by Mo Hayder
The men say they are here to investigate a murder.
‘Have you been here in the house all morning?’
DI Honey, the tall man with the monk’s pate and tight curls, is grilling Matilda, who is answering automatically, her voice distant, as if she’s reciting a long-forgotten poem that has suddenly come back to her.
‘No. We didn’t get here until after eleven. This is our holiday home – we drove down from London this morning.’
‘You didn’t hear the sirens?’
‘No. But we don’t hear stuff up here, we’re very isolated.’
‘The victim lives just down here in the valley.’ He lifts his hand to indicate the west. ‘Down there, not far from the bottom of your driveway. In the house where the lane turns out on to the main road.’
‘The yellow house, you mean? The one with the stone tiles and the yellow walls?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘My God. Oliver? It’s the one that has the satellite dish. You know?’
He nods numbly, still struggling to catch up to the reality of all this. It’s a single woman who lives in the yellow house. He doesn’t know her by name but he’s seen her around. Brunette, mid-forties, quite attractive. Mostly he remembers she wears red jeans and leather jackets, like a city person, and insists on driving her four-by-four down the centre of the road – as if everyone else should pull to the side to let her pass.
‘The offender came in through the … the downstairs window. It was open.’
DS Molina – the red-haired one, who reminds Oliver of someone, a politician, or a singer, he can’t quite place it – puts his hands on the back of a chair. He looks as if he’s about to deliver a well-rehearsed speech. ‘We’re going to have to take you through a few protocols, have community liaison come over and talk you through some basic home security measures. If this is a holiday home it’ll come in handy anyway – to know about window locks and the like.’
‘First you need to tell us what has happened,’ Matilda insists. ‘And if you’ve arrested anyone.’
‘Until we’ve got a positive identification and we’ve informed the relatives, we can’t give out details.’
Oliver finds his voice. ‘I’d expect more people for a murder investigation – especially if your offender’s still out there. A helicopter maybe.’
‘There was a helicopter – didn’t you hear it?’
‘Like Mum said, we don’t hear anything up here,’ says Lucia. She manages to make it sound like an attack on her parents. ‘Not a thing.’
‘We’re asking people if they’ve had any break-ins – anything going missing. Have you got a garden shed?’
‘A garden shed? Yes. There’s a garage too.’
‘Do they lock? And have you checked they’re locked today? We’re wondering if anything’s been taken. Any tools. Like a Stanley knife …’
Stanley knife. A long cold silence comes down on the family. This is the final confirmation. Now they know it’s not their imagination. This is happening.
Keep beating, Oliver tells the pig valves. Beat the next beat. And the next …
‘You really should apologize!’ Matilda is suddenly pink with rage and bewilderment. ‘Is that what this is? A belated apology?’
Honey doesn’t answer for a moment. He seems confused. He glances at his sergeant for support, then at Lucia and Oliver. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I don’t …’
‘What happened to the notification from the CPS? The CPS are supposed to let us know if there’ve been any changes or reviews to that man’s sentence. We’re supposed to be informed if he’s out.’
‘I’m sorry. “That man”? I don’t—’
‘Because my daughter was deemed vulnerable. She was only fifteen when it happened – fifteen. My husband and I were given the same rights as a family spokesperson. We were entitled to be informed if he came out again, and nobody’s said a word.’
‘Mrs—’
‘Look at my daughter.’ She gestures at Lucia, sitting on the sofa with Bear, who has picked up on the tension and is growling menacingly. ‘Look at her and tell me that she didn’t deserve to have some warning. And my husband’s just had serious surgery, so we’re not exactly equipped to deal with any of this. Meanwhile he, HE – he’s light years ahead of us, as usual. He’s already cut the phone line, or at least done something to stop it working. So you’re a bit late. We were supposed to have been given notice a long time ago. A bare minimum would be ten days – but no. Not a word. And now this …’
DI Honey holds up a defensive hand. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Mrs Anchor-Ferrers. I can hear you’re angry, and I want to respond to that, but until I know what you’re angry about there’s nothing I can do.’
