by Mo Hayder
So he’d come here to meet someone who had taken revenge, the sort of revenge he should have taken on Penderecki. What Caffery hadn’t expected was the strange, limping friendship that seemed to be starting between him and the Walking Man.
He found himself on the B-road running straight through the area that had been covered by the team searching for Misty Kitson. It ran along the bottom of the hill, straight past the entrance to the Farleigh Park Hall clinic: a vast lit-up mansion, with sparkling colonnades and imposing steps. He slowed, trying to imagine Misty coming out of that building, turning right, or was it left? Ironic, he thought, looking at the sign at the foot of the driveway glinting in his headlights. How ironic that Lucy Mahoney had been missing about the same length of time as Kitson and that while the force had thrown all their horses at the Kitson case, the whole of the high-powered MCIU engine, Lucy Mahoney had just one fashion-plate model of a DI, who hadn’t even stayed for the post-mortem, and a family liaison officer too lazy to let her relatives know she’d been found until she’d had every piece of her insides hauled out by Beatrice Foxton, weighed, sliced, tested and crammed back inside her ribcage.
Caffery drove slowly, past a rapeseed field that led up the hill and to the lake Flea Marley’s team had searched. The lights of a small hamlet opposite twinkled in the trees. He was out of the search radius now. He hit a road lined with poplars, like a European road, and speeded up. Got to the main crossroads and did a left. Drove another five miles then saw a lane he recognized on his left. He’d been there at the beginning of the week with the Walking Man.
He locked the car, climbed over a farm gate and, using the little flashlight on his key-ring, walked up the long hill, his bluish torchlight small and insignificant in the weight of the darkness. In the distance Bristol threw a halo of sodium orange into the sky. He stopped at the place the Walking Man’s campfire had been a few nights ago, buttoned his jacket, knelt on the cold ground and sniffed the faint residue of charred earth. It was cold.
‘Hey,’ he murmured into the dark. ‘Are you there?’
Nothing came back, just the distant movement of wind weaving through the trees. No Walking Man.
He went back to the car and reversed it along the rutted track. Retracing his steps, he turned left on the A36, then after half a mile took a right on to a small, meandering lane and drove for almost ten minutes. He caught glimpses of his own eyes in the rear-view mirror. Blue. Dark-fringed. His mother’s eyes. She had been a good Catholic girl from Toxteth. He hadn’t seen her for more than twenty years, not since she’d last given up on Ewan and left London – putting it all behind her. Even choosing to forget her younger son, Jack. Now he didn’t know if she was dead or alive. But he knew one thing for sure: if she was dead she’d gone to her grave with the rosary wrapped round her fingers and no one would have thought anything of it. He pictured a bracelet made of human hair to ward away bad spirits. ‘Crude beliefs’, had been Powers’s words. There are lots of paths to God, Caffery thought, fingering the back of his head where the hair was missing. A whole world of different routes.
He slammed on the brakes. It had been such a small glow that he’d nearly missed it. Somewhere in the fields down to his right, down where the riverbanks were thick with mud and bulrushes, there was a fire. He reversed the car up the silent lane, levering himself up in the seat to see over the hedge, put the car into a three-point turn and nosed it down the first farm track he saw, letting it bump on to a field, the exhaust banging on the furrowed earth. He turned off the engine and the lights, and for a moment he was still, looking out at the fire.
The Walking Man.
He’d heard Caffery’s car but he didn’t look up, just sat nonchalantly next to the fire, scratching his oily beard and staring into the flames as if they’d been telling him a story and now he was giving it some thought. His belongings were arranged around him, lit red by the crackling fire: his sleeping-bags, his all-weather gear, his plastic bottles of cider. Two plates sat ready for the food he was cooking in the pot. Two plates, Caffery noticed. Not one. He was expected. This was the way with the Walking Man. It wasn’t possible to just find the Walking Man: he decided when the time was right, then – as if their shared histories chimed on some element – exerted a casual magnetism on Caffery. He threw out an invisible lariat and drew him in.
