Wolf

by Mo Hayder

  ‘Have I woken you?’ Caffery says, scrutinizing him carefully.

  ‘Yes. Yes you have.’ There’s a pause while the man rubs his eyes. Draws his hand down his mouth and ruffles his hair. ‘But – it’s OK. Sorry, you just caught me off guard.’

  ‘Detective Constable Caffery.’ He flashes his warrant card and sees the man’s face change instantly. It droops, the way people’s faces do fall when the police arrive out of the blue. ‘What?’ he says. ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said, you tell me. Is everything in the garden rosy? Everything OK with you?’

  The guy’s face drops even further. His gaze darts anxiously around the garden as if he thinks Jack might not be alone. ‘I don’t get it. What’s this about? What’s happening? Is everyone OK? Emma? I’ve just spoken to Emma – she’s OK isn’t she?’

  Caffery crosses his arms. ‘Your name? Sir?’

  ‘My name? It’s Anchor-Ferrers. Why? What’s happening? Are you going to tell me? I’ll shut the door if you can’t tell me, because this is starting to mess with my head and I—’

  Caffery holds up a hand. ‘Calm down. Nothing’s happened. I just need to ask some questions. Is that OK?’

  ‘Questions?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got no one with me. I’m alone. OK?’

  The man nods hurriedly, his eyes still flickering nervously round the garden. In the half an hour since he left the Frinks’ place Johnny has provided Caffery with a pretty comprehensive snapshot of who the Anchor-Ferrers are and he’s coming to know the people he’s been looking for this week. Matilda and Oliver. Especially Oliver. Caffery knows that the daughter, Lucia, lives at home, and over in Hong Kong is the son. A banker. His name is …

  ‘Kiran.’ The man wipes his hand on his T-shirt and, without letting go of the door, extends his hand to Caffery. ‘I’m Kiran Anchor-Ferrers.’

  Caffery hesitates, eyeing him carefully. He’s given Patel’s file all his concentration, tried to digest everything there. But there are lapses. He tries now to recall what he learned about Kiran. Hong Kong. Banking. What else …?

  He places his hand in Kiran’s. The hand is warm. As if he has, indeed, been asleep. Another pause and then they shake.

  ‘Kiran Anchor-Ferrers?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Is this your house?’

  Kiran gives a nervous laugh, glancing up at it, as if to say Chance would be a fine thing.

  ‘This? Christ, no. It’s my parents’. I’m just baby-sitting – I don’t live here. I live in Hong Kong.’

  ‘Your parents?’

  ‘Yes. My parents. What about my parents …?’ He trails off. Then, as if he’s seen a message in Caffery’s expression, his face crumples pathetically. ‘Oh no. It’s Dad, isn’t it? I told him he shouldn’t drive after the op. I told him not to go out this morning. I told him over and over and over …’

  ‘No.’ Caffery keeps his voice level. His attention is peeled white now, trying to absorb everything he can about this situation. On the face of it, this guy is telling the truth and his own brilliant deductions about Bear and her owners are all wrong. Maybe she’s somehow been stolen. Maybe the note on the collar really was a prank after all. He doesn’t know. ‘It’s not that. It’s the dog. Your dog. Your parents’ dog?’

  Kiran’s mouth widens. ‘Bear? Is she OK? Mum and Dad have been giving themselves nightmares over her. Is that what this is about? Oh please God, please God. Say it is. Bear?’

  ‘Yes. She’s been found.’

  His face breaks into a smile. ‘No! You haven’t found her, have you? You really have found her? That is great, great news. You can’t imagine how great.’ He stands back, his hands opened, a broad, uncontained smile spreading across his face. ‘Come in, come in. Mum’s going to be delighted when she gets home. You’ve saved us all!’

  Emma

  THE HOUSE IS scruffier and more spartan than Caffery expected from the amount of wealth he imagines Oliver Anchor-Ferrers has amassed. The floors are stone, only softened by the occasional threadbare runner. The radiators are old thirties rads – not because someone’s dumped a load of money on the local reclamation yard, but because these are the radiators that were installed at the same time as the place’s first central heating system. The walls are of lumpy plaster. It’s sort of elegant and nice to look at, but sort of awful too, because it feels so rusty and cold.

