‘It arrived at the office an hour ago,’ Turner said. ‘Prody scanned it and sent it straight over to you.’ He gave an apologetic shrug, as if this whole thing was his fault. ‘Another letter. Same as the one in the car. Same handwriting, same paper. Has a stamp on it but no postmark. Came through internal so we’re trying to trace it back – but so far no one knows where it originated, how it got in the damned post.’
‘OK, OK.’ Caffery pulled out his phone. He could feel a vein pulsing in his temple. ‘Get back to the office, Turner. I want you doing liaison for those search warrants the POLSA’s after.’
He went further up the track to stand where he couldn’t be seen, at the edge of the lumber-yard, behind an open-sided barn piled with the trunks of Norway spruces. He opened the attachment on the phone. It took a minute or two to download but when it came through he knew instantly it was from the jacker. Knew it wasn’t a hoax.
Martha says hello. Martha says hello and says tell Mummy and daddy she’s being really brave. But she doesn’t like the cold very much does she. And she’s not a big talker. Not any more. I’ve tried to have a conversation with her, but she won’t speak a lot. Oh except for one thing: she’s said a few times to let you know her mother’s a cunt. Which maybe she’s right about! Who knows! One thing’s for sure: her mothers fat. Fat AND a cunt. Christ, life doesn’t shine clean on some of us, does it? What a fat cunt she is. I look at someone like Martha and think that’s the tragedy, isn’t it, that she has to grow up and turn into a fat cunt like her mother? What does Mummy think about that? Does she think it’s a shame her daughter has to grow up? Probably scared of what will happen when she leaves the house. I mean when Martha’s gone who’s Daddy going to diddle? Have to go back to having a ride on big tit Mama.
Caffery hadn’t realized until now he’d been holding his breath. He let it out all at once. Scrolled up to the top of the letter and read it through again. Then, almost as if he might be caught reading a dirty mag or something, he shoved the phone in his pocket and looked around him. The vein in his temple was aching. On the other side of the yard Sergeant Marley had started the van and was reversing it back up the track. He pressed a finger to the vein, held it there for a count of ten. Then he made his way back to his car.
15
The Bradleys’ was easy to spot as you drove on to the estate: there was a press pack camped opposite it, and in the front garden a pile of flowers and gifts that had been left by well-wishers. Caffery knew a private way in: he parked at the top of the estate and walked away into the grounds, wading through carpets of rustling leaves, looping round and coming at the house from the back. There was a door in the garden fence that the press hadn’t found. The police and the Bradley family had reached an agreement: two or three times a day one of the family would show their face at the front door, just enough to keep the pack happy. The rest of the time they used the back entrance, coming through the garden. At three thirty p.m. it was almost dark, and Caffery slipped into the garden unnoticed.
On the back step there was a basket covered, like something out of a Delia Smith book, with a gingham cloth. When the family liaison officer opened the door Caffery pointed to it. She picked it up and beckoned him inside. ‘The neighbour,’ she whispered, closing the door behind him. ‘She thinks they need feeding. We have to keep throwing stuff away – no one in this family’s eating anything. Come on.’
The kitchen was warm and clean, despite its shabbiness. Caffery knew that for the Bradleys it was comforting – they looked as if they’d spent most of the last three days in there. A rickety portable TV had been brought in and stood on a table in the corner. It was showing the twenty-four-hour news channel. Something about the economy and the Chinese government. Jonathan Bradley was at the sink, his back turned to the TV, his neck bent wearily. He was studiously washing a plate. He wore jeans and, Caffery noticed, mismatched slippers. Rose watched the TV from the kitchen table, dressed in a pink housecoat, an untouched cup of tea in front of her. She still looked medicated, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She was well built, Caffery thought, but not obviously obese and you wouldn’t notice it if she was wearing an outdoor coat. Either the jacker was taking a shot in the dark, or it was just his own species of abuse. Or he’d seen her without a coat some time before the kidnap.
‘Detective Caffery,’ the FLO announced to the family, putting the basket on the table. ‘I hope that’s still OK.’
Only Jonathan responded. He stopped washing up and nodded. He got a tea-towel and wiped his hands. ‘Of course it is.’ He gave a tight smile and held out his hand. ‘Hello, Mr Caffery.’
‘Mr Bradley. Jonathan.’
They shook and Jonathan pulled a chair up to the table. ‘Here. Have a seat. I’ll make more tea.’
Caffery sat. It had been cold out in the lumberyard and his hands and feet felt hard and heavy. Finding the tracks should feel like an uptick in their box. Truth was, it hadn’t moved them forward. The teams were still out there on the knock, rousing every householder and farmer. Caffery kept waiting for the POLSA’s number to flash up on his phone screen. He wanted it to happen but, God, please don’t let it happen now, he thought, not here in front of the family.
‘You haven’t finished your tea, darling.’ Jonathan put his hands on his wife’s shoulders and bent over to her. ‘I’ll make you a fresh one.’ He took the cup and the basket from the table to the side. ‘Look, Mrs Fosse’s made us something to eat again.’ His voice was unnaturally raised, as if this was an old people’s home and Rose in the last stages of dementia. ‘Nice of her. Need neighbours like that.’ He pulled the linen cloth from the basket and sorted through the few things the woman had left. Some sandwiches, a pie and some fruit. A card, and a bottle of red wine with ‘organic’ printed on the label. Caffery kept his eye on the bottle. He didn’t think he’d refuse if they offered. But the pie went into the microwave and the bottle stayed on the side, unopened, while Jonathan busied himself pouring hot water into a teapot.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ Caffery said, when they had cups of tea and slices of hot apple pie in front of them. Jonathan had seemed determined to keep up an illusion of normality, setting the table, serving food. ‘Interrupting you like this.’
‘It’s OK.’ Rose’s voice was a monotone. She didn’t look at him or the food, but kept her eyes on the TV set. ‘I know you haven’t found her. The lady told us.’ She gestured at the FLO, who had settled at the other side of the table and was busy opening a huge file to take notes of the conversation. ‘Told us nothing’s happened. That’s right, isn’t it? Nothing’s happened?’
‘No.’
‘They told us about the car. They said there was some clothing in it. Martha’s. When you’re ready we’ll have it back, please.’
‘Rose,’ said the FLO, ‘we’ve talked about this.’
‘I’d like the clothing back, please.’ Rose took her eyes off the TV and turned them to Caffery. They were swollen and red. ‘That’s all I’m asking. Just to have my daughter’s property back now.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Caffery said. ‘We can’t do that. Not yet. It’s evidence.’
‘What do you need it for? Why do you have to hold on to it?’
The underwear was in the lab at HQ. They were desperately throwing test after test at it. So far no trace of the jacker’s semen. Just like in the car. That made Caffery really uneasy, how controlled the guy was. ‘I’m sorry, Rose. I really am. I know this is hard. But I have to ask you some more questions.’
‘Don’t be sorry.’ Jonathan set a pot of cream on the table and distributed dessert spoons. ‘It helps to talk. It’s better to be able to talk about it than not. Isn’t it, Rose?’
Rose nodded numbly. Her mouth fell open a little.
‘She’s seen all the papers, hasn’t she?’ Caffery asked the FLO. ‘You showed her the one with Martha on the front page?’