Poppet

by Mo Hayder

  Someone else involved. Caffery parks the idea in the corner of his head. He’ll come back to it later.

  He stands in the room at the Avonmere Hotel, absorbing it all. It’s just big enough to squeeze in a single bed, a bedside cabinet, chest of drawers and wardrobe. The curtains are thin; the carpet, a hardwearing cord, looks as if it has been cleaned recently. Everything is neat, well ordered: the bed is made, there is no clothing on view except for a pair of slippers. The chest of drawers is piled high with magazines. Caffrey flicks through them: What Hi-Fi, Computing, Computer Weekly, two Maplin catalogues, and one from Screwfix. There is no TV in the room, just an iPod docking station.

  Caffery opens the bedside cabinet and takes out a brown pharmacy bottle. Seroxat – it’s in Handel’s name. He shows it to Hurst and gives it a shake to demonstrate it’s empty.

  Hurst spreads his hands wide. ‘Don’t look at me – speak to the mental-health team.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve got a department like that in the police. The SEP unit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone Else’s Problem.’

  Hurst narrows his eyes. He’s beyond disgruntled now. ‘I don’t get a cop’s salary,’ he says. ‘No early retirement and a pension either – index-linked or otherwise.’

  Caffery puts the pill bottle back in the cabinet. He checks under the bed, pushing his hand up between the slats and the mattress. He runs his fingertips along the top of the curtain rail and then across the empty coat hangers in the wardrobe, making them clatter. He has absolutely no idea what he’s looking for – he doesn’t even know why he’s doing this, except to prove a point to Hurst. How many people like Handel slip through the net, he wonders. In places like this it’s probably a daily occurrence.

  He stops. In the bottom of Handel’s wardrobe is a stack of folded carrier bags. He squats down and presses his hand against them. They’re all from Wickes. A hardware store is not the most reassuring place for someone like Handel to be shopping – particularly in the context of what he did to his parents.

  Caffery pulls the bags out and carefully shakes each one. They are all empty, except for the fifth, which contains a receipt for the iPod dock and the box it came in – now empty.

  ‘Most of our clients spend their allowances on sweets and crisps.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s exactly what they spend it on,’ Caffery says drily. ‘Mind if I keep this?’

  ‘He might want it for the guarantee.’

  Caffery gives him a long look.

  Eventually Hurst shrugs. ‘Be my guest.’

  Fred Astaire

  IT’S SEVEN FIFTEEN. AJ sits on the bench outside the ladies’ locker room, feeling shittier and shittier by the second. He has drunk two cups of coffee from the machine and eaten a Mars bar and now all there is to do is stare at the notices on the board and rub his toe against a piece of chewing gum that clings resolutely to the floor. It’s been forty-five minutes, and although plenty of women have come and gone in that time, giving him surreptitious looks that make him feel like a prize pervert, none of them has been Melanie. Either she can sulk for Britain, or she’s climbed out of the locker-room window.

  He regrets what he said, the way he said it. He’s texted her three apologies, but the signal’s not good down here so there’s no knowing whether they’ve arrived, or if she’s ignoring him. He’s about to fish the phone out and try again when the door opens and Melanie comes out.

  She’s changed into a simple white wool dress and furry suede boots. Her hair is still slightly damp from the shower. She’s got no make-up on and she’s so lovely his heart almost stops.

  ‘Melanie—’ he begins, standing up. But she puts a finger to her lips, shakes her head. She drops her bag and sits on the bench about a foot away from him, studying him intently.

  ‘AJ.’

  ‘Melanie, I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s not for you to say – I’m the one who should be sorry. I did lie. It’s just … sometimes you look at the patients, who’ve sometimes made just one mistake, a mistake they’ve paid for over and over again by being in the unit, having to jump through all the hoops we set them, and you know they deserve a chance to get out and live a normal life. But at the same time there’s one vital piece of the jigsaw missing – a box ticked in the wrong-colour biro or some tiny detail that will make the great bureaucratic engine spit out their application and refuse discharge. Through no fault of their own, the patient will be back to square one, facing the prospect of being run through the spin cycle all over again.’