This makes Matilda subside a little. Though her eyes don’t leave his face, she does at least move back from him, giving him a bit of space.
‘Kable,’ she mutters, bad-temperedly.
‘Kable?’
‘Well, of course! I mean, please tell me you know Minnet Kable is responsible. He’s out again, isn’t he? And nobody’s told us.’
There’s a long, breathless silence. Oliver notices that Lucia has closed her eyes and he knows why. It’s the first time in the last frenetic forty minutes any of them has actually said the name aloud, though it’s what they’ve all been thinking. It feels like speaking the name of the devil.
Minnet Kable. Minnet. With the emphasis on the first syllable. Usually the name is never spoken aloud in this household.
Minnet is white, British, and the Anchor-Ferrers have no idea how he came to be given such a name. There is nothing in any of the legal transcripts to suggest his heritage. Ollie, not having grown up in today’s multicultural England, is embarrassed to admit even to himself that the name has a guttural sound to it. Like a curse spoken in Aramaic. Something a demon in a film would say. And Kable is a demon. Fifteen years ago Minnet Kable murdered two people. One of them was Lucia’s ex-boyfriend, Hugo Frink.
DI Honey’s eyes roll slowly to meet his colleague’s, as if none of this had occurred to him. As if expecting an answer. Then he puts his hands in his pockets and stares at the floor for a while. ‘Yes,’ he says eventually. ‘I admit I hadn’t thought about …’ He glances at DS Molina. ‘Don’t suppose you remember Minnet Kable. It was before you joined the force.’
Molina’s eyes are wide, as if his pulse is forcing them open. ‘I do remember him. I mean, Jesus!’ He runs his finger nervously around the inside of his collar. ‘Doesn’t everybody?’
Oliver shakes his head in resignation. And they call this modern policing. He’s seen more efficient police forces in the Third World. ‘You seriously didn’t think of Minnet Kable before?’
‘No. We didn’t. Though I agree it seems obvious.’
‘We need to take you outside.’ Oliver speaks in the most measured tone he can summon. ‘There’s something you’re going to have to see.’
The Deer
ALL FIVE OF them – the family and the two police officers – leave the house. Matilda locks the side door carefully and puts the key in her tool pouch before they set off down the path together. Lucia is with them. It’s against Matilda’s wishes, but she refused to be left alone in the house. She has brought Bear with her, clasped in her arms so tightly the dog can only move her head.
It is hotter now, the sky is so clear it’s almost white, just a few faint vapour trails drifting slowly high overhead. The land stretches away, not another house or building to be seen, only the distant pylons and a flank of a hill patchworked with fields. It had been this uninterrupted view that Matilda had loved about The Turrets, so different from the view out of their London windows. Now it’s what she hates the most.
They go tentatively, Oliver leading the way. He supports himself on the stick he’s been told by the doctors to use. From behind he doesn’t look to Matilda like her husband. He looks like an old man in baggy corduroy trousers. Infirm and bent. Past his prime.
They stop in the clearing a
nd gather around. The flies react sluggishly, lifting half-heartedly from their meal as if to acknowledge the presence of the humans before drifting back down to gorge.
Earlier, when Matilda first happened on this scene, her initial impression was it was some sort of decoration – a paper chain, or a string of deflated children’s balloons, draped almost delicately in the bushes. It had taken a moment or two to recognize them for what they actually are: intestines.
‘We were hoping they were from an animal.’
‘They could be,’ Oliver asks the police, a note of hope in his voice, ‘a deer, perhaps?’
‘A deer?’ DI Honey says softly. ‘A deer? I doubt it.’
‘I’d say there’d be some domestic dogs around here big enough to do this to a deer.’
‘And hang them up in the trees?’
No one speaks. They can all smell the decay. In the short time the family’s been up at the house, the intestines have begun to smell. The white fascia stretches around the bulbous pink sac, the last meal of whatever creature these came from visible as dark shapes behind the semi-transparent wall.