He got out of the car, taking the two-litre flagons of cider with him.
‘Took a long time to find me,’ said the Walking Man, as Caffery approached. He took good care of his feet and his clothing was expensive outdoors gear, but to look at him you’d think he’d been soaked in tar: he was black from head to toe as if he slept in the charcoal of his campfires. ‘You’ve been looking for me for two hours now.’
‘How do you know that?’ Caffery said, though it didn’t surprise him.
The Walking Man didn’t answer. He stoked the fire and edged the tin plates closer to the flames. Caffery set down the cider. The Walking Man had more than two million pounds tucked away in a savings account somewhere yet he drank scrumpy cider, the worst the local apple presses could cough out. And he never, ever slept under a roof. It was just his way.
‘I’ve plotted your routes on a map.’ Caffery unrolled the piece of bed foam the Walking Man had waiting for him, warming next to the fire. ‘I can see the beginnings of a pattern.’
The Walking Man snorted. ‘Yes. Of course you’d feel the need to study me. You’re a policeman.’
‘I’ve got an intelligence database to help me. When people see you they call in the sighting.’
‘Because they’re scared of me.’
‘They know what you’re capable of.’
Craig Evans, the killer of the Walking Man’s daughter, had been only half alive at the end of the torture. They had him down as DOA in the ambulance. And when they’d patched him up and seen what the Walking Man had removed from him, most of the professionals thought privately he’d have been better off dead. With no eyes, no genitals, it wasn’t going to be the best of lives. It would have been better for Penderecki to end like that. But he hadn’t. Instead he’d stolen the chance and killed himself by hanging from a ceiling beam in his bathroom. The lost opportunity stung Caffery even now.
‘I gave you some crocus bulbs the other night. Been asking myself about them. What’s going to happen to them?’
‘They’re here.’ The Walking Man patted his breast pocket. A small rustling noise came through the night. ‘Safe in here.’
‘When are you going to plant them?’
The Walking Man looked up. His eyes were the same colour as Caffery’s: dark blue ringed with dark eyelashes. ‘When the time is right. And how do you know I haven’t already planted some? I won’t be asked about it by you again. Jack Caffery. Policeman.’
Caffery gave a wry half-smile. He was used to this from the Walking Man. He was starting to understand how it worked, that things would be explained in their time. While the Walking Man attended to the food Caffery uncorked the cider, poured for them both in tin cups and leant back on the bedroll, one hand drifting up to finger the gap in his hair. The night settled around them. The sounds of the river gurgling and rolling its way through the fields, the clicking of his car engine cooling. The faint electronic buzz of a weir further downstream. About fifty feet away someone, some kids maybe, had hooked a tyre on a rope from a tree that leant out over the river. It hung motionless in the starlight, the ghosts of all the children who had swung from it over the years, the yells and the laughter and the crashes of water, swarming silently around it.
‘You saw it, didn’t you?’ Caffery said, after a while. ‘The last time I came to you it was there. It wasn’t my imagination – there was something watching me from the trees.’
The Walking Man grunted. ‘Yes. There was.’
‘You weren’t scared of it.’
‘Why would I be? It wasn’t coming for me.’
‘And if it was? If you were me? Would you be scared then?’
The Walking M
an was quiet for a while, thinking about this. He spooned the food on to the tin plates and added fresh herbs collected during the day, maybe from private gardens he’d crept into. The food next to this campfire was some of the best Caffery’d ever had, straightforward, always steaming hot. The Walking Man distributed it between them and added forks, pushing one plate to him.
Caffery took the plate, and repeated, ‘Would you be scared?’
‘I don’t know.’ He sat down and paused for a moment, letting the steam from the food come into his nose, holding his mouth open like a dog tasting a scent. ‘Are you?’
‘I don’t know what it – he – wants. I don’t know what he’s capable of.’
The Walking Man took a forkful of food and looked slyly at Caffery, half smiling.