  AJ rests his hands on his knees and taps out a drumbeat. He doesn’t agree with Melanie that every patient, no matter who, deserves a chance. A lot of the people in the unit have taken away someone else’s right to life; in any other facility they’d be called murderers. Some of them are beyond rehabilitation. Especially the ones whose crimes are as memorable as Isaac Handel’s.

  ‘AJ? Have I said something wrong?’

  ‘No, no. I don’t blame you. Especially not with the amount of pressure the Trust are heaping on you over performance targets.’

  He’s talking about the ‘intractable’ patients, the long-stay patients, the bed blockers. Those that can’t be recycled out into the community because relatives are unwilling to accept the patient back into their lives. Or those who have no desire to leave the unit and start facing up to the responsibilities of the real world, so they throw obstacles in the way of their own discharge. Such patients form a giant plug in the pipes of the system, and in an effort to clear the blockage, the staff at Beechway are bombarded with directives from above reminding them of the need to lower the ALS – the average length of stay. Melanie, most of all, must get hit with it constantly.

  ‘Believe me, we all feel that pressure, Melanie. There isn’t a nurse or therapist in the unit who wouldn’t be tempted to take part in a little off-the-rule-book activity if it meant patients moved faster through the system. And you – well, you must be feeling it harder than any of us.’

  There’s a pause – then Melanie lowers her head. ‘Oh God,’ she says miserably. ‘Honestly, I just looked at Isaac and …’ She laces her fingers into her hair, as if she’s got a headache. ‘Shit – OK, I’m just going to be honest. I thought he hadn’t been any trouble for years and years, he’d completely toed the line – he’d be a good candidate. Fuck.’ She digs her heels back into the grille under the seat. ‘Talk about shooting yourself in the foot. You’re right, AJ – it was Isaac in my garden. Two nights in a row. I couldn’t bring myself to admit it before.’ She gives a long sigh. ‘There – I’ve said it. I suppose this means curtains for our little dalliance. You must hate me now.’

  ‘Hate you? Christ!’ He lets out a short, ironic laugh. ‘Hate you? Jesus, if you only knew …’

  ‘Knew what?’

  ‘Melanie,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Come on, beautiful woman – I am insane about you. I’m like Monster Mother on a lilac day all the time just thinking about you. I’m like Moses when he hears it’s sausages for breakfast. I am like Fred Astaire dancing – I am NUTS. About. You.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I told you – I’m a wimp around you, pathetic.’

  She gives a hopeful little smile. A quick sniff – as if tears had been close. ‘I’m sorry – it’s all driving me mad.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And I’m scared. If that was Isaac in the garden – then why? What does he want?’

  AJ doesn’t answer. A memory flashes up in his brain like a giant billboard – Isaac watching Melanie walk down the corridor.

  ‘There’s always the police,’ he says tentatively.

  ‘We can’t,’ she says wearily. ‘Maybe Isaac will just … you know, vanish into the ether. But whatever – we can’t speak to the police. Can you imagine what would happen to someone in my position if it came out I’d been lying to the tribunal? Lying?’

  AJ colours when she says the word ‘lying’. She has no way of knowing where he’s been today, but
he’s defensive nonetheless. He coughs loudly. Taps his fingers harder on his knees.

  ‘OK, let’s say he doesn’t vanish into the ether. If we can’t go to the police, I’m not about to sit back and let him hound us. I reckon it was him in your garden. Probably the first thing he did when he was discharged was to find out where you live – he’ll have made it his business. Your house is a bad place to be right now. This might sound a bit forward – and please don’t misinterpret me, but …’

  ‘But?’

  He hesitates. He doesn’t know how to say it. And he doesn’t know if it’s the right thing. All he knows is he wants Melanie where he can see her.

  ‘I live – well, I live closer to Upton Farm than you do, but Isaac hasn’t got a clue where I am. So I was thinking … why don’t you come stay at my place for a while? Give it some time for things to settle down, see where everything lands? No – it’s a crazy idea, I know, forget I said it, I was just thinking aloud, but at least check into a hotel somewhere – just to get you away from your—’

  ‘AJ!’

  He stops talking. A smile has broken across her face, revealing her small, perfect teeth.

