wellingtons and a duffle coat – a floral skirt peeping out from under it. Stewart instantly trots over to her, as if he knows her, sits at her feet. She bends and scratches him behind the ears. ‘Are you Stewart?’ she says. ‘Are you? You’re lovely.’
‘Stewart,’ AJ says warningly. ‘Stewart …’ He wants to order the dog away, the way he’d warn him away from any stranger – but this woman doesn’t appear to be a threat. In fact she’s so gentle with Stewart that he actually rolls on to his back like a soppy puppy so she can rub his belly.
‘Hey, you like that!’ She crouches and scratches him hard. Stewart’s ears flop back and his head turns from side to side in doggie ecstasy. ‘You are an attention sponge,’ she laughs. ‘My old Suki would have fallen in love with you.’
AJ stands slowly. He is frowning. ‘Do you know my dog?’
She shakes her head, happily scratching away at Stewart, whose legs are twitching with pleasure.
‘I said, do you know my dog? You know his name.’
‘Yes, I know his name. He’s just as lovely as I expected.’
‘As you expected?’
She stops scratching and raises her eyes to him. She must be about his age, but her skin is as smooth and clear as cream. Her eyes are a muddy green. ‘That’s what I said.’
‘Are you going to explain?’
‘That’s why I?
??m here, AJ.’
He stares at her. ‘I beg your pardon? Say that again.’
She smiles. ‘That’s why I’m here, AJ.’
‘OK – stop now. This is too random.’
‘No. It’s not.’ She points to his jacket on the ground. ‘Look at the dolls.’
He glances down. Sees the red wool of the doll’s hair. The dress it is wearing is similar to the woman’s. A muted floral print.
‘I’m Penny, and you don’t know me. But I know who you are. You were Isaac’s friend in the hospital.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I told you – I’m Penny. And I’m a hippy.’
‘Yes – you look like one.’
‘You’re not exactly David Beckham. Has anyone ever told you that?’
‘Not in so many words. How do you know Isaac?’
She smiles. ‘I’m his mother. No – not his mother, of course I’m not really his mother. I’m his dream mother. I’m the one he wanted as his mother. Do you know some of the things his real mother did to him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well – you probably don’t know them all. You don’t want to know. I didn’t know until last week – I didn’t understand him. I thought he hated me. That was Isaac’s problem. Everyone ran away from him.’
‘I didn’t run away. Or did I?’
‘No. You didn’t. And he loved you for that. He really loved you. If I was his mother in his dreams, then you were his father. Did you know that?’
AJ stares at her – speechless. He wants to argue, to tell her she’s insane, and that he should know about insanity, given his profession. But he glances down at the dolls and it crosses his mind that maybe he has been guided by an unseen hand. For a long time he’s thought he’d lost his way, but maybe that was all part of the path. His destiny.
A Distant Fire
THE WOODS ARE thick – still dripping with the earlier rain, soaking Caffery’s shoes and throwing mud and leaf litter over the hems of his trousers. Flea doesn’t check he’s following, she only stops every so often, to check her GPS unit. They go up and up and up, until they are on the edge of a hill – the land dropping away on their right. The density of the forest gives way to glimpses of sky between the branches. He can see snatches of surrounding farmland. But no hamlets or houses or electricity pylons. No sign of civilization at all.
She steps off the track, crashes through an impossible tangle of brambles and branches. His trousers are going to be shredded, but he follows. Ten metres in, she stops and turns to him. She drops the holdall and stoops, unzipping the side pocket. Pulls out two pairs of nitrile gloves and two pairs of bootees – the type the forensics team dole out to anyone visiting a crime scene.
‘Do you know where we are?’
‘You’re kidding,’ Caffery laughs sourly. ‘This is pin the tail on the donkey – you’ve been spinning me round blindfold for the last hour.’ He’d like to add she’s been doing it for months and months. Instead he says, ‘A clue?’
‘Farleigh Park Lake.’ She points to the north. ‘See?’
