Gone

54

On the way back to his car Caffery palmed two paracetamol into his mouth, washing them down with scalding coffee from a support-group officer’s Thermos. He ached everywhere. He had a list of calls to make as he drove the twenty-five miles to the Bradleys’ safe-house, Myrtle lying sleepily on the back seat. House-keeping calls: his superintendent, the Silver commander of the support groups at HQ, the press office. He put in a call to the office and found that Prody had discharged himself from the hospital already, had been debriefed and was back in the incident room, champing at the bit to do something to make up for last night. Caffery told him to find out from Acting Sergeant Wellard whether Flea had turned up anywhere.

‘If she hasn’t . . .’ He pulled up outside the safe-house at HQ. It looked fairly normal. Curtains open. One or two lights on. A dog was yapping inside. ‘. . . speak to the neighbours, find out who her friends are. She’s got some weird shit-for-brains brother somewhere – speak to him. Find yourself a chuck-away phone or one from the unit and text me your number. And call me when you know something.’

‘Yup, OK,’ Prody said. ‘I’ve got a couple of theories already.’

It was the FLO who opened the door and he could tell right away, just from her face, that things were even worse than when she’d made the phone call. She didn’t give him her sarcastic, appraising raised eyebrows. She didn’t even comment on his filthy suit. She just shook her head.

‘What? What’s up?’

She stepped back in against the wall, opening the door wide so he could see along the hallway. Rose Bradley was sitting on the stairs in a pink housecoat and slippers. Her arms were tucked into her stomach, her head drooping. A thin, mewling sound was coming from her mouth. Philippa and Jonathan stood in the living-room doorway watching her helplessly, their faces like stone. Philippa held Sophie by the collar. The spaniel had stopped barking but was eyeing Caffery suspiciously, her hindquarters twitching.

‘She got the phone,’ the FLO murmured. ‘She’s like a bloodhound when it comes to the damned thing. She managed to get it off me.’

Rose rocked back and forth. ‘Don’t make me give it to you. You’re not going to see it. It’s my phone.’

Caffery took off his coat and dropped it on to a chair next to the door. The hallway was hot and slightly damp. The walls were covered with blue-swirled anaglypta wallpaper. This was supposed to be accommodation for visiting police chiefs but it was awful. Truly awful. ‘Has she opened it?’

‘No! No, I haven’t.’ She rocked harder, her forehead on her knees, tears soaking into the housecoat. ‘I haven’t opened it. But it’s going to be a picture of her, isn’t it? It’s going to be a picture of her.’

‘Please.’ Jonathan had his finger against his temple. He looked as if he might fall over at any moment. ‘You don’t know that. We don’t know what it is.’

Caffery stood on the staircase two steps down from Rose and looked up at her. She hadn’t washed her hair and an unpleasant, spicy odour was coming from her. ‘Rose?’ He held out a hand. Either for her to put her own hand into, or the phone. ‘You know that whatever it is, whatever is on the photograph, it could help us find her.’

‘You saw that letter. You know what he said he was going to do to her. It was terrible what he said he’d do. I know because if it hadn’t been awful you would have let me see it. What if he’s done one of the things he said he’d do and what if this is a photograph of it?’ Her voice rose. It was tight and sore, as if the vocal cords were chafing against each other from constant grief. ‘What if that’s what the photograph is? What if that’s what it is?’

‘We won’t know until we’ve had a look. Now, you’ve got to give me the phone.’

‘Not unless I can see what’s on it. You’re not hiding anything else from me. You can’t.’

Caffery glanced at the FLO, who was standing with her back to the door, her arms folded. When she saw his face, realized what he was going to do, she raised her hands resignedly, as if to say, It’s your funeral.

‘Philippa,’ he said, ‘you’ve got a laptop, haven’t you? Have you got a USB for the phone?’

‘No. It’s Bluetooth.’

‘Then, get it.’

She hesitated, moving her lips as if her mouth had dried. ‘We’re not going to look at it, are we?’

‘Your mother won’t give me the phone otherwise.’ He kept his face still, expressionless. ‘We have to respect her wishes.’

‘Oh, Jesus.’ She shuddered. She pulled Sophie into the living room. ‘Jesus.’

They sat at the dining table and waited while Philippa assembled the laptop. Her hands were shaking. Jonathan had gone into the kitchen and was banging around, probably doing more washing-up. He was having none of this. Only Rose wasn’t trembling. An icy calm had come over her and she was sitting at the table, quite steady, staring into the middle distance. When the laptop was assembled she unfolded her arms and placed the phone in the centre of the table. For a moment everyone stared at it in silence.

‘OK,’ Caffery said. ‘I can take it from here.’

Philippa nodded and turned away. She threw herself on to the sofa and sat with her knees drawn up, a cushion pressed to her face, her eyes above it wide, as if she was watching the most appalling movie and couldn’t quite drag them away.

‘Are you sure, Rose?’

‘Quite sure.’

He established the Bluetooth pairing and transferred the jpeg across. Martha, the love of my life.jpg Everyone sat with their eyes glued to the screen as the photo slowly downloaded, from the bottom up, the picture filling itself in line by line. At first it showed a blue carpet. Then the divan drawer of a child’s bed came into view.

‘Her bed,’ Rose said matter-of-factly. ‘Martha’s. He’s taken a picture of her bed. The stickers on the base. We had an argument about them. I—’ She broke off. Her hand went to her mouth as the rest of the photograph filled in.

‘What?’ Philippa said from the sofa. ‘Mum? What is it?’

No one answered. No one breathed. They all inched a little closer to the screen. The picture showed Martha’s bed: white, covered with stickers, pink bed linen. On the wallpaper behind it there was a border, ballerinas pirouetting along it. But no one was looking at the walls, or the bedcovers: they were looking at what was on the bed. Or, rather, who was on the bed.

A man in jeans and a T-shirt, his muscles clearly defined. His hands were gripping his crotch. His face and neck were covered with a full-bearded Santa Claus mask. Caffery didn’t need to see under the mask to know what Moon’s face would be like. Underneath it he’d be grinning.