Gone

51

Blue lights flashed across the walls of the houses in the narrow street, sirens wailed mournfully in the distance: ambulances with Janice and her mother nosing their way out into the morning traffic. About fifty people from the neighbourhood were standing in the street at the outer cordon, trying to see what was happening at the nondescript building where the police were gathered.

Everyone on the front lawn was white-faced – silent and serious. No one could quite believe it had happened: that Emily had been snatched from under their noses. The force had been put on its hind legs. Rumour had it that the chief constable himself was on his way down to witness at first hand the staggering cockup they’d made. Press calls were coming thick and fast and the person at the centre of the storm was DC Paul Prody.

He sat on a small picnic bench placed incongruously on the diseased patch of grass at the front of the house. He had accepted someone’s offer of a T-shirt so he no longer smelt of puke – his own shirt was in a knotted carrier bag at his feet – but he’d refused to let the paramedics touch him. He couldn’t keep his balance. He had to sit with his arm on the table, concentrating on a point on the floor. Every now and then his body would weave a little and someone would have to prop him up.

‘They think it was a kind of chloroform, made from bleach and acetone, maybe.’ Caffery had given in again to the call of tobacco. He sat on the other side of the bench, smoking a tightly rolled cigarette and watching Prody through narrowed eyes. ‘Knock-out gas. Old-fashioned. If you were hit hard enough it’ll get your liver. That’s why you should be in hospital. Even if you think you’re OK.’

Prody shook his head jerkily and even that small movement looked as if it might unbalance him. ‘Fuck off.’ He spoke as if he had a bad cold. ‘You think Janice’ll want me in the same hospital?’

‘A different one, then.’

‘No fucking way. I’m just going to sit here. And breathe.’

He made a show of pulling air into his lungs. In, out, in, out. Painful. Caffery watched in silence. Prody had spent the night with Janice Costello, a vulnerable person, which had pissed Caffery off almost as much as the stuff about the Kitson case. If the circumstances had been any different he might have enjoyed seeing Prody fuck up like this, but he couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for him at the balls-up he’d made. He understood why the guy wouldn’t want to be in the same hospital as Janice and her mother. Not after he’d failed to stop Emily being taken.

‘I’m going to be OK. Give me ten and I’ll be ready to go.’ He looked up with bloodshot eyes. ‘They said you know where he is.’

‘We’re not sure. We’ve got a lock-up in Tarlton, near the canal. They’ve searched it.’

‘Any sign?’

‘Not yet. They’ve pulled back. Maybe he’s going to head up there now with Emily. But . . .’ He narrowed his eyes and looked down the street to where the houses dwindled into the distance. ‘No. He won’t do that, of course. That would be too easy.’

‘You know he took my phone?’

‘Yep. It’s switched off but we’ve already got a ping site analysis started. If he switches it on we can get a triangulation on it. But, like I said, he’s too clever. If he switches it on there’ll be a reason.’

Prody shivered. Head still lowered, he glanced darkly up the road, then the other way. It was a cold but sunny day. The people who were going to work had already left. The mothers who’d dropped their kids at school were now at home, cars parked neatly on driveways. Instead of going inside they’d wandered over to the cordon to stand, arms crossed, staring at the police vans and the ambulances. Their eyes were like nails, pinning Caffery and Prody where they sat. Wanting answers.

‘I never even saw it coming. Don’t remember a thing. I cocked up.’

‘Tell me about it. You cocked up big-time. But not because you didn’t stop this arsehole. Not for that.’ Caffery pinched the end of the cigarette so the ash fell into a paper handkerchief Nick had given him. He folded it, pressing hard to kill the heat and put it, with the butt, into his inside pocket. No one was in the flat. They’d searched it thoroughly for Emily – even the loft – and the moment they were sure she wasn’t there they’d cordoned it, leaving the scene as pristine as it could be for the crime-scene boys who still hadn’t arrived. When they did come he wasn’t going to ruffle their feathers by dropping butts all over the place. ‘No. Your headline balls-up was being there in the first place. You’re a DC on this case. You shouldn’t have been there in the evening after hours. How the hell did that happen?’

‘I came over in the afternoon, like you asked me. She was . . .’ He waved a weak hand. ‘She was – you know. So I stayed on.’

‘She was what? Attractive? Available?’

‘On her own. He’d fucked off to work.’

‘Nice language.’

Prody stared at him as if there was something he’d like to say but couldn’t. ‘He’d gone to work when his wife and daughter were in the middle of this whole thing – left them on their own. Scared. What would you’ve done?’

‘In the Met I had this drummed into me in training. You take advantage of a woman like that – someone who’s already a victim – and it’s hunting wounded animals. Hunting wounded animals.’

‘I didn’t take advantage, I took pity. I didn’t sleep with her. I stayed because I thought it’d save you some staffing budget, and because she said she’d feel safer with me there.’ He shook his head ironically. ‘Lucky I never let her down, isn’t it?’

Caffery sighed. Everything about this case had the dank, fetid smell of defeat about it. ‘Take me through it again. Costello goes out in the afternoon? To work?’

‘One of the squad cars took him. Nick organized it.’

‘And he never comes home?’

‘Yeah – he did. For about ten minutes. It was about nine at night. Boozed up, I think. And the moment he’s through the door he lays into her.’

‘Why?’

‘Because—’ Prody broke off.

‘Because what?’

