by Mo Hayder
He told them he wanted to use the Wolf murders to further screw with Oliver’s head.
Ian was furious. He thought the idea unnecessary and dangerous. There were other ways to scare the family, and he told Havilland as much. He recalls the expression on Havilland’s face. He recalls Honig standing at the window with the New York skyline behind him, his face white with shock. Because no one argues with Pietr Havilland.
Soon enough Ian came to his senses. He saw he was in no position to argue. He knew how lucky he was to get the job, and how careful he was going to have to be to toe the line. He swallowed his indignation, apologized for his outburst. Agreed to follow orders. It wasn’t his finest hour and it seems Honig hasn’t forgiven the incident.
‘So.’ Honig wanders back to the oven and refits the handcuffs. ‘You’ll treat that girl upstairs the same as you treat any target. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘Good.’ He nods at the camera. ‘Is that thing locked’n’loaded?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Get me then.’
With Ian recording, Honig throws the handcuffs off. Holds them up to the camera, grinning. ‘Long live the company, long live the Wolf.’ He gives the lens a victory fist. ‘And vive le sadisme!’
The Donkey Pitch
CAFFERY AND BEAR climb a fence from Colonel Frink’s driveway, into the BMX course, and wander around. The place is deserted, but it’s been used recently – there are Lucozade Sport bottles and a pile of cigarette ends. The bicycle tyre marks in the earth are fresh. Caffery and Bear traipse through long tracts of mud, past pockets of standing water, a great pile of cut logs seeping red wood sap into the ground. They come to a halt where the path ends at the foot of a steep escarpment.
Maybe this was an old quarry, perhaps it’s just natural rock formations that make the drops so steep. Caffery folds his arms, tilts his head back and surveys the cliff. Lots of vegetation protrudes from the cliff-face: hardy, woody shrubs like buddleia, some sycamore saplings. The crown is thick with trees in their first flush of summer, like a filigree against the sky. He drops his gaze back to ground level; obviously this is a place people gather because the earth is churned up, there are discarded drinks cans and an aerosol paint can. A grubby, forgotten bandana in finishing flag black-and-white chequers hangs limply in the lower branches of a birch tree.
Bear glances at Caffery then takes a few tentative steps forward. In the rock face is a crevice, which she pokes her nose into. Her tail wags, her back legs move – not anxious or excited – just curious. Caffery comes and puts his hand on the rock face above her, braces himself and bends to peer over her head.
A little daylight reaches inside. The space is not manmade and it’s not big – just enough room for juveniles to crawl into. Which is exactly what seems to be happening here. He’s seen places like this before in the woods; even recently he was trailing an absconder from the mental health system who was lying low in a place not dissimilar to this. There’s a filthy old sleeping bag and a half-full bottle of Coke on the floor. If someone wanted to they could probably sleep in there, or hide for a few hours, but nothing more. It’s not big enough for someone to make a home from. He knows about these things from watching the Walking Man – picking up tips on how to live rough.
He pushes himself back from the cave, wipes off his hands and looks around. Whatever it is about the place that worries the colonel or the nurse, it’s not choosing to reveal itself to Caffery.
Sudoku
OLIVER IS IN agony. The dry air on his eyes is unbearable. The only comfort he can get is by rolling them up into the sockets, trying to catch some precious moisture. The effort makes him dizzy so he tries to keep still, willing an existential calm to come and take over from the physical reality. Minutes pass and nothing happens. There is a sound of someone in the hallway breathing, but no movement from downstairs, nothing. This absence of sensory input is part of the game, he thinks.
‘Dad?’
He jerks his head up. Tries to turn in that direction, but the box digs into his collar bone. He is obliged to stay facing the hallway and swivel just his sore eyes. ‘Lucia?’
‘Dad. I’m scared. What’s happening?’
Before he can answer there is a small scuffling noise below. He closes his mouth and focuses on the noise, almost able to feel the musculature in his ears at work, rotating like an animal’s. There is movement on the stairs, and on the mezzanine landing, directly below the darkened shape hanging in mid-air.
