Wolf

by Mo Hayder

  A creak behind him. He turns. Lucia has appeared less than a foot away in the gloom. She is naked, her hands are raised. He reacts just in time, catching her by the wrists and holding them above her head. She writhes, spitting and kicking out at him with her bare feet.

  ‘I’m the victim – I’m the victim. Change what you just said. Change it now.’

  Caffery digs his fingers into her wrists hard. She’s fierce but she’s small and he’s happy to use excessive force. Whatever it takes. The last words Oliver Anchor-Ferrers wrote are hot and fresh like a burn in his head:

  I think you will read this and use it as a piece in the puzzle. I cannot believe what I am going to write next. And yet it is what I believe to be the truth …

  Oliver knew. In his last hours Oliver had worked out what his own daughter had done.

  Minnet Kable was ambidextrous and that is why he was so easily convicted. It was a key piece of evidence the prosecution hung a hat on. But actually Hugo and Sophie were killed by two people working together. How else could they have been confined so effortlessly in that wood? It was two people monitoring them – waiting for the life to seep out of them. It was the man who calls himself ‘Molina’ and my daughter, Lucia.

  Caffery shakes her now. Angry. She drops to the floor still spitting and twisting, but he doesn’t release his hold on her. The left-hander was ‘Molina’ – Oliver has noted on the rug he is left-handed, a tiny observation he’s made. But it was the right-handed killer who inflicted the most ferocious blows on Hugo and Sophie. Maybe Sophie’s last words, obliterated by the knife, had identified Lucia.

  From downstairs comes a splintering shudder. Lucia stops struggling. She snaps her head back and stares at the door. Another noise. The whole house seems to rock.

  ‘It’s the entry team,’ Caffery says. ‘On their way up. Sometimes they’re a bit heavy-handed.’

  Lucia sees time is limited. She comes out of her fury quickly and lowers her chin, her bright black eyes swivel up, assessing him from the floor. Processing the situation. ‘You’re insane,’ she mutters meanly. ‘Who are you? Not a proper cop. You’re an evil shit. You won’t get away with it.’

  ‘Someone once told me that the stripe of the goat is to look into the eyes of others and see itself staring back.’

  ‘What the fuck’re you talking about?’

  ‘You’re right. I’m an evil shit – I am a liar and a cheat and not a good human being. I break the law and I have broken people along the way. But all of that, Lucia – it makes me lucky. Because I can look at people like you, I can look in your face and see my reflection. I know when I’m in the presence of evil, Lucia. I do know. It’s my gift.’

  Part Three

  Amy

  IN CHEW VALLEY, the sun has already set. Some of the houses are dark save for a few garden lights and the occasional glow of a late night TV. One of the darkened windows is the bedroom of Amy. Five years old.

  She lies on her back, holding her teddy, Buttons, in the crook of her arm. Her eyes are open, she’s watching the shadows on the ceiling. Mummy tucked her in a long time ago but she can’t sleep. There are so many things to worry about: maths lessons and Mrs Redhill telling her off today for running after the whistle went after first play, then Daddy going on and on about how it’s important to listen to the teachers.

  She’s worried too about what’s on the other side of the window. When she went downstairs earlier, when she couldn’t sleep, Mum and Dad was watching a programme on the telly. When she came in the door they quickly switched the channel, like they always do when there’s something adult on the telly. Some things kids aren’t supposed to see and when you get into year 1 and you get to go on the pooters at school then you got to have ‘Parental Controls’ and that’ll stop all the bad things off of the Internet from hurting you.

  Except Amy was standing in the doorway for a bit before Mum and Dad noticed and she heard lots of what the man on the telly was talking about. It was all about something horrid what happened to a family. Some nasty men got into their house and hurt them. The man said the word ‘murder’, which is a horrid word that means someone got a knife and stabbed another person in the tummy. It makes Amy shiver to think about that happening. She hugs Buttons the teddy bear really tight, trying not to cry. She doesn’t understand why someone could be nasty enough to want to put a knife into someone else. A whole knife.