‘What? Why’re you smiling?’
The Walking Man pointed his knife at him. ‘I’m smiling at you. And at the way you can’t let anything go. The way you treat your job as your penance.’
‘My penance? My penance for what?’
‘You know.’
‘Are you talking about Ewan again?’
‘Of course I’m talking about your brother. You’re still paying penance for the way he died and you didn’t. The penance your mother always wanted from you. And this is the main way you find to stay dead.’
Only a few days ago the Walking Man had told Caffery he had a chance to choose between living and dying. He’d said he could continue to pursue Ewan, the child who had gone, by continuing to pour everything into his work. Or he could pursue ‘the child that could be’. The child that could be. Caffery had pondered those words over and over again in the last few days. There were no kids in his life and never would be. It was stamped on his heart. Better to never have them than to risk losing them.
‘When you’ve got a child there is a line from you to the child that exists for ever and cannot be broken. At the moment the only child Jack Caffery has a line to is a dead one. Therefore your link is to death. But you know and I know – we both know – for you there could be a child who lives. Stop looking at death, Jack Caffery.’ The Walking Man wiped the plate with his finger and licked it carefully. He put it down and looked first up at the stars, then thoughtfully into the trees as if something was there, something come to watch them both. ‘If you stop looking at death, death will stop sending out its handmaidens to find you.’
27
The room is warm so the man is naked. It’s easier this way. Not so much mess. He stands at a workbench, busily dismantling a rabbit. He pulls the skin away from the flesh until it is attached only at the feet, the tail and the head. Then, using a heavy Damascus-steel cleaver, he takes off its paws and tail.
Skinning an animal takes less effort than skinning a human. It’s to do with the fact that there’s so little fat in the subcutaneous layer of the animal.
He cuts into the rabbit’s neck until the vertebrae are revealed, like small, smeared teeth. Then he uses a quick twist to snap the backbone and the head free, and pulls away the tiny coat with its weighted ends. Poking it with a finger he rubs it so the outer and inner silvery fascias slip up and down against each other. Then he bends over and sniffs, letting the smell rise through his nostrils and lodge in the back of his throat. It’s a simple smell, woody and tart. It’s nothing, nothing, like the smell of human skin.
He straightens and lifts the skin on his finger, dangles it for a moment over the bin, then drops it.
Animal skin is always like this. A disappointment. Even soaked in lye water, dehaired and mounted it is never the same as the real thing. Anyway, he’s not interested in the skin. It’s not that but the process he craves. The tearing feel of the lower layer separating from the underlying muscle.
He skins an animal at least once a week. More when he’s particularly anxious.
This week he’s done five.
28
Early the next morning the lanes around the rapeseed field were silent. Sunlight caught at the diamond points of dew in the grass. Flea stopped the Clio on the tarmac, got out and walked along the road in her trainers, casually passing the place Misty had been killed. Stopping a hundred yards past it, she turned and retraced her steps.
It was only seven a.m. but she knew it was going to be a warm day. The line of thaw in the grass was a few inches behind the shadow of the sun creeping up over the hill. A few cows stood watching her, breathing heavily, clouds of breath and steam wreathing them. Back at the car she stood for a moment, looking about, listening, checking nothing was coming. The lane was silent. This place wasn’t just a long way from the clinic: it was also outside the base station cell. In range of a different mast, in fact. Misty had switched off the phone a long time before the impact. MCIU would never have thought to search out here.
But – she turned to look up the hill – if the case went on any longer they might turn their attention to places this far afield. Maybe not to search but for house-to-house enquiries. Like in the hamlet up there. The sleepy roofs and chimneys of a short row of Victorian houses and five or six older cottages scattered above the terrace. Some were thatched, some reminded her of her parents’ home, their tiled roofs mossed and dank. Below the cottages, on the lower slope nearer the road, sat a modern bungalow. Out of whack with its surroundings, it had a side gabled roof and PVC windows.