  Kiran Anchor-Ferrers leads him into the kitchen, which is not quite as bleak. Though faintly dilapidated there’s an Aga and lots of gingham-topped jam jars. A panelled door into a darkened passage stands half open – a cellar perhaps. There’s a smell, something dank and rotten like death. He tries to picture eating here, and finds he can’t.

  Kiran, on the other hand, can eat. He’s woken up now he’s reassured Caffery isn’t here to report his parents dead and when they’ve got into the kitchen he stands at the sink stretching and scratching his belly, opening and closing his mouth. Moving stuff in the kitchen around. Filling a kettle and opening cake tins.

  ‘So,’ he says, straightening up from a cupboard from which he’s pulled two plates. There is more colour in his face. ‘Where is Bear? Mum’s going to want to know – the moment she comes home she’ll need to know.’

  ‘She’s at the local shelter. I’ll leave you with a form you can fill in – it has all the details of how to get her back. But maybe first you could tell me something.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m just a beat copper – I mean, I’m not uniform, but you know, I still get the tail end of cases, I go out with a set of instructions and I never know the head end of what I’m dealing with. For example, I know your dog has been found, but I was never told how she went missing in the first place.’

  ‘How she went missing?’

  ‘Yes. You’ll think it’s nuts, but that’s just the way I go about things. I like to know the beginning of the story. It helps me tie up the end. How did she go missing in the first place?’

  Kiran gives him a winning smile. ‘Didn’t anyone say how?’

  ‘No. That’s what I mean – I just get part of the story. Always want the rest.’

  ‘Sit down.’ Kiran nods to two chairs positioned to face the vast stone inglenook. ‘No fire, now, but it’s always the centrepiece of the house. Everyone just – I don’t know – gravitates to it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Caffery sits in one of the chairs. He crosses one leg over the other, folds his arms. A pile of old newspapers sits in the corner of the inglenook, just a foot away. Soot smears the stone and the ashes haven’t been cleaned out, but there hasn’t been a fire recently. There’s a pile of washing up in the sink and a load of dirty laundry on the floor. In the corner two camp beds are propped against the wall.

  Kiran says, ‘I’m making builder’s tea. Nothing fancy here. Is that OK?’

  Caffery watches him pour milk into the mugs, stir it. He comes over and hands Caffery a mug. Then sits down and gets himself comfortable.

  ‘Bear. That’s what you wanted to know about?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, the story isn’t that much of a story: she was here one minute – next minute she wasn’t. We had the whole family in the house, no one was paying that much attention to the dog. You know what it’s like when there are grandchildren.’

  ‘Grandchildren?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got a daughter. Saffy.’

  Caffery knows Kiran has a daughter. ‘Saffy. Where is she now?’

  ‘She’s with my mum and dad. And my wife. Emma. Who are all safe – I hope.’ He laughs nervously. ‘But you gave me a fright, turning up like that.’

  ‘I’m sure they’re safe. Nothing to suggest they’re not. Where are they today?’

  ‘At Horse World. In Dorset. They’re due back this afternoon – I’m not sure whether to call Mum and tell her about Bear, or what. Give her a great surprise when she comes in? What do you thin
k?’

  ‘I think that’s a good idea.’ A fly is buzzing noisily in the window. The place really stinks. ‘So tell me, Kiran. What do they get up to at Horse World?’

  ‘Usual kid rubbish. You know, look at horses. Go down slides and stuff.’

  ‘Slides? Is Saffy old enough to be doing that?’

  ‘Old enough? Yes. If not, Emma will sit her on her knee and go down with her.’

  ‘You’re not worried about that?’

  ‘Worried? No. Why, would I be? She’s a toughy, Saffy. Tough as old boots.’

  ‘I wasn’t just thinking about Saffy. I was thinking about Emma too.’

  ‘No,’ he says dismissively. ‘She’ll be fine. Loves that kind of thing.’

