by Mo Hayder
She stopped just a few feet past the boat, sculling lightly to keep her position, peering into the gloom. Something was down there, about three metres below, nestling between the few plants and tree branches at the bottom of the quarry. The silt whirled, cleared.
Something cold went through her – the way water sometimes flushed through a wetsuit. She thought she knew what she was looking at. She kicked her legs up behind her, and swam slowly down. The object was stuck between two boulders. She trained the Salvo on it. Examined it. ‘Wellard? Do we know if the Lexus family – did they have a—’
She stopped. No. This couldn’t have been thrown free of the car today. It was decomposing – you could tell that from the fine mist of pollutants floating in a miasma around it. It had been in here for longer than a couple of hours.
‘Did they have a what, Sarge?’
‘Nothing. Just give me a moment here.’
She put her hands under it and lifted it, and then, when she saw what it looked like underneath, she knew it hadn’t come here by accident.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Send down a body-bag.’
‘Have you got the target?’
‘No.’ She released the object, letting it fall back. A moment’s nausea came and went. The cloud of decomposing matter swarmed around her. ‘No. But have a word with the CSI guys, will you? Tell them it’s a bit off-message. Tell them I haven’t got the target, but I still want a body-bag down here. Actually, Wellard, make it two.’
17
A long time had elapsed, too long for the carjacker to have survived, but the ambulance and fire crews had turfed out anyway. They loitered half-heartedly on the quarry edge, peering into the water and watching the various police units come in. As the CSI team took videos and the dive team worked, one by one the emergency services gave up the vigil, trundling off to other calls. The last were going as Sergeant Marley was coming out with the body-bags.
Caffery sat in the heavy afternoon light, car window wound down, and watched the men on the pontoon take the bags from her, disentangle her from the umbilical, and throw an aluminium heat blanket over her. They washed her down and helped peel her out of her drysuit. When the CSI team had gone and she was alone – sitting on the tail plate of the unit van, he approached with a cup of coffee he’d finagled out of the fire crew earlier.
Her face was patchy and swollen and her nose was running. She looked at the coffee dully.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Smile now and you’ve got it over and done with. For the whole day.’
She looked him up and down. ‘So they’ve sent MCIU out. I’m glad. Even if he’s not in there I’m glad you’re taking an interest this time. I always knew he was going to do it again, the jacker.’
‘The unit didn’t send me.’ Caffery sat down on the tail plate close to her and handed her the coffee. ‘It’s me. I wanted to speak to you.’
‘Yeah?’ She didn’t sound interested. ‘About what?’
‘Free-diving. Ever heard of it?’
‘Competitive apnoea. I’ve heard of it.’
‘What do you know about it?’
‘I know it’s the fastest way to kill yourself. That or jumping off Clifton Suspension Bridge. It’s a toss-up which is most effective. Why? Been a bit depressed lately?’
‘I heard it’s possible to dive to more than a hundred metres without breathing apparatus. That’s what I’m told.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not getting into this. You forget, in my line of work I do expert witnessing. I’ve faced down enough smarmy defence briefs in my time to know how not to be led.’
‘Well, that’s funny. I didn’t think I was trying to lead you into anything.’
‘Yes, you are. You want me to believe in your Tokoloshe.’ She wiggled her hands at him. ‘Scary monsters in the water.’
‘I just want to know what’s possible. I want to know what the Tanzanian we’ve got in custody is capable of.’
‘Then you need to know the facts. Over a hundred metres is a world record – a world record – for someone in absolute peak physical condition, using fins, a rope, weighted sleds, a team of helpers, pure oxygen inhalation. The whole nine yards. Your average Joe just can’t leap in and do it – he’d be lucky, extremely lucky, to manage ten. So if you’re suggesting anyone could have just dived to fifty metres without—’
‘I didn’t say fifty. I said a hundred. That’s what the record is. Why did you think I said fifty?’
‘Hundred, then. To go a hundred metres without fins, without swallowing cylinders of oxygen before, then I’m saying get real. Do you know how the professionals manage it?’
‘No.’
‘They trick their brains.’ She tapped the side of her head. ‘They override the part of the brain that reminds them to breathe. You ever see one of those guys come up from a dive? Trust me, it’s not funny. They’re basically dead. They need to be slapped around to make them breathe again.’
‘And if they were wearing clothes?’
‘Clothes?’
‘Yes. Or something strapped to them. Plastic or rubber or something. Prosthetics.’
‘Anything like that would make it harder. There’s no way anyone who wasn’t a world-class professional could dive to a hundred metres.’
Caffery was quiet for a while. There were red marks on her face from the mask and her eyes were bloodshot. But it was more. More than just the tiredness of diving. ‘You’re upset. I’ve upset you.’
She breathed out. ‘Not you.’
‘Then what?’
‘It’s nothing. Seriously. It’s . . .’ She looked at the still water reflecting back the lowering sky. There was a long silence. Then she rubbed her arms as if she was cold. ‘It’s just what I found in the quarry. Shook me up a bit. That’s all.’
‘Something shook you up? I thought you were cast iron. Why’s today any different?’
‘Dunno. Just wasn’t expecting an animal.’