Something, a light or a reflection, flashed from the back of it.
Slowly she raised a hand, shielded her eyes and stared. The flash came again. A brief square of white light. Then nothing. Maybe it was a window opening and closing. Someone in the bungalow was moving around. They might be watching her.
She dropped her hand, shrugged the collar of the jacket up around her neck, went back to the car and drove half a mile along the lane into the trees at the bottom of the hamlet. There was a small ingress on the right. She pulled into it and parked the car deep in the trees where no one would pass, deadlocked it, got out and followed a small footpath that led away from the ingress in the direction of the bungalow. The path was overgrown and choked with nettles, but it climbed steadily towards the hamlet. She stopped when the trees cleared and she found herself at a low brick wall, looking at the bungalow’s back garden.
It was large and unkempt, spreading away across the hillside: grass and the first dandelions were coming up through the brown skeletons of last year’s bindweed. Brambles had strewn themselves across the lawn like tentacles, and everywhere fibrestone lawn ornaments nestled in the wet grass: cats and dolphins, a Pegasus with a broken wing, a donkey next to a manger. Plastic bird feeders, in faded sherbet shades of pink, orange and yellow, hung in the trees and saplings. A Siamese cat, a real one, the colour of crème brûlée, sat under one, blinking sleepily at Flea.
The house was as shabby as the garden. The paint on the window frames had once been a deep red but had faded with years of sun and rain. It, too, was studded with animal statuary: chipped and peeling butterflies flew up the walls; three cast-concrete cats squared off at each other on the roof ridge and another appeared to be crawling head first into the chimney. No windows were open. But she could see where the sun’s reflection had come from – not a window. On the patio, next to french windows, a telescope was mounted on a tripod. Next to it, also on a tripod, was a camera.
She climbed stealthily over the wall. She walked quickly to the side of the house and the sun-cracked hard standing where a faded old Volkswagen sat, covered with white bird shit. The house was almost silent – just the faint sound of a TV playing inside, a high-octane voice, shrill, rising. She took a step nearer the french windows. Listened again. No one was moving in there. The telescope was just feet away. She stared at it, trying to work out what it was focused on. She looked down at the road. You could see the tyre tracks from here. They were like a beacon. You couldn’t miss them.
Enough. This was enough. Someone here might have seen the accident.
She went back down the garden the way she’d come. She got to the ingress and, sitting on the Clio’s warm bonn
et where she couldn’t be seen from the road or the house, pulled out her phone and plugged in the force communications number.
She and Thom had to be very, very careful. Any risk, however small, had to be taken care of.
29
In the bottom of Flea’s navy Bergen there was an ID card for a dive conference she’d attended last month. Now she slung it round her neck, pushed all her hair up into a peaked baseball cap, and headed back up the path to the bungalow. The communications department held logs on every address in the jurisdiction. Called STORM logs, they recorded details of residents and their contacts with the police. The logs said the name of the bungalow’s owner was Mrs Ruth Lindermilk, and that there had been only one incident in the last ten years to which the police had been called: an assault by a middle-aged female on a male. An airgun had been voluntarily surrendered and taken to the armoury at HQ, but no one was nicked.
The doorbell didn’t work and there was no knocker, so she banged the letterbox two or three times. No answer. She knocked again, then stepped back off the doorstep and peered up at the eaves. From there she could see that the cat’s tail sticking out of the chimney was faded and cracked.
She looked back at the rest of the hamlet. This was the only cottage that had the vantage-point of the road. ‘Stunning views of the Westbury white horse’, it would say, in an estate agent’s blurb. She was turning to go back to the terrace when the sound of a chain being pulled came from the front door.
‘Yeah? What?’
The front door had been opened a crack, through which a pair of baggy eyes peered out from beneath a sailor’s cap. They belonged to a woman, you could see that from her size and the soft quality of her eyes. A wary, mistrustful woman. She was very tanned and her nose was flattened, as if she’d lived a man’s hard life outdoors and still bore the scars.