The FLO got up, took a paper from a sideboard and put it on the table in front of him. It was the Sun. Someone in a women’s clothing store the Bradleys had visited on the Saturday morning had sold the newspaper footage of Rose and Martha browsing near the window thirty minutes before the kidnapping. The newspaper had published a frame with a time stamp and the headline:
The last photo? Just half an hour before she is snatched by a monster eleven-year-old Martha shops happily with Mum.
Rose said, ‘Why did they have to write that? Why did they say the last photo? It makes it sound as if . . .’ She pushed the hair off her forehead. ‘It makes it sounds as if – you know. As if it’s all over.’
Caffery shook his head. ‘It’s not all over.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No. We’re doing absolutely everything we can to bring her home safely.’
‘I’ve heard that before. You said it before. You said she’d be having her party.’
‘Rose,’ Jonathan said gently, ‘Mr Caffery’s only trying to help. Now, here.’ He poured some cream on to her plate, then his own. He put a spoon into her hand and, taking his own, loaded it with apple pie and put it into his mouth, chewing carefully, his eyes on hers. He nodded significantly at her plate, trying to get her to copy him.
‘She hasn’t eaten a thing,’ the FLO whispered. ‘Not since it happened.’
‘Typical you, Dad,’ Philippa said from the sofa. ‘Think food’s going to cure everything.’
‘She needs her strength. She really does.’
Caffery took the cream jug and poured it over his pie. He took a mouthful, and smiled encouragingly at Rose. She stared blankly at the newspaper on the table. ‘Why did they have to write that?’ she repeated.
‘They’ll say whatever sells papers,’ Caffery said. ‘There’s not a lot we can do now. We did get the rest of the footage from the shop, though, and we’ve looked through it.’
‘Why? Why did you need to do that?’
He arranged a chunk of pie on his spoon – did it carefully, taking his time. ‘Rose, look. I know you’ve gone through it all before – I know it’s painful, but I want to go back over that morning. I specifically want to talk to you about the shops you and Martha visited.’
‘The shops we visited? Why?’
‘You said you’d left the food shopping until last.’
‘Yes.’
‘I think you said you were looking for a cardigan? Was that for you or for Martha?’
‘For me. Martha wanted tights. We went to Roundabout first and got her some. She wanted ones with hearts . . .’ Rose paused. She pressed her fingers to her throat and struggled to maintain her composure. ‘With hearts,’ she continued, in a small voice. ‘Red ones. And when we’d got those we went to Coco’s. I saw a cardigan in there I liked.’
‘Did you try it on?’
‘Did she try it on?’ said Jonathan. ‘Does it matter if she tried a cardigan on? I’m sorry to sound rude, but what’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I’m just trying to establish a bit more about what that morning was like. Did you take your coat off and try the cardigan on?’
‘You’re not “trying to establish what the morning was like”.’ Philippa glared at him from the sofa. ‘You’re not doing that at all. I know why you’re asking. It’s because you think he was watching them. You think he was following them before they went anywhere near the car park, don’t you?’
Caffery took another forkful of pie and chewed, holding Philippa’s eyes.
‘It’s true, isn’t it? I can see from your face. You think he was following them.’
‘It’s just one line in our enquiries. In my experience, random is rarely that random.’
‘Does that mean you’ve got some more evidence?’ asked Jonathan. ‘Does that mean he’s communicated with you again?’
There was something small and hard in the mouthful of pie. Caffery didn’t answer while he worked it to the front of his mouth and pushed it with his tongue into the paper napkin. A piece of tooth, covered in pie. A broken tooth right in the middle of a case like this when he really didn’t have time for a trip to the dentist.
‘Mr Caffery? Has there been another communication?’
‘I meant what I said. I’m trying to establish a little more of what . . .’
He trailed off, frowning at the napkin. It wasn’t a piece of tooth at all. It was a whole tooth. But it hadn’t come from him. He ran his tongue around his mouth. No gaps. And, anyway, it was too small. Much too small to have come from an adult.
‘What is it?’ Jonathan stared at the napkin in Caffery’s hand. ‘What’ve you got there?’
‘I don’t know.’ Puzzled, Caffery wiped the tooth on the napkin and studied it closely. A tiny milk tooth.
‘It’s Martha’s.’ Rose was sitting bolt upright, her face absolutely white, her hands gripping the table. ‘It is.’ Her lips were pale. ‘Look, Jonathan, it’s her baby tooth. The one she used to keep in her locket.’
Philippa shot to her feet, strode to the table and bent over to peer at what Caffery was holding. ‘Mum? Oh, God, Mum, it is. It’s her tooth.’
‘I’m sure.’
Very, very slowly Caffery put the tooth on the table about ten inches from his plate.
‘How come it was in your mouth?’ Next to him the FLO’s voice was low and controlled.
Caffery looked down into his plate of apple pie and cream. The FLO looked at hers. They met each other’s eyes and turned to Jonathan, who was staring at his own helping, his face ashen.
‘Where did the pie come from?’
Jonathan’s pupils were like pinpricks. ‘From the neighbour,’ he said faintly. ‘Mrs Fosse.’
‘She’s been bringing food over since this started.’ The FLO put her spoon down with a clatter. ‘She’s trying to help.’
Caffery pushed away his plate and felt automatically in his pocket for his mobile, not taking his eyes off the tooth. ‘Where does she live? What number?’
Jonathan didn’t answer. He bent over and spat a mouthful of pie into his bowl, then glanced apologetically at his wife, his eyes red, watery. He scraped his chair back as if he was going to get up. Instead he leaned over the plate again. This time when he opened his mouth vomit came out, splashing into the plate, little white trails of sputum and cream flecking the table.
Everyone stared at him as he mopped his mouth with a kitchen towel, dabbed at the mess. No one said a word. A long, cold silence spread around the kitchen as if no one had the confidence to speak. Even Caffery was silent, staring at the tooth, at Jonathan dejectedly cleaning the table. Then, as Caffery was about to stand, to do something constructive, get a cloth to help, Rose Bradley came to life. ‘You pig!’ She pushed her chair back with a loud scraping noise and jumped to her feet, pointing a finger at her husband. ‘You absolute hateful pig, Jonathan. You think that if we just pretend everything’s normal it’ll all go away.’ She reached across the table and in one move sent the plate flying off the table to crack into pieces against the cooker. ‘You think pie and tea and mountains of bloody cakes are going to bring her back. You do. You really do.’
She snatched up the tooth and, ignoring the FLO who had half risen out of her chair, her hands up to calm the situation, left the room, slamming the door. A moment later, Philippa shot her father a filthy look and followed her mother, slamming the door again. Their footsteps sounded on the stairs, another door slammed. There was a thump, and then the sound of muffled sobbing.
In the kitchen no one spoke. Everyone sat in silence, staring at their feet.
16
Ten miles to the south in a street on the outskirts of the small town of Mere, Janice Costello, a thirty-six-year-old mother of one, parked her Audi and cut the engine. She turned to the back, where her four-year-old daughter was strapped into her car seat, ready for bed in pyjamas, Hello Kitty slippers and a hot-water bottle. She had a duvet tucked around her.