Poppet

The Duck

IF IT LOOKS like a duck, swims like a duck and quacks like a duck, then chances are it is … a duck.

One of Caffery’s drill sergeants at police training college in Hendon was fond of this phrase; he’d bark it at the recruits during scenario training. It must have sunk in deep, because it comes back at Caffery now, as he sits in his office, staring at the piles of paper from the Upton Farm investigation.

He’s brought in Handel’s poppets. The superintendent has authorized an interim forensics budget and the CSM is coming up to Caffery’s office to bag and organize the dolls.

Caffery looks at the doll in the blue ticking pyjamas and the one with the red T-shirt. Both laid to rest peacefully, on a cushion of satin, not twisted and hacked into. Yet their eyes are stitched closed. The same way Isaac stitched closed the eyes on the dolls of his parents.

Zelda and Pauline …

If it looks, swims and quacks like a duck …

By late afternoon there will be a full team assembled. Someone is talking to Serious Crime about initiating a manhunt for Handel. The report on Pauline Scott’s disappearance and postmortem have already been circulated around the team. People talk about the cogs of bureaucracy moving slowly, but Avon and Somerset seems to have its wheels especially well oiled just now. All he’s waiting for is AJ to call him with the go-ahead to visit the unit.

That is the big problem. It’s mostly Caffery being decent – out of some unexpected and inexplicable loyalty to the guy. The courtesy, however, can only be extended so far. Once the team is assembled, he’s going to have to pull the plug on AJ and go into Beechway, regardless.

Time for a coffee. He inspects his chipped old cup – empty. He picks it up and stands, pausing briefly to look at the area map on his wall. It’s an unprofessional map because there are places he should have put pins and hasn’t – like the quarry at Elf’s Grotto, the road near Farleigh Park Hall. Nevertheless, it’s an aid to him. Sometimes a thought provoker when he needs the inspiration.

He looks at it for a bit longer. Then, not sure what he’s looking for, he clicks on the kettle. While he’s waiting for it to boil, he looks out of the window at a fog bank lifting above the high rises. What are you up to, Handel, he thinks. What is going on in your screwed-up brain?

The kettle boils. Caffery makes his coffee. He’s pouring in a little milk, and is about to spoon in the sugar when something becomes clear to him. He stops what he’s doing and jerks his head up, looking across the room.

The map. The fucking map.

He puts down the spoon, crosses the room, and stands, arms folded, staring at it.

There it is, plain as day. Just below Upton Farm, a tiny annotation, written in the Old English calligraphy beloved of OS maps:

The Wilds.