  ‘AJ, it’s fine. It’s not crazy at all. In fact, it’s a fabulous idea. I’ve been dying to meet Patience.’

  Wickes

  THE DAYS ARE short this far into autumn and it’s pretty much dark when Caffery gets to the shop at the north end of Bristol. CCTV cameras are trained on the entrance, the tills, with three or four more above the aisles. The store is divided into Decoration/Plumbing/Electrical/Tools. At least two of those categories sit uneasily with Caffery. Even without reading the full report he knows that the things Handel did to his parents involved objects purchased from a place like this.

  ‘Manager.’ He flashes his warrant card to the security guy. ‘Please.’

  He is shown to a small office piled with paperwork. Kieran Bolt is small and clean-shaven with eyes reddened through tiredness. He’s getting ready to go home, and doesn’t look pleased to see Caffery. He squints at the receipt for a few seconds. ‘This is for cash. I can’t give you a name from this.’

  ‘I don’t need a name,’ Caffery says. ‘I’ve already got that. I’m interested in what else he bought.’

  ‘What makes you think he bought more?’

  ‘Seven empty carrier bags.’

  Bolt looks at him, startled, then at the receipt again, examining it as if he thinks he must have missed something. ‘Where did you say you were from?’

  ‘Major Crimes Investigation Unit.’ Caffery watches the manager run through the reasons a police officer might be asking questions about purchases at a hardware store. When he finally looks up again, the wariness behind Bolt’s eyes says he’s thinking National Security, terrorist threat.

  ‘We just sell the stuff. We don’t ask people what they’re going to do with it.’

  ‘Nobody’s accusing you of anything. I’m making inquiries, that’s all.’

  The manager is easy to read; he’s anxious, he’s going to bend over backwards to help. ‘I can check the till receipts – if he used a credit card for anything else it should come up. But if he paid cash …’

  ‘That’s OK. We’ll find him on the CCTV.’

  Bolt clasps a hand to his forehead.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘No. No – absolutely no problem. It’s just …’ He checks his watch. ‘No – I’ll make a quick phone call and you’re fine. I can stay with you.’

  Bolt is saying it’s going to take for ever to trawl through the footage. There are eight cameras dotted around the store, they keep twenty-one days’ worth of recordings, at a guess, and they’re open seven till eight, Monday to Saturday – and six hours on Sunday.

  ‘It’s OK,’ Caffery says. ‘You will get home tonight. I promise.’

  Eden Hole

  WHEN AJ AND Melanie get back to the cottage, Stewart is barking like crazy. He doesn’t even seem to recognize AJ when he opens the door, he just sits in the hallway, head back, yapping at them.

  ‘Hey hey! Stewie? What’s up – it’s only me.’ AJ crouches beside him. ‘What’s up, Stewie?’

  Stewart stops barking and sniffs AJ’s hands sullenly, his eyes rolling suspiciously up to Melanie. She regards him warily, holding her bags high out of his reach.

  ‘He’s … he’s lovely,’ she says uncertainly.

  ‘I swear he’s not like this usually.’ AJ gives the dog a scratch behind the ears. He’s panting and his heart is racing under his ribcage. ‘He’s been weird since yesterday. He disappeared for the day and now he’s acting like a nutjob – I don’t get it. What happened, boy?’

  Stewart does a small, agitated circle on the floor. Then, reluctantly, he sits, tongue hanging out. AJ is mystified. ‘I’ll take him out later – run him until he’s too knackered to be neurotic. Come on – come and meet Patience.’

  They carry Melanie’s bags through into the living room. AJ has called ahead and warned his aunt Melanie will be staying. Patience’s only comment was: Tell the poor girl she’ll have to like my cooking. I don’t want any of your mincy little food Nazis in my house. If she wants to live on lettuce and air, she can go live in a warren.

  AJ has noted the way Patience says ‘poor girl’. As if any woman crazy enough to be involved with him must be a truly miserable specimen. Or very slutty and self-obsessed. When Melanie walks through the door in the simple white wool dress, her honey hair falling around her face, Patience’s face falls a mile. This is not what she was expecting. AJ can’t help smirking.

