Gone

21

The dog’s name was Myrtle. She was threadbare, half crippled by arthritis. Her white and black tail hung off the end of her bony back like a limp flag. But she hobbled along obediently behind Caffery, got in and out of the back seat of his car without complaining, though he could tell it hurt her. Even waited patiently outside the forensics lab at HQ in Portishead while he struggled with the technicians and tried to push forward the testing of the baby tooth against Martha’s DNA. By the time he was done with the lab he was feeling sorry for the damned dog. He stopped at a Smile store and got armfuls of dog food. The chew toy seemed a bit hopeful but he bought it anyway and put it on the back seat next to her.

It was late, gone ten, by the time he got back to the MCIU building. The place was still busy. He took Myrtle limping along the corridor, running the gauntlet of people poking their heads out of offices to speak to him, hand him reports, messages, but mostly to pat the dog or make wisecracks about her: Jack, your dog looks like I feel. Hey, it’s Yoda in a coat. Here, furry Yoda.

Turner was still there, dishevelled and a bit sleepy but at least no earring. He spent a little time bringing Caffery up to date on the trawl for the Vauxhall, which still hadn’t borne fruit, and gave him contact details for the superintendent who’d authorized the surveillance on the vicarage. Then he spent a longer time crouched down talking nonsense to Myrtle, who wearily lifted her tail once or twice in acknowledgement. Lollapalooza came in, still in full makeup, but she was letting her guard down: she’d taken off her high heels and rolled up her sleeves to reveal the down of fine dark hairs on her arms. She hadn’t done well on the sex offenders, she admitted. CAPIT had a short list of people they thought could meet the criteria: they’d been checked on overnight. But what she could tell Caffery was that chondroitin was the way to go with the dog’s arthritis. That or glucosamine. Oh, and cut all grains out of the poor animal’s diet. By which she meant all grains. All of them.

When she’d gone he opened a can of Chum and let it gloop on to one of the cracked plates from the unit kitchen. Myrtle ate slowly, her old head on one side, favouring the left side of her jaw. The food stank. At ten thirty, when Paul Prody stuck his head in the door, the smell was still there. He made a face. ‘Nice.’

Caffery got up, went to the window and opened it a fraction. Cold damp air came in, bringing with it the smells of drunks and takeaways. One of the shops opposite had Christmas lights in the window, Christmas officially beginning in November, of course. ‘So?’ He sat heavily in his chair. Arms hanging at his sides. He felt half finished. ‘What’ve you got for me?’

‘Just in the last few minutes spoke to the press office.’ Prody came in, sat down. Myrtle was lying on the floor, digesting her meal, her chin on her paws. She raised her head and watched him with a vague, burned-out interest. Even Prody was showing signs of wear and tear. His jacket was creased and his tie was undone round his neck as if he’d spent a couple of hours on the sofa at home, watching soaps. ‘The nationals, the locals and all the TV stations ran pictures of the Bradleys’ house. The number on the door was quite clear and so was the sign: “The Vicarage”. The cuttings agency is still searching, but so far all anyone can come up with is some copy about “the Bradleys’ house in Oakhill”. Nothing more specific than that. No road name. And no mention of the tooth. Anywhere.’

‘It could be him, then.’

‘Looks like it.’

‘That’s good.’

‘Good?’ Prody gave him a level look.

‘Yes. It means he knows the Oakhill area – knows the A37. It’s great.’

‘Is it?’

Caffery dropped his hands on the desk. ‘No. It’s something, but it’s not “great” at all. We already knew he was familiar with that area. What does it add to our intel? That he knows an estate every bastard in the area has to drive past on their way to work.’

They looked across at the map on the wall. It was covered with tiny pins, the heads coloured. The pink ones were personal to Caffery: they marked the places he knew the Walking Man had been. A pattern was emerging there: a long band stretching upwards from Shepton Mallet, where the Walking Man had once lived. But the black pins were the ones Caffery couldn’t mould a pattern from – six of them: three at the places the jacker had struck, the other three at places that had some relevance – the vicarage in Oakhill where he’d left the baby tooth, the area near Tetbury where the Bradleys’ Yaris had been parked briefly and the place near Avoncliff in Wiltshire where it had been abandoned.

‘There’s a station near where he left the car.’ Caffery squinted at the black pins. ‘If you look at it there’s a railway line runs through there.’

Prody went to the map, tilted sideways from the waist and studied the pins. ‘The line that goes from Bristol through Bath and Westbury.’

‘The Wessex line. Look where it goes after Bath.’

‘Freshford, Frome.’ He looked over his shoulder at Caffery. ‘Martha was taken in Frome.’

‘And Cleo was taken in Bruton. On the same line.’

‘You think he’s using the train?’

‘Maybe. He drove to the Bradleys today, I’m sure of it. And he must have used a car to get out to Bruton – the Vauxhall, maybe. But when he jacks someone else’s car he has to come back, pick up the Vauxhall, at some point.’

‘So maybe he lives near one of the stations on the line?’

Caffery shrugged. ‘Well, it’s tentative, but let’s go with it. In the absence of anything else. In the morning I want you to get on to Railtrack, take in their CCTVs. Know the routine for that?’

