Skin

by Mo Hayder

  The Tokoloshe. Amos Chipeta.

  Caffery stood in the dappled sunlight, staring at the point where the lane vanished. What the hell am I supposed to think about you? What the hell do you want?

  For no apparent reason, he’d saved Caffery’s life. And in doing so he’d opened a can of shit for himself that might take for ever to shovel away. The hair taken from the corpses was one thing – he’d probably have got away with that – but shooting Gerber? He’d go down just as fast as Gerber would. Even if he’d saved a cop.

  But, as life will sometimes have it, when Caffery turned from the quiet lane and limped back inside, up to Gerber’s corridor where the afternoon sun was bathing the floor in a syrupy glow, he found that the tables had turned again.

  He found that another door in the story had just opened. And this time it was one both he and Amos Chipeta could slip through like ghosts.

  65

  Prosecution lawyers sometimes talked to Caffery about the ‘CSI effect’ – the way the American TV programme made people, specifically juries, believe forensic science was omnipotent. That there was a test for everything. That if the clue was there the crime-scene officers would automatically find it. The truth, as every law-keeper knew, was that the best forensic scientist was only as good as the investigating officer. All forensic science was intelligence-led, so it was exquisitely easy to manipulate.

  Gerber was dead. In the few moments Caffery had been outside, his heart had pumped out the last of its sticky heat and was now motionless and grey, sunk in on itself. Which gave Caffery a chance to change the course of history. He limped around the house recovering his belongings: his phone, his quick-cuffs and pepper spray. Then he spent forty minutes orchestrating the scene: wiping prints, scrubbing at bloodstains, positioning Gerber’s body, so that when the teams arrived he would treat the place as if he was the investigating officer, not the victim, taking the CSI people around and selling them his own very feasible version of events.

  The scenario: Gerber had known the net was tightening. He’d dumped Caffery in the cesspit, thinking he was dead, and had ended his own life with the illegal gun he’d kept wrapped in a tea towel in his desk. When Caffery had regained consciousness, he’d found enough of a signal at the top of the ladder in the cesspit to fire off a text to Turnbull. There was no mention of a gun in the text, Caffery didn’t know anything about a gun, he said he’d heard nothing down in the cesspit. It was all a terrible surprise when the teams arrived and released him to see what Gerber had done to himself.

  He watched them take Gerber’s body away. When his fingers were tested there’d be gunpowder residue on them. There’d be a stray bullet found in the ceiling of the corridor that must have been fired off reflexively by Gerber after the initial suicide bullet. The only fingerprints on the 45 Hardballer and on the rounds still in it would be Gerber’s. Otherwise it would be clean. The only fibres they’d find on it would come from a tea towel they’d recover from a drawer in his office where he must have been storing it for years. There’d be none of Caffery’s blood or footsteps or fingerprints anywhere above the ground floor, only what he’d left in the break-in – a misdemeanour he’d put his hands up to straight away. There’d be no mention of Amos Chipeta.

  Caffery stayed long enough to see the ballistics officers recover the Hardballer from the floor of the corridor. Seven hundred nicker down the drain. Shame. It was an effective gun: ugly, but effective. Given time, it might even find its way back out on to the street. Then he’d have to buy it all over again. Outside he stopped for a moment in the evening sun and looked back at the place, at the manhole cover and the swimming-pool. He thought about Tanzania. What it would be like to grow up deformed and in poverty. What England would look like through Chipeta’s eyes.

  Two paramedics stood in the front doorway watching him. They’d been trailing him around the place all afternoon, patiently trying to coax him into the ambulance. Now he gave them a friendly smile and, before they could stop him, got into the Mondeo, lifted the bad leg into the driver’s footwell and started the car. The hospital was twenty miles away. He didn’t need an ambulance. He gave the paramedics a small wave as he pulled out of the driveway. If he could survive what he’d survived today he figured he could manage twenty miles on his own.