  ‘Well now,’ she says, getting to her feet. ‘Melanie. It’s good to meet you.’

  She shakes Melanie’s hand, letting her eyes go slowly from her feet all the way up to her face and down again. Then she releases her hand, steps back and folds her arms, appraising her, eyebrows raised like question marks. She makes a loud tut in the back of her throat, tosses her head and sashays into the kitchen, hips swinging imperiously.

  ‘God!’ AJ scratches his head, embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. She obviously didn’t expect me to be with someone who’s as … you know … nice as you.’

  ‘Okaaaaa-aaay.’ Melanie drops her hands. She surreptitiously wipes the palm Patience touched against her skirt. ‘That’s fine – I understand.’ She smiles waveringly, glancing around the room. It’s in a state of chaos: Patience’s jam jars on every surface and clutches of wildflowers in milk bottles on the windowsill, the water going brown. She shoots a look at the kitchen, then back at the hallway where Stewart is sitting moodily watching them.

  AJ’s spirit sinks. This isn’t going well – not well at all.

  ‘Melanie, listen – you’re so welcome here. We’re not exactly conventional, I know. Patience takes a bit of getting used to—’

  ‘I heard that,’ Patience hollers from the kitchen. ‘I’ll have to get used to her is what you should be saying.’

  AJ shakes his head, gives a small smile.

  ‘Like I say, you’ll have to get used to my lovely aunt, but we want you to be comfortable. If you need somewhere private – somewhere you can be yourself – you can have Mum’s old room.’ He jabs his finger at the ceiling. ‘There’s a bedroom above here and a bathroom – completely private. And clean – I promise – in spite of what it looks like down here, it is clean up there – I did it myself.’

  ‘I heard that too. Do you want your breakfast or not?’

  ‘Breakfast?’ Melanie whispers. ‘Breakfast?’

  ‘It’s a family tradition – when I come home from work. Don’t panic.’ He jabs a finger at the stairwell that leads to his section. ‘I’ve got the same thing up those stairs – mirror image. Only a wall separating us.’

  Melanie raises her eyes to the ceiling – to the oak beams. ‘Is there a doorway?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So to get to you from there I’ve got to … what? Come down here and go up?’

  ‘Yes. Or you could just throw your chips in and stay with me.’

  The
One They All Avoid

  THE COFFEE IS from a little sachet like a teabag and has grounds floating in it. But it’s dark and strong and exactly what Caffery needs at this time of day. He loads it with sugar and eats four biscuits in the over-bright, fluorescent-lit staffroom at Wickes. Lately he’s been having to remind himself to eat. When he forgets, he’ll catch sight of himself in a window and see a stranger’s face that his inbuilt pigeon-holer immediately categorizes as: Forty something. Stressful job. Not married.

  Bolt, who clearly is married and anxious to get home, has done a till-receipt search but turned up nothing under the name Handel. Now he’s setting up a laptop linked to the CCTV’s external drive. Caffery hangs his jacket on the back of the chair, sets his coffee down, and fishes out his phone. He blows up the photograph of Handel that AJ messaged him earlier and props the phone against the monitor.

  There are fifteen hundred hours of video footage loaded on the drive, but he can narrow those hours down. Handel was released only fifty-four hours ago. The goods must have been purchased between then and last night, when he was last seen at the hostel. That info alone cuts out a huge wad of data. Also the receipt for the iPod dock is time-and-date stamped for five p.m. Tuesday and, though it’s a gamble, Caffery’s willing to bet Handel didn’t come all the way here from the hostel twice. Either he bought the dock and then remembered something and went back into the shop, or vice versa. More likely vice versa, since you don’t ‘forget’ seven carrier bags of hardware.

  He quickly skips to the Tuesday-evening section of the till-camera recording and, sure enough, there is Handel standing in the queue, waiting to be served. Caffery compares it to the photo on the phone. Stained sweatpants and the stripy orange-and-brown sweater AJ talked about. The haircut is seriously random too – a bit like a monk’s. He is staring intently at other customers, making everyone uneasy – standing too close to the woman ahead of him. She steals nervous glances at him over her shoulder.