A breathless pause. Then from below Honey says in a dry voice, ‘Lights, please, Mr Molina.’
The lights go on. Oliver jolts back in his chair.
About three yards away Matilda hangs upside down at eye-level to the gallery, suspended from her feet by a rope which loops over one of the cross beams in the ceiling. She twists slowly on the rope, as if there is a slight breeze in here. Like a grotesque chrysalis, her arms have been bound across her chest with gaffer tape. Her mouth has been taped too. Her hair hangs down from her scalp, which is bright red from the rush of blood. Her trouser hems have slithered all the way down her legs and are bunched up around her thighs – revealing a long expanse of flesh. The battered lime-green pumps are still on her feet, their soles still embedded with soil and grass from yesterday in the garden.
Oliver frantically searches for clues she’s still alive. Her face, what he can see of it, is bloated and so red it’s almost purple. At first he thinks she’s been punched, then realizes it’s not that – it’s because she’s been suspended upside down for so long that the blood has gathered there.
He doesn’t think he can see her breathing. He wills her to show some sign of life, but there’s nothing.
Just below and behind her is the mezzanine floor where Honey sits on the ottoman with his back to the hall, apparently completely immersed in making notes. There is a cup of coffee placed next to him and he is wearing one of Oliver’s sweaters. From the light switch in the corner Molina casually meanders back, yawning. He sits on a chair next to the ottoman and gets comfortable, his arms folded, his legs crossed. Neither man has looked at Matilda above them.
A whimper comes up inside Oliver. A howl. He swallows it down. He sees, across the fifteen feet of space on the opposite side of the gallery, Lucia, tied to a chair. She hasn’t had her eyes taped, but she is bound. She too is dressed in what she was wearing yesterday – the neck of her T-shirt slightly pulled off one shoulder to show the whiteness of her neck. She is staring at her mother, a numbed, locked expression on her face. She pretends toughness, Lucia, but she is still his little girl, and if there is one thing he wishes it’s that she’d stayed in London yesterday morning.
Now Honey yawns. He puts down the book – it’s not a notebook but a Sudoku puzzle book – and recaps the pen. He glances up at Matilda.
‘Behaving herself, isn’t she, Mr Molina?’
‘She seems quiet.’
‘She does, doesn’t she?’
He stretches his arms in the air, moves around as if he’s trying to get rid of a crick in his neck. ‘You all right up there, sweetheart?’
The bundle of colour and texture that Oliver knows is Matilda doesn’t react. Anything, just the smallest twitch, would give him hope. Perhaps she’s alive and is simply unconscious – unresponsive. Or maybe she’s immobile because she’s decided it’s pointless to argue.
‘Supposed to be good for your looks,’ Honey says. ‘A little hang upside down does wonders for the complexion.’
He grabs her by the shoulders and makes a great show of twirling her, spinning her sickeningly. He stands back and opens his hands theatrically, giving Molina a sunshine smile. A Las Vegas magician proving to the audience that there is no chance of there being any tricks or fakes in his equipment.
Matilda’s eyes flutter and Oliver’s pig-heart jumps. She’s alive. She struggles briefly, the tired, almost sleepy movements of a butterfly beginning its fight from the cocoon.
Honey looks up at Lucia and
Oliver on the gallery. He gives them a smile, and raises a friendly hand as if they’ve all just waved at him and he wants to acknowledge their friendliness.
‘Mr Molina – please.’ He gestures at Matilda, suggesting he’s suddenly been overcome with the tastelessness of the situation and can’t bear to look at her any longer. ‘Please deal with that.’
Molina fiddles with the end of the rope that is tied to the banisters. It comes free with a great creaking noise, and Matilda falls through the air. For a moment it seems she will land on her head, but she comes to a bouncing halt a yard above the floor. Molina lowers her the rest of the way, putting his foot under her head so it folds under and her shoulders meet the floor first. He takes her weight and allows the rest of her body to crumple on the mezzanine.
‘Yes?’ Honey sniffs, still not looking. ‘Yes?’