  66

  The call came at half past eight in the evening when Caffery was lying on the bed in A and E, face down, head on his arms, his ripped trousers on the chair next to the bed. He was a cop so they’d triaged and assessed him double-quick. It was a superficial wound, no nerves, ligaments or bones involved, but even so if he wanted his leg to look near-presentable in a year’s time he’d need specialized surgery. He should be admitted. He’d refused. He just wanted to be patched up and get out. So now he had a junior doctor who looked like a surly male catalogue model sitting on the bed behind him, jacking Naropin and sutures into the back of his leg and sniffing loudly at the foul clothes Caffery was still wearing. When the phone rang Caffery had to push himself up on his elbows to get at it in his breast pocket.

  ‘Yeah – DI Caffery,’ he mumbled.

  ‘There’s another.’ It was Turnbull. ‘Came in this afternoon. First attending thought it was a suicide and sent it over to the Royal United, but someone in the call centre got thinking about it after work and – bright spark – put it together with our job, did a Crimesnitch number and picked up the phone. It’s the same MO. They found her in her car – pills, knife, same shit as before.’

  For a moment Caffery didn’t answer. The doctor had stopped his work and was standing at the head of the bed, arms folded, eyebrows raised at the sign on the wall – a picture of a phone with a line through it. Caffery held up his thumb, giving him a bear-with-me-I-won’t-be-a-minute look, and stuck his finger in his left ear.

  ‘Yeah, go on. Who is it?’

  ‘Woman called Lindermilk.’

  ‘Lindermilk? I’ve seen that name somewhere.’

  ‘Ruth Lindermilk? Lives out near Farleigh Hall in one of those hamlets we were searching. She was kind of a recluse. You’re going to love who her niece is. Was, mind.’

  ‘Let me guess. It was Mahoney.’

  ‘No. It was Hopkins.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Yes, and Lindermilk had an appointment at the Rothersfield clinic this morning. Surgeon’s name?’

  ‘Gerber. That’s where I saw her name – in his records.’

  ‘And meantime,’ said Turnbull, ‘while they’re giving it duhs at the site they found her, another call comes in. Lindermilk’s house has been screwed. Place is trashed.’

  ‘From when Gerber killed her?’

  ‘Don’t think so. From her body it seems like she went without a struggle. We’re thinking this happened afterwards. He did her, then went back and screwed her house. Just like with Mahoney, ’cept not as discreet.’

  ‘Who found it?’

  ‘Lindermilk’s son. He hears what’s happened to his mother and – get this for the calibre of human being we’re dealing with here – because she’s got some property or other he wants before the police seal the place off, he goes straight over and lets himself into the place. He’s got a key apparently. Except when he gets there, someone’s beaten him to it. Nearly catches them too. He hears them jumping out of a window at the back. That’s how close he came.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Two or three hours ago.’

  ‘Then it can’t have been Gerber.’

  ‘Lindermilk’s got some history of pissing off the neighbours. Couple of disputes there. Maybe it was one of them.’

  The doctor, apparently at the end of his tether, walked out of the cubicle, leaving only a half-stitched wound, a few syringes in the kidney bowl, a blood-soaked sheet and a little sway of the curtain to prove he’d been there.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Turnbull said.

  A huge wave of tiredness came over Caffery. He didn’t think he had it in him to get up and keep going. He wanted to eat, d
rink and sleep. Nothing else. ‘Dunno,’ he muttered thickly. ‘Where’s the body?’

  ‘Up at the mortuary. We’re waiting to hear when the PM’s going to be. The CSI are heading down to the house now. Do you want to have a look at it?’

  Caffery inched his legs around, easing them carefully off the bed. He waited a moment or two for his head to stop spinning, then looked around for the call button. ‘I’ll be there, just as soon as I can find a doctor in this place.’

  67

  The first thing Caffery noticed was how near to Farleigh Park Hall Ruth Lindermilk’s place was. In fact, now he thought about it, he remembered driving past the hamlet only a few days ago. He got a rush of adrenalin as he pulled off the road and parked behind the marked police cruiser outside the bungalow. No way Misty Kitson could have been on Gerber’s list too? No. That would be too, too neat. Wouldn’t it?