His face tightened a fraction. He seemed to be about to say something – something bitter. But he didn’t. After a moment or two he got his face flattened down again. ‘Dunno. Some domestic stuff, none of my business. They’re both upstairs and the next thing I know she’s screaming at him and he comes running down the stairs swearing and he’s off. Slams the door. She comes leaping after him and runs all the chains on the door. I’m, like, “Mrs Costello, I really wouldn’t, you’ll antagonize him,” and she’s just, “I couldn’t give a toss.” Sure enough he comes back half an hour later, finds the chains on and starts yelling abuse up the stairs and rattling the door.’

‘What did you do?’

‘She asked me to ignore it so I did.’

‘But eventually he goes? Leaves you be?’

‘Eventually. I think he . . . Let’s put it this way, I think he has somewhere else he can spend the night.’

Caffery pulled out the wrapped-up napkin from his pocket. Inspected the remains of the cigarette. He folded it again and put it back into his pocket. ‘We found you in the kitchen.’

‘Yeah.’ He looked up at the open window. ‘I remember going in. I’d made some cocoa for us all and I took the cups in to wash them up. I remember that far.’

‘What time?’

‘Christ knows. Maybe ten o’clock? Emily had woken up with all the noise.’

‘The window was forced. There’re marks in the grass. A ladder.’ He nodded to where the entry team had rigged up some police tape tied to three temporary barriers that cordoned off an area. ‘Less visible round the side. He would have taken you first. In the kitchen. No one would have heard in the rest of the—’ He broke off. A police Beemer slowed in the street and stopped at the kerb. Cory Costello got out. His overcoat was unbuttoned to reveal an expensive suit. He was neat and tidy – shaved and showered. So wherever he’d spent the night it hadn’t been a bench. Nick, who had been sitting in Caffery’s Mondeo making phone calls, instantly jumped out and stopped Cory in his tracks. They spoke for a moment, then Cory glanced around the assembled police officers and onlookers. His eye fell on Caffery and Prody. Neither man moved. They simply sat there and let him look at them. For a while a hush seemed to fall on the entire street. The father who’d lost a daughter. And the two cops who should have done something about it. Cory began to walk towards them.

‘Don’t speak to him.’ Caffery pushed his face close to Prody’s, spoke hard and fast: ‘If there’s anything to be said, let me say it.’

Prody didn’t answer. He kept his eyes locked on Cory, who stopped a few feet away.

Caffery turned. Cory’s face was quite smooth, no wrinkles or creases in his forehead. A small jaw, feminine nose and very clear grey eyes fixed on the side of Prody’s face. ‘Cunt,’ he said quietly.

Caffery sensed Nick, somewhere to his right, getting frantic, panicking about what was going to happen.

‘Cunt. Cunt. Cunt.’ Cory’s face was calm. His voice was almost a whisper. ‘Cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt.’

‘Mr Costello . . .’ Caffery said.

‘Cunt cunt cunt cunt cunt.’

‘Mr Costello. That’s not going to help Emily.’

‘Cunt cunt cunt cunt CUNT.’

‘Mr Costello!’

Cory shuddered. He took half a step back and blinked at Caffery. Then he seemed to remember who and where he was. He straightened his cuffs and turned to look around the street, a polite, reasonable expression on his face, as if he was thinking of buying the house and sizing up the neighbourhood. Then he took off his overcoat and dropped it on the ground. He unwound the scarf he was wearing, dropped that on top of the coat. He stopped to consider the pile, as if he was mildly surprised to see it there. Then, without any warning, he took three steps round the side of the picnic bench and launched himself at Prody.

Caffery had time to leap to his feet before Prody was wrestled off the bench and thrown on his back on the grass. He didn’t resist: he let Cory get on with it and lay there, his arms half raised across his face, allowing the man in the business suit to rain punches on him. Almost patient, as if he accepted this as his punishment. Caffery dodged round the picnic bench and got to Cory, grasped the backs of his arms as Wellard and another officer came steaming across the lawn.

‘Mr Costello!’ Caffery yelled into the back of the guy’s head – into his perfect haircut. The two other officers grappled for his hands. ‘Cory, let him go now. You have to let him go or we’ll have to cuff you.’

Cory managed to land two more punches in Prody’s ribs, before the support-group guys got his arms behind his back and pulled him away. Wellard rolled Cory away across the ground, gripping him from behind, lying on his side, spooning him with his face pressed against the back of his neck. Prody managed to get to his hands and knees and crawl a few paces away. He stopped there, panting.

‘You didn’t deserve that.’ Caffery squatted next to Prody, got him by the shirt and pulled him upright so he rocked back on his heels. His face was slack, his mouth bleeding. ‘You really didn’t deserve that. But you still shouldn’t have been there.’

‘I know.’ He wiped his forehead. Blood was trickling down from his scalp where Cory had managed to pull out a clump of hair. He looked as if he might start crying. ‘I feel like shit.’

‘Listen – and listen carefully. I want you to go to that nice young paramedic over there and tell her you want to go to hospital, get checked over and patched up – you hear? And then I want you to discharge yourself and call me. Tell me you’re OK.’

‘And you?’

‘Me?’ Caffery straightened up. Brushed off his jacket, the knees of his trousers. ‘S’pose I’ll have to go and have a sniff around this bloody lock-up. Not that we’ll find him there. Like I said.’

‘Too clever?’

‘Exactly. Too effing clever.’