  God won’t let the nasty man who done the murder into heaven. He’ll put out his long fork and say, ‘No, you bad man, go away.’ And that won’t be all because the bad man will have gone to prison too, even before he gets to heaven. The police will have put chains on him and put him in a special car and taken him to a place like that spooky place in London with the big black birds and the men in red coats.

  She pulls back the covers and slips out of bed. Still clutching Buttons, she pads to the window and pulls the curtain back. Everything out there is still and silent, without any people walking around. The garden is quiet. Sometimes a fox comes into the garden late at night. Or rabbits, which makes Dad yell because they eat his flowers.

  But there’s nothing out there now. Just the moon on the grass, and the bird bath with the water all still. She thinks about what a horrible person it must have been to do those nasty things to another person. She hopes they’re not near here, trying to creep into her garden like the bunnies do.

  From the trees on the other side of the valley comes a line of smoke. Same as when Dad’s having a bonfire. It’s a straight line going up into the sky, like it’s pointing at heaven where God is. She smiles now because she thinks it belongs to the man with the beard, the one who took the puppy. He smelled like smoke.

  The reverse Santa Claus man is a good man. He came to the end of Amy’s garden yesterday afternoon, when Mum and Dad never knew, and he talked to Amy for ages. He said that men who do nasty things like what happened on the news are the unhappiest men on the face of the earth coz of the way they feel inside. He said they are hurting – the way it hurts when you fall over, except on the inside. Amy thought he meant the way what she feels when Daddy shouts or Mrs Redhill says something nasty about maths.

  Reverse Santa Claus said that the puppy ain’t not a puppy at all but a grown-up proper dog and he has found her owner. Her owner is a policeman, ‘parently, called Jack, and that makes Amy feel better’n’better than anything, because like everyone knows there’s no one kinder nor more stronger in the whole wide world than what a policeman is.

  Suddenly, looking at the line of smoke, Amy has an idea. She thinks she knows what she’s going to say when the boys at school all talk about how they’re going to grow up to drive tractors and be in the army and shoot people. She’s going to say: ‘Well I ain’t. I’m going to be a police lady like the one what came into school to talk about traffic and cross the road. I’m going to be a police lady and boss all the nasty men into prison.’

  And as soon as Amy thinks the thought a lovely feeling comes over her. Really nice and warm an’ cosy like the feeling you get when you walk into someone’s house for a birthday party and smell chocolate.

  She hugs Buttons closer, kisses his head, and goes back to bed. She pulls the covers up and closes her eyes. She knows she’s going to go straight to sleep now – she’s not worried any more. Everything, Amy thinks, is going to be fine.

  Just fine.

  The Truth

  THE COUNTRYSIDE IS dark and silent – only the vague ghostly shapes of cows in the fields. Caffery pulls up in the car park at the foot of the path that leads to the ‘Reflection Grove’, cuts the engine and leans forward in the seat, peering up into the darkness.

  It is ten p.m. The debriefing has taken six hours. Six wearying hours of giving statements and going through the formalities of Lucia Anchor-Ferrers’ arrest. They’ve swabbed every inch of him and made him go through elaborate plans of the crime scene so they know where to concentrate their search. He’s had to explain the events of the day over and over to a whole line of SIOs, he
’s faced the wrath of the superintendent, he’s transferred money into Patel’s online account, he’s emailed the council about Mrs Frink’s welfare. He’s faced down every obstacle so all that remains in front of him is this. The final truth.

  His heart thuds in the silence. He doesn’t know what’s made him come to this specific place – except maybe instinct and a faith in the Walking Man’s sense of irony. Sure enough he can make out the dim red glow of a fire, the spreading fingers of gaunt bramble silhouetted against it. The Walking Man has allowed himself to be found. Which means he knows the game is coming to an end. If he has any truth, any knowledge at all about what happened to Ewan all those years ago, it’s going to come out now.

  All Caffery’s clothes have been taken away by the CSI team and he’s wearing the borrowed uniform of a police technician – blue serge shirt and trousers, a navy fleece. He pushes his V-Cig into the fleece pocket, zips it up and climbs out, dread in his belly. Bear jumps out behind him and follows him through the gate. It’s been five days since he was here. A part of him wishes he could get straight back to the way he was on that showery morning. A part of him really doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to know.

