Poppet

Eat Me Cake

CAFFERY LEANS BACK against the inside of the tree, in a half-sitting position, his back supported, his head contorted like Alice after the EAT ME cake. He shines the torch on the sleeping bag, thinking about what it would be like, sleeping out here. Sheltered from the wind, at least. Isaac Handel knew this area as a child – he must have, it’s so close to Upton Farm. But Caffery’s not sure what it means, that he’s gravitated back here. Is it only because it’s familiar? Or is there another reason? Some unfinished business?

The pliers and the wire and the other things Handel bought at Wickes aren’t here. Maybe they’re elsewhere in the woods. Caffery starts to manoeuvre himself backwards out of the cave, ticking off in his head the searches and permissions he’s going to need. Surveillance. The superintendent should OK the surveillance spend, but he can’t picture anyone in the Force Targeting Team relishing the prospect of staking out this place. They have a limited overtime allowance and they’re not going to waste it. They want a nice warm car to sit in. Not bird watchers’ gear, sou’westers and peeing in a bottle.

Something dangles near Caffery’s face. He freezes, half bent over. His eyes rotate slowly, and he lifts the torch, partly as a weapon. The object is inches away from his eyes – so close it takes a moment to focus. It’s the crudely stitched face of a doll. It must have been wedged between the roots overhead and Caffery has dislodged it. It hangs from its legs, upside down, swinging with the momentum of its drop.

It bears all the hallmarks of one of Isaac’s poppets. The mix of textures – in this case a butterscotch-coloured fake leather for the skin, highly polished porcelain for the face, and a strange little dress made from a scrap of white lace. Caffery doesn’t touch it. He scrambles his glasses out from the pocket of his North Face, crams them on his face and cants his head round so he can study it in the torchlight.

Yes, it’s similar to the others. But there’s more. This one is different, nastier. It’s a female with long yellow strands of wool, like blonde hair, that sway as she rocks to and fro upside down. Her hair is free, but nothing else is. She is gagged with a narrow strip of duct tape and her arms are folded across her chest, stitched there. As if to secure her arms further the wrists have been bound with a delicate silver chain wrapped tightly around them.

Caffery is now sufficiently conversant with Handel’s style to understand. This means a woman, a flesh-and-blood woman in the real world that Handel has plans for. She has blonde hair and in her wardrobe will be a lace dress or a blouse with a tiny, unnoticed tear in it. Missing from her jewellery box will be a silver bracelet.