‘An animal?’
‘This jacker character’s not in there. Christ knows what the witness saw or thought he saw or where the Lexus is because the damned quarry’s empty. But there was a dog. The CSI’ve got it.’
Caffery looked up at the trees, their new growth dull and unreflective on this leaden morning. That morning Hinton, the vehicle-recovery company, had made a pissy phone call to DS Turnbull. When they’d turned up at quarry number eight there’d been no scooter, red or otherwise. Quarry number eight was beyond those trees. And the lay-by Lucy Mahoney had parked in was only a mile past that. She’d had her dog with her. ‘There wasn’t a collar, was there?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘What kind of dog was it? Could it have been a spaniel?’
‘Maybe. It was about the right size. But it’s difficult to say after what’s been done to it. It’s been in there a few days. It would have been another week or so before it floated. You know – enough gases build up and the whole thing just lifts off the floor. Even with what’d been done to it, the stomach membranes were holding in the gasses. The whole thing would have come up eventually. In spite of how messed around it is.’
‘Messed around?’
‘Messed around with. A rat would swim out to eat it if it was floating. But not down to that depth. There’s no other wildlife down there could have done it. Some newts, maybe. Nothing else.’
‘What’re you saying?’
‘I’ve seen quite a few dead dogs kicking around in this job and usually I leave them – you can’t bring them all to the surface unless there’s, you know, some sort of evidential gain. But then there are one or two you think, Now that isn’t right.’ She nodded to where the team were assembling the equipment. ‘Did you see what they put the dog in?’
‘How they put it in two bags?’
‘One for the body.’
‘And one?’
‘For the skin. Whoever dumped it here . . .’ She gazed across the water at the lonely quarry. ‘Whatever bastard dumped it here, he made sure he’d skinned t
he poor sod first.’
18
Flea did the paperwork for the dive, packed away the equipment and pulled on a fleece. She checked her phone – nothing from Thom. She helped the boys secure the dive truck, patted it on the back and watched it trundle away through the mud. It was mid-afternoon and the clouds over the quarry were moving now. In the lane the marked traffic BMW was still parked – the cop inside was having coffee out of a Thermos. About twenty feet on the slope above it, Jack Caffery was outlined against the clouds. He seemed to be looking out across the quarry as if he was concentrating on something in the sky.
‘You done?’ he said, when he saw her scrambling up the slope towards him. ‘Bit warmer now?’
‘Here.’ She handed him a business card. ‘It’s the CSI’s number. For the dog. They’re taking it to a vet’s to have it scanned, see if there’s a chip. Still want it?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’
‘Jack. I’ve been meaning to—’
‘Yes?’
She hesitated. She still hadn’t quite worked him out. Still hadn’t decided which side of the line he was on. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you. About the Kitson case.’
‘The Kitson case?’ He frowned. She knew it wasn’t what he’d been expecting. ‘What about it?’
‘Just polite interest. Y’know – I was thinking about the bollocking Pearce gave me. Sounded like maybe I should have been paying more attention.’
‘Pearce? The combed-over old twonk?’
She half smiled and rubbed her nose. ‘It’s just I get accused of being unprofessional and it starts to –’ she made a gesture with her shoulders ‘– make you uncomfortable. That sort of thing.’
‘I can’t see how you’ve done anything wrong. Your team searched a lake. You didn’t think you’d find her but you still searched the lake. It’s not your fault she’s gone alien-abduction style.’
A few drops of rain fell and Flea zipped up her fleece. The cop in the traffic car opened the door and tipped the remains of the coffee from the Thermos cup on to the ground.
‘You haven’t a clue, then. No idea where she went?’
‘Ha.’ He put his hands into his pockets. Looked at the clouds. ‘Nothing. And sorry to sound cynical but the truth is I don’t give a stuff what happened to her. She’ll probably turn up in some Soho studio coked out of her gourd. Or in a beach hut in Antigua.’
Below them in the lane the traffic cop got out of the car, stood and brushed crumbs off his trousers. Flea watched him suck in his stomach and tuck his shirt into his trousers. ‘That’s not the official line, is it? That you don’t think she’s dead.’
‘I don’t think anything. Never have done. I’m not working her case.’
She was following the cop carefully now. There was something about his appearance, the top of his head, the widow’s peak in his tightly shaved hair. Then she got it. It was PC Prody. The traffic cop who’d followed Thom home and breathalysed her. He began to climb the slope towards them. Came four, maybe five, steps. It was enough.
‘’Scuse me,’ she muttered. ‘Something I forgot to do.’
She pulled out her car keys and slithered down the slope away from him. She got into the Clio, slammed the door and was reaching for the ignition when Caffery caught up with her. He put his head in through the open window. ‘You didn’t answer my calls.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘I called three times.’
‘I know.’ She fumbled with the keys. Her fingers were trembling. ‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Too busy to acknowledge a phone call?’
‘Yes.’
‘I only wanted to ask you something.’
‘I told you, I’ve been busy.’
‘Hey!’ He leant through the window suddenly. ‘Hey. What’s the matter with you? What the hell is wrong?’