  As he gets nearer, he sees the Walking Man’s fire has been made next to the willow pagoda; the orange reflections of flames dance on the underside of the woven roof. A nearby log has been covered in sleeping bags to make a seat. A dead girl’s monument. A place to talk about children that have been lost and not found.

  He comes into the circle of red light thrown out by the fire and stops, the heat on his face. He stares at the Walking Man. The Walking Man stares back. Under the dirt on his face he has a cut lip and bruises from when Caffery attacked him last night.

  The Walking Man rummages in a rucksack and pulls out a bag full of leftover breakfast.

  ‘Hey,’ he tells Bear. ‘Come here. Come and eat something.’

  The whole time Bear has been with Caffery she’s been reticent with other people. Friendly when enticed, but reserved on the whole. Now however she doesn’t hesitate. She trots across to the Walking Man and stops at his feet, staring up at him expectantly. He sits and unwraps the bag and feeds her a few scraps.

  ‘She my dog now,’ Caffery says.

  ‘You’re social services for dogs. She’s from a broken home.’

  ‘Yes. I found where she lives. She’s never going back there, but I found it.’

  ‘I know. I’ve seen all the comings and goings.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. You know everything.’

  The Walking Man nods. ‘I know a lot. Sometimes more than I want to know.’

  Caffery sits down on the log. Puts his elbows on his knees. Sensing his mood, Bear leaves the food and comes back to him. She leaps up on to the log next to him and nuzzles his arm. He’s so glad she’s here. He can’t stop his hands trembling. The Walking Man bends and opens the plastic quart-bottle of scrumpy. Pours out two mugs. Caffery takes one of the mugs. Tries to drink and finds he can only manage small sips.

  ‘OK.’ He wishes the cider would work fast. ‘Tell me.’

  The Walking Man sighs. Shakes his head, lets his eyes travel across Caffery’s face. ‘Jack Caffery,’ he says sadly. ‘Jack Caffery.’

  Everything is in those words – everything. Suddenly Caffery’s mouth is watery with adrenalin, the hairs stand up on his arms. Whatever the Walking Man has found out – it’s bad. He forces more of the cider into his mouth. More. He’s going to need it.

  ‘OK. Tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know where his body is – probably never will.’

  Caffery is silent for a moment. Then he begins to laugh, low and nasty. ‘Funny. Funny funny. I’ve had enough of you. Now tell me what you’ve found out.’

  ‘It’s the truth – believe it or don’t believe it. I said I don’t know where your brother’s body is. I’ve said that as plainly as I can, and it’s the truth.’

  Caffery blinks stupidly. It is the truth. He knows it from the Walking Man’s expression. ‘Then you haven’t kept your end of the bargain – you fucking old bastard. I’ve waded through shit to keep my end of the bargain and you’ve brought me nothing new and now you—’

  The Walking Man holds up his hand to silence him. ‘Jack, you can threaten me, beat me, arrest me. But you can’t make something out of thin air. I don’t know where the body is. It has been buried – disposed of to protect people. Really, you have to believe me, I don’t know. But I have spoken for a long time to Derek Yates, and I’ve discovered something about Ewan’s death that you have never suspected.’

  Caffery closes his mouth. A cold wave of apprehension goes through him, like nothing he’s ever known before.

  ‘The circumstances of your brother’s death, Jack, are not the circumstances you think. Ivan Penderecki didn’t kill him. Your brother was raped – several times. I’m sorry. But he survived the experience with Ivan Penderecki.’

  Caffery is motionless.

  ‘At least, as far as it can be said that still breathing, eating, shitting and sleeping is surviving. He survived for years. He lived on and on, Jack, he reached adulthood. All the time your family was in mourning, he was still living.’ The Walking Man drops his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmurs. ‘But it’s true.’

  Caffery sags with the weight of disbelief. He cannot get his jaw to unlock. Ewan didn’t die as a child. Adulthood. He reached adulthood.

  ‘He died ten years ago. Tracey Lamb was inside. She instructed someone to bury his body eight years ago – by then we can only assume it was a skeleton. Mr Yates in Long Lartin doesn’t know who she instructed or where they buried him. He only knows how he died.’