  Caffery watches Kiran steadily. Kiran, Kiran, he thinks. I don’t know your real name, but you have been so clever. Not clever enough though. Because Emma is pregnant. The real Emma is eight months pregnant and there is no way you’d be so dismissive.

  Emma is not on a slide in Horse World in Dorset.

  Emma is eight months pregnant and probably still in Hong Kong.

  One of the flies from the doorway comes and lands on the rim of Kiran’s cup. Both men look down at it. Then Kiran raises his eyes and meets Caffery’s.

  Caffery smiles.

  Ian Molina

  SINCE THE INTRODUCTION of Airwave, the new police communications network, all officers carry a radio – even plain-clothes. Usually they wear it in their shirt pocket under their suit – or in the pocket of their trousers. Caffery’s is in his shirt and switched on. To send out a distress signal is a simple matter, he merely passes his hand inside his suit, hits the emergency ‘Status Zero’ button, and it’ll open the mic for ten seconds, alerting anyone in the area that an officer needs urgent assistance and giving police comms his GPS location. It works even in places no phone signal can reach.

  But he isn’t going to do that. Not yet. He isn’t going to let ‘Kiran’ – or whoever this guy is – know he’s on to him. He’s going to walk out of that door and reassess everything. Speak to Paluzzi and Patel, decide how to let the constabulary into the situation. He stands and extends his hand.

  ‘It’s been nice to meet you.’

  The man gets up and shakes Caffery’s hand. ‘And you. It’s great to hear about Bear.’ Caffery makes to withdraw his hand but the man holds it firm. ‘Really good.’

  ‘Yes. Goodbye then.’

  But the man is pressing his thumb hard into Caffery’s wrist. Caffery raises his eyes, finds him smiling at him, one eyebrow raised quizzically. ‘What about the forms?’

  ‘The forms.’

  ‘For Bear. Have you forgotten them?’

  There’s a long silence. Caffery sees he’s been caught. He holds ‘Kiran’s’ gaze, keeping his eyes steady, while his attention darts around the room, making a rapid mental list of every available weapon. He quickly rehearses his movements – left hand into his shirt to send out a radio burst, his right hand snatching up the fire poker from the grate.

  The man keeps the fixed smile on his face. ‘Beat copper?’ he says. ‘Your card says Inspector, not Constable. A plain-clothes inspector going out to tell people their dog’s been found? I don’t think so.’

  Caffery snatches his hand away. He twists towards the fireplace in one move, his hand going into his suit and firing off the radio burst. He can’t fumble out his CS gas in time, so he grabs up the fire poker with the other hand and twists back, the poker poised above his head. The whole thing has taken less than three seconds.

  ‘Kiran’ is standing in the centre of the room, his hands held out, joined together at the wrist. A universal gesture: I’ll come willingly.

  ‘Seriously – I know the game’s up. To be honest with you – after what I’ve done to those people upstairs? I’m glad for it to be over.’

  Caffery scans the room, assessing everything he can.

  ‘Honestly,’ says Kiran. ‘It’s been a shit life, and part of me has been wanting this for a long time.’ He holds Caffery’s eyes steadily. ‘I mean it. And when you see the … uh, mess I’ve left upstairs you’ll think it too.’

  ‘Is that what the smell is?’

  ‘No – the smell’s from the one I did four days ago. She’s in the cellar.’

  Caffery studies him suspiciously. Looks at the proffered hands.

  ‘What’s your real name?’

  ‘Ian Molina.’

  ‘Ian Molina?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Caffery doesn’t believe it for a moment, but he’ll worry about that later. He lowers the poker so it’s pointing at the guy’s face.

  ‘OK, Ian Molina. Walk to the cooker.’

  ‘Molina’ waits a beat, then, just as Caffery thinks he’s going to bolt, he walks quietly towards the cooker. Caffery follows, the poker still at the ready. He scoops his cuffs from his pocket and holds them out to Molina. ‘One on your right hand.’

  ‘Are you going to take me into custody?’

  ‘Put the cuff on the right hand, like I said.’

  Molina obliges, a patient look on his face. ‘Is that going to be real custody, or is it going to be the sort where I get fucked in the arse then trip down the stairs?’