  First things first. Check out the burglary. Then think about Misty. He looked around. The scene-of-crime guys’ cars were lined up by the bottom of the road and one or two neighbours were standing in the dark lane, arms folded, coats over their shoulders, trying to get a glimpse of what was going on inside. Someone had put screens outside Lindermilk’s front door. Maybe that was why the rest of the village were so interested.

  He’d been given an antibiotic shot, packets of hospital pharmacy tramadol and codeine. They’d send him to sleep so for now he was sticking to ibuprofen 400s and a top-up of paracetamol. Giving into a rare burst of professionalism, he’d stopped at his cottage to dump his suit in a bag for the CSI guys. Now he was in black jeans and a black nylon warm-up jacket, but the limp still gave it away. That, and the swollen nose and the way his face creased every time he put weight on his foot. The district officer waiting for him in the house came forward, hands out instinctively to help him along the path.

  ‘’S OK.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s OK.’

  Pulling on the gloves the CSIs gave him, Caffery followed the officer along the tread plates into the little lighted dining room where a stubby, thick-bodied man dressed in a grey polo neck sat at the polished oak table. He was in profile, his chin resting on his fist, his mouth pursed. In front of him on the table was a brass telescope.

  ‘Mrs Lindermilk’s son,’ the officer muttered. ‘Steve. I think the reality’s just hitting him now.’

  ‘You coping there, mate?’ Caffery stood in the doorway. ‘You all right?’

  Steve Lindermilk’s face was very red. ‘Not really. I should’ve done something – I never saw it coming.’

  ‘You’ve been asked if you want to speak to a family liaison officer?’

  ‘Yeah, I have. Don’t need it.’

  ‘They’ve been assigned already. You can change your mind.’

  ‘No, thank you. But could you have someone speak to the neighbours? The ones gawking at us?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Caffery glanced down the hallway at the yellow crime-scene tape slung across the entrance to the living room, then back at Lindermilk. ‘You know why I’m here?’

  ‘To ask me questions?’

  ‘And to look at the house. We need to find out if the break-in was connected to her death.’ Caffery’s head and leg were hurting like hell, in spite of the painkillers. ‘Do you understand?’

  Lindermilk nodded.

  ‘Are you OK about that?’

  ‘I’m OK.’ He got up and followed Caffery along the tread plates. They stopped in the living-room doorway, leant over the tape and peered inside like visitors to a stately home. It looked to Caffery as if Ruth Lindermilk hadn’t been a good housekeeper to start with, but this was something else again: every cupboard, every shelf, had been emptied in a pile on the floor. An angry break-in? With those they usually took time out to shit on the floor. Or on the beds. This one looked more as if they had been searching for something. In the kitchen a window stood open, the locks prised off. It looked professional. A cat jumped on to the window ledge, paused when it saw the visitors and balanced for a moment, all four paws tight together, staring at them.

  ‘Look at that,’ Lindermilk grunted. ‘My mum encouraged that behaviour. Didn’t have much in the way of boundaries.’

  ‘When was the last time you were here?’

  ‘Couple of days ago.’

  ‘And the place didn’t look like this, I take it, the last time you were here?’

  ‘No, it bloody well did not,’ Lindermilk said. ‘Those pictures on the wall – the ones of the animals – that’s what was pissing people off round here. I’m surprised they never took those, if it was one of them did this.’

  ‘We’re looking at every possibility.’

  Lindermilk shrugged. ‘Tell you what, when you’re done here can I have them photos? I’m going to burn them all.’

  ‘Speak to the CSI men. It shouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘There’s some stuff on the outside I want to take too. Those things on the roof. I don’t want the neighbours coming through here and making a laughing-stock of us.’

  Caffery turned to the staircase. Silver aluminium oxide dust clung to the banisters, crisscrossed with rectangular gaps where the fingerprints had been lifted by tape. ‘You didn’t see anyone hanging around last time? No cars you didn’t recognize?’

  ‘Never saw a thing.’

  ‘Would you know if something was missing? Anything of value she kept around? No cash on the premises? Jewellery? Credit cards?’

