Gone

47

‘My colleagues are having a look around your place. You’ve seen the warrant, it’s all kosher. You can stay here as long as you don’t try to obstruct the search.’

It was just before seven in the morning and Caffery was back in the Moons’ damp little flat. There were the remains of a fried breakfast on the table, ketchup and Daddie’s sauce bottles, with two smeared plates. Dirty pans were piled in the sink in the kitchen. Outside it was still dark. Not that they could see out: the little paraffin heater in the corner had steamed up the windows and condensation ran in wriggling rivulets down the glass. The two men, father and son, sat on the sofa. Richard Moon wore a pair of joggers that had been split at the ankle cuffs to allow his enormous calves to fit through and a navy T-shirt, with the word ‘VISIONARY’ on the chest and sweat-stains under the arms. He was staring fixedly at Caffery, sweat beading on his upper lip.

‘Odd, isn’t it,’ Caffery sat at the table, regarding him carefully, ‘that you never mentioned your brother yesterday?’ He leaned forward, holding out the photo ID Ted Moon had used to get in and out of MCIU’s offices. ‘Ted. Why didn’t you mention him? Seems odd to me.’

Richard Moon glanced at his father, who raised his eyebrows warningly. Richard lowered his eyes.

‘I said, it seems odd, Richard.’

‘No comment,’ he muttered.

‘No comment? Is that an answer?’

Richard’s eyes shifted around, as if there were lies in the air and they needed a place to hide. ‘No comment.’

‘What is this no-comment shit? Have you been watching The Bill? You’re not under arrest, you know. I’m not recording this, you haven’t got a brief, and the only thing you’ll achieve with your no-comments is to royally piss me off. And then I might change my mind and decide you are under arrest. Now, why didn’t you tell us about your brother?’

‘No comment,’ said Peter Moon. His eyes were cold and hard.

‘You didn’t think it was relevant?’ He pulled out the sheet Turner had printed from the Guardian’s database. The CPS were going to pull their files to fill in the details but the stark facts on this printout were quite enough to tell Caffery what they were dealing with. Moon had killed thirteen-year-old Sharon Macy. He’d concealed the body somewhere – it had never been found – but he’d been convicted anyway on the DNA evidence. According to the intelligence there hadn’t been any problem with that because Sharon’s blood had been all over Ted Moon’s clothes and bedding. The bedroom floor had been so deep in blood it had soaked through the boards in some places. The stains on the ceiling in the room below had still been spreading when the team arrived to arrest him. He’d done ten years for it until, a year ago, the home secretary had agreed with what the RMO, the responsible medical officer, had said: that Moon was no longer a danger to himself or to others. He had been released from Broadmoor on a conditional discharge.

‘Your brother did that.’ Caffery pushed the database printout in front of Richard Moon’s face. ‘What sort of bitter pig kills a thirteen-year-old girl? Do you know what the coroner said at the time? That her head would have had to have half come off to make that much blood. Don’t know about you but it makes me queasy just thinking about it.’

‘No comment.’

‘Here’s the deal. You tell me now where he is and we can talk about you bypassing an obstruction charge for not mentioning it earlier.’

‘No comment.’

‘Do you know how long you can get banged up for obstruction? Eh? Six months. How much of that time do you think you’d last, fat boy? Especially when they hear you were protecting a nonce. Now, where is he?’

‘I don’t—’

‘Richard!’ His father silenced him. He put a finger to his lips.

Richard Moon looked at him for a moment, then dropped his head back. Sweat was running down into the neck of his T-shirt. ‘No comment,’ he muttered. ‘No comment.’

‘Boss?’

They turned.

Turner was standing in the doorway holding a bulky envelope wrapped in a freezer bag. ‘This was in the lavvy cistern.’

‘Open it, then.’

Turner unzipped it, poked around dubiously. ‘Papers. Mostly.’

‘What are those doing in your cistern, Mr Moon? Seems a strange place to keep your filing.’

‘No comment.’

‘Jesus. Turner, give me that. Have you got any gloves?’ Turner put the envelope on the table and got a spare pair from his pocket. Caffery pulled them on and shook out the contents of the envelope. It consisted mostly of bills, the name Edward Moon popping up over and over again. ‘And . . . ah – what’s this?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘It looks fascinating.’ Using his thumb and forefinger he pulled out a passport. Flipped it open. ‘The missing passport. As I live and breathe. What are the chances of that? Some arsehole breaks in here, steals all your stuff, comes back years later and leaves it in the bog. I love happy endings.’

The Moons stared back at him dully. Peter Moon had gone a deep, almost bluish red. Caffery couldn’t tell if it was anger or fear. He threw the passport on to the table with the bills. ‘Did you let your brother use this to get him through that CRB sweep? You’re clean but he’s dirty. Particularly dirty, if you ask me.’

‘No comment.’

‘You’re going to have to make a comment eventually. Or start praying your pad-mate hasn’t got AIDS, fat boy.’

‘Don’t call him that.’

‘Ah.’ Caffery turned to the father. ‘You going to speak to me now, are you?’

There was a pause. Peter Moon closed his lips and moved them up and down as if he was fighting the words. His face was like a red fist.

‘Well?’ Caffery put his head politely on one side. ‘Are you going to tell me where your son is?’

‘No comment.’

Caffery slammed his hands on the table. ‘Right – that does it. Turner?’ He raised his chin at the two men sitting on the sofa. ‘Take them in. I’ve had enough of this. You can come in and do the real thing, Mr Moon. You can have your own brief, give him the no-comment treatment and then we’ll see about whether . . .’ He trailed off.

‘Boss?’ Turner, who had pulled out his quickcuffs, was waiting for Caffery to give him instructions. ‘Where are we taking them? Local shop?’

Caffery didn’t answer. He was transfixed by one of the bills.

‘Boss?’

Caffery raised his eyes slowly. ‘We need to speak to Ops,’ he murmured. ‘I think this might be something.’

Turner came to him. Studied the piece of paper Caffery was holding. He let out a low whistle. ‘Christ.’

‘Christ indeed.’ It was a commercial property-leasing statement. It showed that for at least the last eleven years Ted Moon had been renting a lock-up garage in Gloucestershire. It had a secure steel roller door and a hundred square metres of storage. It was all there in the spec. And the address was in Tarlton, Gloucestershire.

Just half a mile from the Sapperton tunnel.