  ‘Now drop the cuff behind the handle.’

  ‘Or choke on my own vomit? I mean, once it gets out what I’ve done to the people in this house, I don’t think I’m going to be safe anywhere.’

  ‘Just do it. Then close the cuffs.’

  Molina gives a long sigh – as if he’s struggling to keep his patience with this trivial charade. But he obeys, dropping the cuffs down and snapping them closed so he’s chained to the cooker. He stands, his head back, whistling a small tune, his left leg jerking like someone keeping time with an inaudible sound track.

  Caffery checks the cuffs are secure – gives them a good rattle. In his inside pocket, out of habit, he carries nitrile gloves. He pulls them out and snaps them on. He stands for a moment, contemplating. Measuring the path from here to the hallway. ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Molina says, with mild interest. ‘Where are who?’

  ‘The family.’

  ‘The family? They’re – oh.’ He shrugs. ‘They’re pretty much everywhere now. Once I got started I found it difficult to restrain myself. You know how it is.’

  ‘Upstairs?’

  ‘Mostly. Yes.’

  ‘The police are going to be here in less than ten minutes.’

  ‘Good,’ he says drily. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  Caffery waits a beat or two longer, watching Molina. Then he turns and steps into the hallway. Sun is coming through the huge stained-glass window. Now he sees it is the same as the picture on the condolences card sent to Mrs Frink. A globe, long shards of light emanating from it, a family depicted in a field, the father swinging the daughter around – her legs flying out gaily behind her. The son and the mother are seated on a nearby stile, watching and smiling. Light bounces off everything – the trees, the sky, even the human figures emit rays. The mother in particular, Caffery sees. Matilda Anchor-Ferrers. She has the most light coming from her.

  He goes to the long staircase and begins to climb. A minstrel’s-gallery-style landing is ahead of him, several doors opening from it. What the fuck is in those rooms? He climbs heavily for two or three steps. The next two steps he makes a little lighter. The next two very light. Before he can see the landing he comes to a halt.

  Hand on the banister, he waits. Counts to ten, holding his breath. Then very, very gingerly he removes his shoes, turns and, using the edges of the stair treads where the wood is firmer, makes his way back downstairs. He crosses the hall to the rack of dog leads, takes two and goes swiftly and silently back to the kitchen door. It is still open a crack. He positions himself next to the hinges and peers through.

  Ian Molina is on tiptoe. He has slid himself to the far end of the cooker and is standing in an awkward position, his tongue between his teeth, concentrating hard, trying to remove the
cuffs using, Caffery thinks, the tiny igniter on the hob.

  There is a small click. Caffery pulls his CS spray from his shirt pocket and goes into the room swiftly, unravelling one of Bear’s leads through the fingers of the other hand. Molina’s head comes up in surprise. He has no time to react before he gets a full face of CS. Caffery uses his right hand, the elbow raised to protect his mouth from the spray, and with the left swings the dog lead around Molina’s knees. The CS, combined with the blow, brings Molina crashing down like a tree, screaming in pain.

  ‘You fucker, you fucker.’ His legs kick wildly. The freed handcuffs swing from his wrist. ‘Get your fucking hands off me.’

  Caffery squats next to him and grabs his hair. Gives him a shake. ‘Hey, stop that. Just relax. Lie on your front.’

  Molina rolls painfully on to his side. He is struggling to breathe, coughing and retching. With all his might Caffery grabs him by the feet and pulls him away from the cooker, across the floor, his head bouncing, his T-shirt rucking up to his underarms. He throws him against the radiator, face down, and cuffs his hands to it. You’re not supposed to leave a CS victim, but Caffery’s beyond caring. He uses a dog lead to tie Molina’s feet together.

  ‘You didn’t think I was that stupid, did you?’

  Molina opens his sore mouth. His lips and eyes are swollen. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘You don’t – it’s too much, wanker.’

  Caffery’s satisfied with the ties. He steps back and, because there’s no point in doing things by halves, he leans over and gives Molina a second faceful of CS gas. The guy twists and throws his head back and struggles to drag in a breath. A second dose could kill him. Caffery shrugs at the thought.