Sure enough, between the trees in the direction she’s indicating, there is a mirrored, grey coin of water nestling in the green. And suddenly he understands where they are. Hands on the trunks of two trees, he leans himself out over the drop, so he can survey the land. Familiar hills and sweeps of land are emerging out of the anonymous landscape.
‘Shit,’ he murmurs. He points his finger to the west. ‘The clinic must be over there … somewhere …’
‘The RV point is just beyond that clump of trees. This hillside is the last part of the search. We start here at eight tomorrow morning. Here.’ She holds out a pair of gloves. ‘You’re going to need them.’
Slowly, slowly, Caffery lowers his eyes to the holdall.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It is what you think it is.’
He stares at the holdall, not moving for a long, long time.
‘And by the way, Jack, the security at your house is shite – you need a dog. I walked in there this morning and spent an hour digging up your garden. No one stopped me. The clothes are in the bag too.’
He raises his eyes to her. If he ever suspected himself of being in love with this woman now he is one hundred per cent sure.
She shrugs. ‘Boxes,’ she says, although he hasn’t asked the question. ‘Keeping things in boxes. Being scared that if you open them to take one thing out everything else will come tumbling out too.’
‘Everything else?’
‘Yes. All the things that it’s easier not to think about. Like brothers and dead parents, and like …’
She trails off. Bites her lip, her eyes going over his face. Behind her the countryside stretches away – the winter landscape of Somerset. A line of smoke from a distant fire rises into the sky. Her face is lit by the dying sun.
‘And?’
She gives a tiny smile. As if something has made her shy and sad and hopeful all at once. ‘Oh nothing. Just “and”.’
Acknowledgements
Many people spend a lifetime building their knowledge and skill bases, only to have a fly-by-night novelist come along and steal it all to make into a story. Why they tolerate this daylight robbery I have no idea, I can only be grateful and humbled by their generosity. Those people include: Patrick Knowles, who filled in the details of the UK’s mental-health system; Hugh White, genius pathologist; Simon Gerard; DCI Gareth Bevan of Avon and Somerset MCIT (the real-life Jack Caffery); Inspector Zoe Chegwyn, who taught me what I needed to know about hostage situations. To you all – I apologize if I have skewed the truth you gave me for the purposes of fiction, but thank you, thank you, and thank you, again.
As always, the debt I owe to the wonderful folk at my publisher’s and agent’s offices is immeasurable. To you all, a huge hats-off for your hard work and patience. Also to Steve Bennett, for tolerating my adversity to social networking. It amazes me how you manage to run a website for someone who is so phobic about sharing.
Jonathan Keay – the real-life Jonathan Keay – made a large donation to the DeKalb Libraries in Atlanta, Georgia, and for that he has had a character named after him in Poppet. Jonathan, I know you are far more interesting in real life than you appear in this novel, nevertheless I thank you. And as for Karin Slaughter – who was in the background of this arrangement – you continue to outrage, inspire and amaze me. Keep it up, girl!
Lastly, I want to thank my dear friends and family – supportive and quiet and constant: Bob Randall; Margaret OWO Murphy; Mairi Hitomi; Lotte GQ; Sue and Donald Hollins. What would I do without you?
About the Author
Mo Hayder’s first novel, Birdman, was hailed as ‘a first-class shocker’ by the Guardian, and her follow-up, The Treatment, was voted by The Times as ‘one of the top ten most scary thrillers ever written’. With the last Jack Caffery thriller, Gone, she won the prestigious Edgars Best Book Award. Poppet is the sixth novel to feature DI Jack Caffery, and the fourth in The Walking Man series.
For more information, see www.mohayder.net
Also by Mo Hayder
Birdman
The Treatment
Tokyo
Pig Island
Ritual
Skin
Gone
Hanging Hill
For more information on Mo Hayder and her books, see her website at
www.mohayder.net
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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POPPET
A BATNAM PRESS BOOK: 9780593068168
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN: 9781448152452
First published in Great Britain
in 2013 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Mo Hayder 2013
Mo Hayder has asserted her right under the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
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This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
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