  The dread is so paralysing his lungs feel like stone. As if every breath takes the cracking of molecules and atoms. ‘How – how did he die?’

  ‘You produced evidence at a bail hearing – so I am told. Videos you sent to the CPS? To make sure Tracey Lamb wasn’t bailed? It stopped her being released. She was your brother’s carer – the only person who cared for him – whatever meaning the word “care” carried in her lexicon. When she went into prison, your brother was left by her, incarcerated somewhere …’ He trails off, and for the first time ever Caffery sees sadness in his eyes. Sadness for another person. ‘You know what I’m telling you, Jack. He is dead, he starved to death – or died of dehydration, however one dies in those circumstances. But it wasn’t Penderecki who killed him. You did, Jack. You did.’

  Caffery puts the mug down clumsily and gets to his feet. He walks unsteadily away from the fire until he comes to a tree, and stands there, his hand against the trunk, breathing in and out, in and out. His hand fumbles for the V-Cig in his pocket but can’t find it, and anyway he wouldn’t be able to smoke it now. He wants to spit. He wants to vomit. He concentrates on his breathing – concentrates on not letting the cider come back up in a sour rush.

  Above his head a bird appears quite suddenly, lit orange from the firelight below. An owl, wings spread like lace. It glides silently and purposefully, as if it’s aiming for a place far beyond the copse, but as it crests the trees a sudden, ferocious gust of wind assaults it head on. The owl is thrown back on the air. It flaps frantically for a moment, as if it’s been hit by a bullet, and sinks briefly before it can recover its balance. Then, determinedly, it straightens, presenting its chest to the wind and beating its wings, pushing against the current. A fighter. Determined. And yet it makes no headway – for the moment it seems caught – destined to hang there constantly, struggling with all its life-force just to stay still.

  The sight of the owl makes Caffery cry. Shuddering, he puts his head against the tree trunk and stands there, letting the tears fall out of his eyes on to the ground.

  If he had been born a different person, would the world have hurt less than this?

  When the wave dies down he turns, his face a mess, and stares over his shoulder at the fire. The Walking Man is watching him steadily. For once the expression on his face is not antipathy or game-pla
ying. Instead it is sympathy.

  ‘Mr Jack Caffery,’ he says slowly. ‘This is the truth, but don’t be afraid of it. Your life will be different from this day on, but you will survive. You will continue.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I know because you and I? We are the same person.’

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to the following people who helped me with the technical details in Wolf. Tony Agar, DCI Gareth Bevan (Avon and Somerset Major Crime Investigation Unit), Kirsten Gunn (Sergeant, Royal Corps of Signallers), Anne O’Brien (copy-editor), Dave Welch (MD, Ramora UK) and Hugh White (Home Office Pathologist).

  For selflessly lending me her name and allowing herself to be murdered, I thank you Ginny Martin.

  Thank you too for the unwavering support of everyone at my publishers, Transworld (too many to mention), and everyone at my agent’s office – especially Jane Gregory (agent nonpareil).

  As always my greatest debt of gratitude is to my friends and family, especially Bob Randall (who contributed the majority of the research), Lotte G. Quinn, Susan Hollins and Mairi Kerr.

  Turn the page to find out how Mo Hayder puts the fear into her fiction

  BIG CATS AND DEER

  BACKING ON TO my house is an enormous timber forest through which snake miles of footpaths. A naturally spooky and inaccessible place, it is also beset with rumours of ‘big cats’ – unidentified puma-type beasts that hide in the undergrowth and stalk local livestock. In researching animal attacks for my novel Wolf, I followed these rumours with interest. Every few weeks there were reports in the local press of deer remains being found, apparently attacked by a large carnivore.

  In spite of this, and in spite of the fact it is easy to become lost in the forest, I often took long walks there while writing the novel. Sure enough, one evening I took a wrong turn and found myself still walking when night fell. It was just as I had reorientated myself and discovered the track leading home that I heard something moving in the undergrowth about two yards to my right. Going at the same speed I was. In the same direction. When I stopped, the noise stopped.