‘Insane,’ DI Honey says, clearly embarrassed. ‘Completely insane.’ He fumbles a handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes his face. ‘It’s very hot today, isn’t it? Unseasonably hot.’
He folds up the handkerchief, taking his time to make it neat or, Matilda thinks, buying time to collect himself. ‘This could be—’ He pulls back his shoulders. Scans the horizon. ‘I’d be lying if I said this might not be relevant. This is … consistent with the case we’re investigating. The injuries to the victim.’ He pushes the handkerchief into his pocket. Pulls back his jacket to reveal a radio nestled in his breast pocket. He runs his fingers over it and appears about to summon backup, then thinks better of it because instead he again pulls out his handkerchief and mops his face.
‘Mr Anchor-Ferrers,’ he says in a strained voice. ‘I wonder – could we go inside? It’s hot. We had to leave the car at the bottom of the drive and it was a long walk up. I wonder if we could trouble you for a glass of water?’
The Chauffeur
A SHOWER WORKS ITS way restlessly across the Wiltshire fields. It travels up the hillside and brings the opening ceremony to an end. The group breaks up, people hurry for cover, holding cardigans and handbags over their heads. Only DI Caffery lingers. When the glade is deserted he stands for a while, surveying the place. The bunting is streaked with rain, the smell of earth and grass hangs in the air. The sun comes out again, but the sight of the rain dripping from the pagoda roof drags on him, lowers his mood further.
Eventually he turns to go. His shirt is hot and scratchy. He has never been comfortable in a suit, though he lives in one day after day, and as he walks he tugs at his collar, undoing the tie. At the bottom of the path, at the entrance to the car park, two women are waiting for him. One is Jacqui Kitson, a light mac draped over her shoulders, the other, also dressed in sky-high heels and a tight dress, is a sergeant from his unit: DS Paluzzi. She is holding a dripping umbrella and has one hand jammed into her hip. She doesn’t look impressed.
He shoves the tie in his pocket. His head is still throbbing. He is sure the smallest conversation could crack his head in half. Split open the thing that’s been building inside him these last few days. ‘You OK?’
She nods. ‘Uh huh.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Just spoke to the superintendent. He’s suggesting you could drive Jacqui back to her hotel.’
There’s a brief pause. He can feel Paluzzi monitoring his reaction. She knows how welcome this news is going to be.
‘The unit is quiet,’ she presses. ‘Nothing’s happening, he can spare you. It’s a courtesy for Jacqui, and also nice for the press to see how we treat people.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Jacqui Kitson smiles, her bracelets jangle. She’s got a line of lipstick across her top teeth. ‘I won’t eat you.’
Caffery’s hand in his pocket finds the smooth metal casing of his V-Cig under the tie. He’s trying to quit them, but times like this he knows that isn’t going to happen.
‘You’ll have to take my car as you find it.’
‘I’m happy with that. It’ll be like old times.’
As senior officer on the case of Jacqui’s missing daughter, he’s spent a lot of time in her company. He’s never been one hundred per cent comfortable around her. As he leads Jacqui to his car he senses Paluzzi’s eyes on him. Usually she’s one of the detectives he likes, always on his side, but lately she’s been sarcastic. Keeps making comments about the fact he’s mid-forties and not married. She’s recently divorced and there’s a suggestion doing the rounds that she’s lonely and wanting company.
As Caffery unlocks the car and holds the door for Jacqui to get in, he feels Paluzzi’s eyes on his back. Right, he thinks. And I am the last place you should look.
The Donkey Pitch
A WOOD PIGEON CHORTLES softly somewhere in the trees on the other side of The Turrets. It’s the only sound. The Anchor-Ferrers and the cops go back to the house swiftly. No one acknowledges the sudden sense of dread the surrounding woods seem to have taken on. As if something is watching from among the trees.
