‘No comment.’
‘Here’s the deal. You tell me now where he is and we can talk about you bypassing an obstruction charge for not mentioning it earlier.’
‘No comment.’
‘Do you know how long you can get banged up for obstruction? Eh? Six months. How much of that time do you think you’d last, fat boy? Especially when they hear you were protecting a nonce. Now, where is he?’
‘I don’t—’
‘Richard!’ His father silenced him. He put a finger to his lips.
Richard Moon looked at him for a moment, then dropped his head back. Sweat was running down into the neck of his T-shirt. ‘No comment,’ he muttered. ‘No comment.’
‘Boss?’
They turned.
Turner was standing in the doorway holding a bulky envelope wrapped in a freezer bag. ‘This was in the lavvy cistern.’
‘Open it, then.’
Turner unzipped it, poked around dubiously. ‘Papers. Mostly.’
‘What are those doing in your cistern, Mr Moon? Seems a strange place to keep your filing.’
‘No comment.’
‘Jesus. Turner, give me that. Have you got any gloves?’ Turner put the envelope on the table and got a spare pair from his pocket. Caffery pulled them on and shook out the contents of the envelope. It consisted mostly of bills, the name Edward Moon popping up over and over again. ‘And . . . ah – what’s this?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘It looks fascinating.’ Using his thumb and forefinger he pulled out a passport. Flipped it open. ‘The missing passport. As I live and breathe. What are the chances of that? Some arsehole breaks in here, steals all your stuff, comes back years later and leaves it in the bog. I love happy endings.’
The Moons stared back at him dully. Peter Moon had gone a deep, almost bluish red. Caffery couldn’t tell if it was anger or fear. He threw the passport on to the table with the bills. ‘Did you let your brother use this to get him through that CRB sweep? You’re clean but he’s dirty. Particularly dirty, if you ask me.’
‘No comment.’
‘You’re going to have to make a comment eventually. Or start praying your pad-mate hasn’t got AIDS, fat boy.’
‘Don’t call him that.’
‘Ah.’ Caffery turned to the father. ‘You going to speak to me now, are you?’
There was a pause. Peter Moon closed his lips and moved them up and down as if he was fighting the words. His face was like a red fist.
‘Well?’ Caffery put his head politely on one side. ‘Are you going to tell me where your son is?’
‘No comment.’
Caffery slammed his hands on the table. ‘Right – that does it. Turner?’ He raised his chin at the two men sitting on the sofa. ‘Take them in. I’ve had enough of this. You can come in and do the real thing, Mr Moon. You can have your own brief, give him the no-comment treatment and then we’ll see about whether . . .’ He trailed off.
‘Boss?’ Turner, who had pulled out his quickcuffs, was waiting for Caffery to give him instructions. ‘Where are we taking them? Local shop?’
Caffery didn’t answer. He was transfixed by one of the bills.
‘Boss?’
Caffery raised his eyes slowly. ‘We need to speak to Ops,’ he murmured. ‘I think this might be something.’
Turner came to him. Studied the piece of paper Caffery was holding. He let out a low whistle. ‘Christ.’
‘Christ indeed.’ It was a commercial property-leasing statement. It showed that for at least the last eleven years Ted Moon had been renting a lock-up garage in Gloucestershire. It had a secure steel roller door and a hundred square metres of storage. It was all there in the spec. And the address was in Tarlton, Gloucestershire.
Just half a mile from the Sapperton tunnel.
48
Caffery didn’t believe in coincidences. In his book Ted Moon’s lock-up was about as concrete a lead as ever winged its way to an officer of the law. While another DC got the Moons cautioned and into the car, Caffery sat in the shabby little flat making phone calls. Within ten minutes he had two support units on their way to meet him at the lock-up. ‘No time for a warrant,’ he told Turner, as he swung into the Mondeo. ‘We’ll Section 17 it. Threat to life and limb. No need to bother the nice beak. See you up there.’
He drove as fast as he could through the morning traffic, row after row of red brakelights coming on and off in the queues, down the A432 and along the M4 behind Turner’s Sierra. They were less than four miles from the lock-up when Caffery’s phone rang. He shoved the dongle in his ear and answered. It was Nick, the Costellos’ FLO, sounding panicky: ‘I’m sorry to keep hassling you but I’m really worried now. I’ve left three messages and I do think it’s serious.’
‘I’ve been a bit tucked up here. Had the phone on silent. What’s up?’
‘I’m at the Costellos’, the new flat in—’
‘I know.’
‘I was due to turn up for an hour, just to see how they were doing, but I’m here now and I can’t get in.’
‘They’re not there?’
‘I think they are, but they’re not coming to the door.’
‘You’ve got keys, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but I can’t open the door. They’ve got the chain on inside.’
‘Isn’t there a PC with them?’
‘No. He got stood down last night by DC Prody. But Prody must’ve forgotten he was supposed to tell the local shop when he left because no one was rostered to replace him.’
‘Call him.’
‘I have. His phone’s switched off.’
‘The Costellos, then. Have you tried them?’
‘Of course. I’ve spoken to Cory but he’s not in the flat. Says he didn’t even spend the night there. I think he and Janice had a disagreement. He’s on the way over now. He’s called Janice, too, but she’s not picking up for him either.’
‘Shit.’ Caffery tapped the steering-wheel. They were just coming up to the exit for the A46. He could either go left to Sapperton, or right to Pucklechurch, where the Costellos’ flat was. ‘Shit.’
‘I’ve got to tell you – I’m scared.’ Nick’s voice was wobbly. ‘Something’s wrong here. All the curtains are closed tight. There’s no reply at all.’
‘I’ll come over.’
‘We’ll need an entry team. These chains are solid.’
‘Will do.’
He swerved the car to the right, got on to the southbound A46 and pulled out his phone. Thumbed in Turner’s number. ‘Change of plan, mate.’
‘How so?’
‘Get the units assembled and the lock-up covered. Ring it – wide – but don’t do anything yet. Wait for me. And I want you to get another entry team over to the Costellos’ place. Something’s gone seriously Pete Tong down there.’
‘Three entry teams? Ops are going to love us.’
‘Well, tell them their reward’ll be in heaven.’
49
The road to Pucklechurch had a forty-miles-per-hour speed limit. Caffery did sixty whenever the dreary trails of commuters thinned enough to let him. When he arrived it was getting light and the streetlamps had been switched off. Nick was standing on the front path wearing a houndstooth coat and smart high-heeled boots. She was looking up and down the road, biting her fingernails. She shot to the kerb when she saw him and tugged open his door. ‘I can smell something. I got the door open just enough and got my head through the crack and there’s a smell.’
‘Gas?’
‘More like a solvent. The way glueheads always smell – you know?’
Caffery got out of the car and looked up at the flat, the closed windows, tight curtains. Nick had left the front door open as far as it would go on the two chains. He could just see the blue carpet on the stairs inside, a few scuffmarks on the walls. He glanced at his watch. The entry team should be here any minute. They didn’t have far to come.
‘Hold this.’ He pulled off his jacket and handed it to her. ‘And look the other way.’
Nick took a few steps back and held up her hand to shield her eyes. Caffery threw himself at the door, half turning so his shoulder made the contact. The door leaped on its hinges, shuddered noisily, but the chains held and he ricocheted back on to the path. He hopped a little, got his balance and came back at it. He gripped the wooden frame that lined the small porch with both hands, braced himself and shoved his foot at the door. Once. Twice. Three times. Each time it shivered, made deafening splintering noises, and each time it bounced straight back into the frame.