She stopped fumbling with the keys and looked over at Prody. He’d stopped halfway up the slope and was staring at her, puzzled. She rested her hands on the steering-wheel and fixed her eyes on a point in the windscreen. Took five deep breaths. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on my mind.’
There was a pause, then Caffery sighed and pulled back a bit, resting one elbow on the door, running his hand through his hair as if he was tired. ‘Christ. Me too. I’m sorry.’
‘Truce?’
‘Truce.’
He smiled. He looked at the car, at the wheels, the back seats, the upholstery, casually, as if he was thinking of buying it. ‘New car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very nice. Smells new.’
Twin lines of sweat broke under her arms and ran down her sides. ‘Smells new?’
‘Yes. What happened to the old one?’
‘The old one?’ On the slope Prody had his hand up, smiling uncertainly. As if to say ‘Hi. No bad feelings, eh?’ The lines of sweat on her back converged and thickened into one. ‘I’m thinking of selling it.’
‘Shame. A good car, the Focus, so they tell me. More Focuses in the UK than sheep. Or something like that. Not that I know much about cars.’
A couple of drops of rain fell and Prody took a step forward. She turned the keys and put the gear lever into reverse. Caffery held on to the door as if he might be able to stop her leaving. ‘When you’re ready to talk, you know where I am.’
‘When I’m ready.’ She glanced again at Prody, released the handbrake and reversed out of the space. She was going so fast that Caffery had to take a step back to avoid getting his feet run over.
19
He watched the Clio spin its wheels. It churned up mud as it climbed out along the coned-off lane and disappeared. When it had gone he walked back up the slope.
The traffic cop was standing a few yards away, hands open, a bewildered expression on his face. ‘Maybe she didn’t like us watching.’ He looked at the assembled cars and vans and shrugged, as if he was thinking that every other bugger in the force had pulled in for a gawp, and why did he get singled out? ‘I’m sorry – I heard the call come in and I was just passing. I didn’t realize she . . .’ He trailed off, dropping his hands, the air gone out of him. ‘I thought we were OK. In all honesty I didn’t think there was any resentment there.’
‘Resentment?’
‘No. No – not that kind. We don’t know each other. Not really.’
‘Then what?’
‘It was stupid. I nicked her. The other night – Monday.’
‘For?’
‘Speeding.’
Caffery almost whistled. He liked this, the idea of Sergeant Marley breaking the law. Suited her somehow.
‘It was midnight. I was on duty over near Frome – not usually my patch, but I’ve had this call to a drunk and when I get there someone else’s taken it. So I’m on my way back to Almondsbury when this car goes past – not that one, a Ford.’
‘A Focus.’
‘Yeah.’ He gave Caffery a slow look. ‘Yeah. Silver. It’s swerving all over the place, trying to take half the tarmac with it. So off I go, blues ’n’ twos, tonking down the road, and anyway the car just takes off with me hanging on its tail. You can imagine, can’t you, me calling in its plate, thinking I’m on a TWOC chase and giving it that round these corners? And by the time I’ve got the name back and recognized it’s her, she’s pulled off the road and is in her house. I knock and she comes to the door with some lame excuse about how she wanted a piss or something.’
‘The old bladder defence.’
‘The bladder defence. Course, that’s where I went wrong. Should’ve left it, shouldn’t I? But she’d got me. Wound me up big-time. So I nailed her all the way I could. Breathalysed her.’
‘You didn’t?’
‘Did. And, fair enough, she was stone cold. So I closed the record after that. But, y’know . . .’ The cop paused, scratched his head ‘. . . obviously she doesn’t want an apology off me.’
Caffery looked back at the place where the Clio had disappeared. ‘Which day did you say it was?’
‘This Monday j
ust gone.’
Monday, Caffery thought. That happened to be the night Misty Kitson had gone walkabout from the clinic. It also happened to be the night before he and Flea had arrested the little Tanzanian and his sick-minded boss. She’d been fine that day considering the circumstances. Still, he thought, as he went to his car and swung inside, she was as guarded as hell most of the time. Christ only knew what Flea Marley got up to in her private world.
He put the key into the ignition and sat there for a moment or two, thinking about what he was going to do when he turned it. He had known just from looking at Flea that pursuing her, or even trying to call her, was a waste of time. He waited a few more moments for his thoughts to settle. Then he turned the key.
He wasn’t going to chase her. He was going to chase the CSI guys. He wanted to know more about that dog.
20
Beatrice Foxton lived near Glastonbury Tor, down in the lowland, which only three hundred years ago had been a vast, marshy sea. Caffery met her and her dogs in a field near the house and they stood together in the wet grass, Beatrice smoking cigarettes and throwing sticks for the dogs. It was kind of reassuring to see a woman who cut dead people open for a living smoking. It made him wonder why he was breaking his neck trying to give up.
‘Thank you for coming out.’
‘That’s OK. The dogs needed the walk.’
She had two, a tall sleek setter and a slow, good-natured German shepherd. They wheeled and circled and hunkered in the grass, waiting for a stick. ‘She’s getting on a bit, the shepherd. She’s ex-job, but she had a bad time of it one year at Pilton and they retired her.’