As they go, DS Molina mutters into his radio, which gives off bursts of static but no voices, no intelligible reply. When they reach the house he stays outside at the side door, waiting for a response, while the others go inside. DI Honey and Oliver check all the doors and the windows on the ground floor. Matilda isn’t quite sure why, but to busy herself she instinctively begins making tea for everyone. She warms the pot and tips the cake off the cooling rack on to a plate. No time to ice it – they’ll have to eat it as it is. She cuts it into slices and puts it on the table. It sits there untouched until she feels foolish to have imagined food was appropriate in these circumstances.
When Oliver and DI Honey come back they sit at the table together. DI Honey makes notes. Oliver is helping him recall the details of the case.
‘It’s been, what? Fifteen years.’
Oliver nods. ‘That’s why I can’t understand why he was let out so soon.’
‘We don’t know that he is out. The system isn’t perfect.’
‘You can say that again.’ Oliver’s back to his old self. He seems as angry and anxious as Matilda feels. He glances up at Lucia then turns his back to her, putting his elbow on the table and speaking to the detective in a whisper that Matilda can only just hear. ‘You do understand, don’t you, that my daughter knew the victims. The boy had been … well Hugo Frink was her boyfriend … before. They hadn’t been long separated when it happened.’
Matilda comes to the table and sits, her hands jammed between her knees, staring at the plate of cake while Oliver continues in a low, monotonous voice. As he speaks, Hugo’s death all comes back to her: the first phone calls, the rumours that something had happened on the Donkey Pitch, then the confirmation, the visits from the police. The slow, ugly unfurling of details turning from whispered hints among the neighbours into cold hard facts.
Hugo Frink was just seventeen. Tall, broad shouldered and green-eyed, with a love of rowing and music. He was living for a while in his grandparents’ house on the other side of the valley while his parents were abroad. Hugo met Lucia at a Guy Fawkes party in the local village and they dated for six months. But in late spring Hugo met another local girl and broke off the relationship with Lucia. If that wasn’t enough to destroy her, his murder, just weeks later, was the final nail in the coffin. She has never recovered.
Kable was insane, convicted over and over for a string of offences – arson, sexual assault, car theft. No one knows what made him cross the line and turn to killing that summer night, or why he targeted Hugo Frink and his new girlfriend, Sophie Hurst-Lloyd. It happened about a mile away from The Turrets, in a section of wood at the far end of the valley. Now it is used by youngsters to ride BMX bicycles. Back then it was just a piece of unchartered woodland called ‘the Donkey Pitch’ because someon
e had once, years ago, kept donkeys there. The land was adjacent to Hugo’s grandparents’ property, but too far for anyone to hear the teenagers screaming. Kable’s final signature was to remove the intestines of both teenagers. He twisted them together and used them to decorate the trees above the corpses in the shape of a heart. Which is exactly what has been replicated today, in the woods next to The Turrets.
‘Kable,’ says Oliver, ‘is a psychopath. He is completely unstoppable. He shows no remorse and no fear.’
DI Honey massages his temples, as if the outrageous unreality he’s wandered into has only just hit him. ‘We’re sorry. We’re going to find out why we weren’t told he’s out. Just give us time.’ He glances to the side door, still unlocked. Molina stands in the doorway with his back to them, speaking urgently into his radio. ‘When did you find it?’ DI Honey asks. ‘You know – what you showed us in the wood?’
‘Just before you arrived. It’s the first thing Matilda does – go outside to garden. She loves the garden.’
‘You have to pass the yellow house to get here. Do you know what time you drove past?’
‘I have no idea. Elevenish?’
‘And you didn’t notice anything odd? No cars you didn’t recognize parked there? Anything that wasn’t quite as you’d expect it?’
‘No.’
A few beats of silence. Oliver waits for DI Honey to ask another question, but instead the detective blurts suddenly, ‘I don’t understand why you didn’t move. Don’t you find it …’ He searches for the word. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but there’s an atmosphere here. Can’t you feel it?’