‘I think so.’

‘And, Prody?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Just because Turner wears his Glasto look after six p.m., Lollapallooza thinks it’s cool to go barefoot and I’ve got a Labrador in my office, it doesn’t mean you get to lower your standards.’

Prody nodded. Did up his tie. ‘It’s a collie, Boss.’

‘A collie. That’s what I said.’

‘Yes, Boss.’ Prody half opened the door to leave, when something occurred to him. He stopped and came back in, closing it behind him.

‘What?’

‘I took the file back. Last night, like you said. No one even noticed I’d had it.’

For a moment Caffery couldn’t think what he was talking about. Then he remembered. Misty Kitson.

‘Good. ’S what I said to do.’

‘Thought I’d really pissed you off there for a bit.’

‘Yeah, well, I had a fly up my arse yesterday. Don’t take it seriously.’ He pulled the keyboard over. Needed to check his emails. ‘See you.’

But Prody didn’t leave. He hovered at the door. ‘It was difficult for you. The way the case closed.’

Caffery raised his eyes and stared at him. He couldn’t believe this. He pushed the keyboard away and gave him his full attention. He’d told the guy to drop it once, so where was he getting off pursuing it? ‘It was difficult when the unit had to let go of it.’ He switched off his lamp. Put his elbows on the table. Made his face as calm as he could. ‘I can’t lie to you. That part was difficult. That’s why I don’t appreciate you bringing files in from the review team.’

‘The informer you had?’

‘What about him?’

‘You never did say who he was.’

‘It’s not in the paperwork. That’s the whole point of snouts. They get their privacy.’

‘You never thought he was lying to you, your contact? That doctor – the one the snout said had done Misty – they dug up his garden but they never found her. There was nothing else to connect the guy to her. So that’s why I thought – maybe the snout was lying, putting you off the track?’

Caffery studied Prody, looking for signs that the guy knew anything – anything at all – about the truth he was scraping near. There was no informer. Never had been. And the digging in the garden was just another of the ways Caffery had got the force to chase its own tail over the Kitson case. He might never quite understand why he’d done it for Flea. If it wasn’t for the way she froze something in him every time he saw her, if she’d been a guy, if she’d been Prody, say, or Turner, with what he knew he’d probably have turned them over in a blink. ‘It wasn’t my finest hour,’ he told Prody steadily. ‘If I had it over again I’d do things differently. But I can’t, and the force has run out of resources and come to the end of too many avenues, and like I said yesterday I’d appreciate your energy going on what’s happened to Martha Bradley and what that bastard has done to her. So . . .’ he held up his hand, inclined his head pleasantly ‘. . . the CCTV footage?’

This time Prody got it. He gave a grim smile. ‘Yeah. Fair enough. I’m on it.’

When the door was closed Caffery dropped back into the chair and stared blankly at the ceiling for a long time. The guy was turning out to be a prick. Wasting time. It was at least seventy hours since Martha had gone. The magic twenty-four had long been burned up and the next step, if he was truthful, was speaking to the Met and getting them to bring their specialist dead-body dogs up the M4. It was Caffery’s job to trim the fat from any job, but he couldn’t lose Prody: it’d take too long to bring someone else up to speed and, anyway, there was a tiny problem about what Prody’s side of the story might be if he did turn him over to another investigation. The Kitson case would get mentioned, no doubt about it. So he’d have to bite on it for the time being. And watch Prody. Keep him focused.

Caffery’s mobile was ringing. He pulled it out of his pocket. ‘Flea Marley’, the display said. He went to the door and checked in the corridor that no one was about to come into his office. She made him secretive like this. When he was sure he was alone he went back to his desk. Myrtle followed him with her eyes as he answered.

‘Yeah,’ he said sharply. ‘What?’

There was a pause. ‘Sorry. Is this a bad time?’

He breathed out, leaned back in his chair. ‘No. It’s a – a good time.’

‘I’m at the Thames and Severn canal.’

‘Really? How nice. I’ve never heard of it.’

‘You won’t have. It’s been decommissioned for years. Listen, I want to speak to the CSM, but he won’t take calls from a support-unit sergeant at this time of night. Will you speak to him?’

‘If you tell me why.’

‘Because I know what the jacker used to gouge out those footprints. A mooring spike. From a barge. I’ve got one in my hand now – there are probably hundreds all over this place. Dead barges everywhere. And it’s only a mile from where the Yaris left the tracks.’

‘We didn’t search it yesterday?’

‘No. It runs just outside the POLSA’s parameters. What do you think? Will you get him to look at it?’

Caffery drummed his fingers on the desk. He’d never been easy taking advice from departments outside the unit. It could scramble your head, make you chase too many rabbits. And Flea was acting all of a sudden as though this was her unit’s case. Maybe using it to find ways of polishing her reputation. And her unit’s.

But a mooring spike? Fitting the cast? ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Leave it with me.’

He put down the phone and sat staring at it. The dog tapped her tail lightly. As if she knew what it did to him to have any sort of conversation with Flea Marley.

‘Yeah,’ he said bad-temperedly. He reached over for the contacts list for the CSM. ‘I can live without the look. Thank you very much.’