‘Alive still,’ Molina replies. He gets a grip on her pullover and lifts her top half, then drags her backwards. He hauls her on to the ottoman in a sitting position. She sways limply, her torso slumping forward, and he stands behind her, holding her back against his leg to keep her upright. Honey turns his head disdainfully, then, when he sees she is seated, he comes carefully to her and bends, looking into her face.
‘Sure she’s alive?’
‘Sure.’
Slowly, curiously, Honey peels away the gaffer tape from her face. The sensation startles Matilda into consciousness. Her eyes flicker and her head jerks back. She takes a convulsive breath. But she doesn’t straighten up. Just hangs forward at the waist, swaying gently. A line of saliva lowers itself from her mouth to her lap.
Honey slowly unwinds the gaffer tape holding her arms across her chest. Her clothes are creased and covered in glue from the tape. Satisfied she has stopped swaying and can sit upright unsupported, Mr Molina reaches behind the ottoman and pulls out a video camera. He switches it on and spends a moment or two playing with the focus, his eyes on the screen, then practising a panning motion from where Oliver sits, down to Matilda.
‘Mrs Robinson?’ Honey crouches in front of her, his back to the gallery. He puts a finger under her chin and lifts it, almost tenderly. ‘Hey?’ he murmurs. ‘Hey?’
Matilda doesn’t answer. She is still swaying, still off balance.
‘Come on, Mrs Robinson – come on.’ He glances up at Molina, who has the camera trained on him. ‘She looks a bit worse for wear. I hope she wasn’t up there too long.’
‘I don’t know,’ Molina mumbles, but he doesn’t come to help. He keeps filming.
Honey straightens and takes her hands from her lap. He pulls her to her feet. She stands unsteadily, the weight down on one hip. She tries to lift her head, gingerly, as if every movement hurts.
‘Up here.’ Honey pats the ottoman. ‘Just jump up here for me.’
When she doesn’t respond he bends and grips her left leg at the knee. He lifts it so the foot is resting on the ottoman. Then, putting his shoulder into her back, he pushes her until she clumsily steps on to the ottoman. He gets up there with her and stands next to her with his hands on her shoulders to steady her and stop her falling.
‘Hey,’ he says to Molina, who has moved round and is filming them from below. ‘You know what I’m going to ask?’
Molina hesitates. He lowers the camera and gives Honey a long look. ‘What?’
‘Hot or not? Remember that game we used to play – is she hot or is she not? It’s how Facebook started – did you know that?’
‘Yes, I did know that.’
‘So?’ he says, leadingly. ‘So?’
‘So what?’
‘Mrs Anchor-Ferrers. Is she hot? Is she not?’
Molina takes a deep breath. If he is momentarily unsure he doesn’t show it. He lowers the camera and looks up at Matilda. He puts a finger under his chin, like he’s admiring a piece of art in a gallery. Scans her up and down slowly.
‘She’s a good-looking woman.’
‘Good-looking as in, you’d do her? Or good-looking as in, you’d admire her? If she was, say, your new girlfriend’s mother?’
‘I’d admire her.’
‘But you wouldn’t do her?’
‘I dunno. Would you?’
There’s a flash on Honey’s face, but it disappears.
‘I dunno,’ he says. He rubs his temples as if he’s giving this serious consideration. ‘It depends on the circumstances. There’s the desperation factor to take into account. You know what I mean – when you’re so desperate you’d do a bottle. I’m as guilty of that as the next man. I tell you, I’ve done it with some things would make my mother faint. Not sure I’d need desperation factor, though, in Mrs Anchor-Ferrers’ case.’
He lets go of Matilda. Pauses for a moment to check she isn’t going to topple over, and then he steps nimbly down from the ottoman. He puts a hand on Molina’s shoulder. ‘You’re unsure and that’s understandable. So let’s do something. Let’s push the situation a little.’
He smiles up at Matilda. Her head is hanging, her hair straggling around her face.
‘Mrs Robinson. Undo your blouse please.’
The air in the hall tightens a fraction. It’s as if everyone has just hitched in a shocked breath.