  ‘Only the computer. And the TV. And the telescope. She did have a bit of jewellery, though, rings and that.’

  ‘Where would she put them?’

  ‘In the safe.’

  Caffery raised his eyebrows questioningly at the CSI man standing next to the front door. ‘Safe’s not damaged, sir.’ He lifted a finger and pointed to the next floor. ‘It’s in the bedroom. They’ve given it a whack, but haven’t got into it.’

  The three men went upstairs, Caffery pulling himself up on the banister, not putting any weight on the damaged leg. Another CSI guy, in blue forensic overalls, crouched at a chest on the landing, eye level with its handle, brushing it with black powder. As they came past he gave a long sigh.

  ‘Only getting one set of fingerprints at the moment. And they’re hers. I’m thinking the guy wore gloves.’

  Lindermilk took them into a bedroom, a small, low-ceilinged, room with an under-eaves window and exposed beams. There was a bed with a quilted headboard in the corner and above it a wall safe, a small one, just big enough for paperwork and jewellery. It was covered with fingerprint dust. Lindermilk went to the safe. He was about to turn the dial, when Caffery coughed.

  ‘Just a moment.’ He limped back into the hall and bent to fish a pair of gloves out of the CSI’s kit. He tossed them to Lindermilk, who caught them and pulled them on.

  ‘Know the combination, then?’

  Lindermilk peered at the lock. ‘Used to. Unless she’s changed it.’ He twirled the knob experimentally, muttering the numbers under his breath. The lock clicked, turned, and he opened the door, standing back, hand up to indicate what was inside.

  Caffery stepped forward. The safe was full. He could see two plastic envelopes of paperwork with pale blue backing, and a small black enamel box.

  ‘The jewellery.’ Lindermilk pulled it out. He opened the box and looked inside, poking through the contents with a fingertip.

  ‘Anything missing?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’ He held it out to Caffery.

  Nothing remarkable was in there: a solitaire diamond on a chain, a pair of cufflinks, a few rings and a diamanté brooch in the shape of an anchor.

  Lindermilk put the box down and turned back to the safe. He took out the top envelope, tipped the contents into the palm of his hand and looked through them. ‘Legal stuff. Her will, house deeds, stuff from her solicitors.’

  He unpicked the rubber band of the second folder. It contained photographs, all the same size, A4, but from the different print quality and paper they must have been taken over a span of
thirty years or more.

  ‘What’re they?

  ‘Photographs of animals. God knows why she kept them, the silly cow. She used to like taking photos of dolphins and stuff. I’ll burn these too.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Lindermilk fanned them. Some were in colour. A few showed a wedding, probably in the late seventies: a couple smiling outside a churchyard, the bride, a fair-skinned blonde in a long blue-and-white flower-sprigged dress and straw hat. Others showed dead animals: badgers splayed across roads, their hindquarters and heads smeared into the road markings, dead rabbits, dead squirrels. A deer with its neck broken so its head was turned back to face its hindquarters. ‘Just about every piece of roadkill in the country.’ Lindermilk sounded weary. ‘She wanted to get up a campaign to have speed controls on the road down there. That’s what had the neighbours so pissed off.’

  But Caffery had stopped listening. Out in the garden, where the trees made sharp black cut-outs against the night sky, something had moved. He went to the window and peered out, careful not to touch the glass even when his breath steamed it. He’d caught the movement out of just the corner of his eye. It hadn’t been the reflection of one of them in the room but something else. Something was in the garden.

  He stood for a moment, thinking how dark it was out there, thinking of the miles and miles of countryside that anything could crawl through, thinking of the road that led down to the clinic, of the place he and the Walking Man had sat, watching shapes move in the trees. He thought of that tinny little scooter phut-phutting on the country lane. And then he thought of what he, Caffery, might look like from outside, standing at the window, his serious face lit from the back and the side.

  ‘Sir,’ Lindermilk said, ‘can I ask you a question?’

  He turned, distracted. ‘What?’

  Lindermilk was holding out the photos. ‘I’ll take these too, then? Along with the ones on the walls downstairs?’