Slowly Matilda raises her eyes to Honey.
‘I’m sorry?’ she mumbles.
‘I think you heard me. Undo your blouse.’
Jewellery
BACK AT HIS cottage Caffery stops the car, gets out and opens the back door. Bear sits on the back seat looking up at him, her mouth open slightly, head on one side, as if she’s trying to gauge his expression.
‘Tell you what,’ he says, with a nod at the garden. ‘I’ll let you off lightly. Acres and acres of space, and if you go and do something now I’ll spare you the castor oil. How’s that?’
As if she knows exactly what he’s saying, the little dog trots away from him. She sniffs around a bit then pauses and squats under the lilac tree.
‘Call me unimaginative,’ he says as he watches. ‘But I never pictured myself being so happy to see a dog doing that.’
When she’s finished he gets a trowel and a colander and collects what she’s done. In the utility room he rinses away the faeces and mucus – no blood, so no more vet bills – and carefully inspects what’s left. A gold chain and a wedding ring. He dries them on kitchen towel and takes them into the kitchen, setting them down on the kitchen table.
If this is the Walking Man’s idea of a joke, then it’s past being funny. Perhaps the note really is from someone in trouble. Caffery thinks he should tell someone. The cops? He is the cops. An ally? The woman he knows, the one he half suspects he’s in love with. He could trust her with something like this, something he wanted kept under the radar. And the unit she runs is just removed enough from his unit for the news not to get back to his superintendent if she pursued it.
He discounts it. He can’t say why, but he doesn’t want her involved in this. Anyway, he thinks, if this note is a cry for help then whoever it is has got more chance of being helped with him investigating. If he swallowed his pride and took this note to the superintendent he could picture the lacklustre response it would get. A hoax, that would be the verdict, because ninety-nine times out of a hundred it is.
He picks up the chain and moves it through his fingers. It’s unremarkable – a woman’s neck chain, designed to have something suspended from it. He’s not sure, but he doesn’t think it’s solid gold – he thinks it’s plated, and he can’t find any identifying marks on it. The ring however – he picks it up and examines it carefully – the ring looks solid. Now he’s into his forties, his vision seems to be getting worse by the day; he finds his glasses in a kitchen drawer, puts them on and studies the ring carefully, turning it over and over between thumb and forefinger.
It’s clearly a wedding ring: plain yellow gold with no decorative markings on the outside. On the inside however is a clear inscription.
To Matilda, it says. From ‘Jimmy’ on our wedding day.
N
ext to the writing is the hallmark and a further symbol. Caffery has to carry the ring to the window and squint painfully to make it out. It seems to be a winged figure, standing next to an eye, or the sun, he can’t quite tell.
He stands there for a long time, trying to make sense of it, but he can’t.
It doesn’t matter. He knows what to do about jewellery – he sat through a morning’s course on it in the Metropolitan Police and can still recall the basics of how to identify countries and places of origin. The hallmark has several different stamps. One shows the type of metal – he thinks this one with a set of scales with ‘750’ written inside means it’s eighteen-carat gold. The next is the assay office, the place the gold was tested. This one shows a leopard – he can’t recall which city that means, but it’s either Birmingham, London, Edinburgh or Sheffield. The last one shows the year of the marking – in this case a curlicue G but he can’t decode that either because he thinks it varies depending on the assay city. It would be easy enough to find out. He looks back at the first mark in the row. It has the letters ‘BCD’ stamped in a square. This symbol is the ‘sponsor’s mark’ – in other words it identifies the maker of the ring.
He places the ring on the table, stands back and folds his arms. He’s resentful of the ring. It could have had the good grace to be a non-starter. Then he could have gone back to the Walking Man and said, There’s nothing. No clues, no chance. Speak to Derek Yates for me anyway.
But it would be a lie. Because of those marks. There’s a way to trace it back to the owner.
Mrs Robinson
ABSOLUTE SILENCE IN the hallway. No one seems to breathe. Only Honey is relaxed. He stands looking expectantly up at Matilda, puzzled that she hasn’t done anything yet.