‘Hey.’ The passenger door opened and Nick peered in, dripping rain everywhere. ‘What’s going on?’
Janice clicked on the sat nav, tapped in ‘Sapperton’.
‘Janice. I asked you a question. What the hell’s going on?’
‘I think you know the answer to that. They’ve told you.’
The sat nav was crunching the instructions. And now the map came up on the screen. Janice fiddled with the toggle button, zooming out to get a perspective.
‘Janice, I don’t know what you’re thinking of doing.’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘I can’t let that happen. You’ll have to abduct me if you want me to stay with you.’
‘Then you’re abducted.’
‘Jesus.’ Nick jumped into the front seat and slammed the door. Janice put the car into gear, took the handbrake off and began to pull forward. But she had to slam her foot on the brake. At the end of the bonnet, half obscured by the rain, stood Cory. His eyes were hooded miserably, his body was half hanging, as if his arms and hands had got too heavy for him. She stared at him, not understanding what was happening. Beyond him Clare was in the black car, looking stonily in the opposite direction. With colour in her face at last. Her cheeks were red. Janice got it. There’d been an argument.
She took the car out of gear and Cory came round to the driver’s side. She opened the window and gave him a long, appraising look. Studied his tan, which had been sprayed on in a booth in Wincanton. Was he as pale under it as she felt? It was hard to tell. She studied the suit – pressed and neat because he’d had time to do all that somehow, whereas she’d have to look down at herself if she wanted to know what she was wearing. And he was crying. In all the time Emily had been gone he hadn’t cried. Not once. It had taken Clare to make him cry.
‘She dumped me. I don’t know what you said to her, but she dumped me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Janice kept her voice calm. Quiet. ‘I’m really sorry.’
He held her eyes, his mouth shaking a little. Then his face crumpled. His shoulders came up. He dropped his head forward, put his hands on the side of the car, and began to sob. Janice watched him in silence, saw the vulnerable bald spot on the top of his head. She felt nothing for him. No pity, no love. Just a cold, hard wedge of nothing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, and this time she meant she was sorry for everything. For him, for their marriage, for their poor, poor little girl. She was sorry for the world. ‘I’m sorry, Cory, but now you have to get out of my way.’
75
The rain in the city hadn’t reached the countryside to the northeast of Bristol. Persistent wind had kept the sky clear and the temperatures down so that even by midday most of the fields were still covered with frost. Turner drove Caffery’s Mondeo, taking it fast up the little lanes that led to the wood near the Thames and Severn canal where Prody had dumped Skye Stephenson’s four-by-four. Caffery sat silently in the passenger seat, not speaking. His head jiggled slightly, bumping with the movement of the car. The body armour he wore under his suit was digging into his back.
‘Lion,’ he said distantly. ‘That’s what I was missing.’
Turner shot him a look. ‘Beg pardon?’
‘A lion.’ He nodded. ‘Should have seen it.’
Turner followed his eyeline. Caffery was gazing at the emblem on the steering-wheel. ‘Peugeot? The lion?’
‘Prody’s car is a Peugeot. I saw it when he drove out of the car park last night. It reminded me of something.’
‘What?’
‘You could mistake it for a dragon, couldn’t you? If you were a woman in your sixties who didn’t know much about cars?’
‘Mistake it for a Vauxhall?’ Turner put his indicator on. They’d reached the RV point. ‘Yeah. You could.’
Caffery thought of the miles of streets the units had searched, always looking for a Vauxhall, when Prody’s car was a dark-blue Peugeot. Walking down the wrong road: looking for a dragon and ignoring all the lions they walked past. If they’d had the chip from the shop’s CCTV they’d have known it was a Peugeot. But Prody had taken care of that too. Caffery was willing to bet who the first attending officer had been taking the camera chip out for the robbery investigation and who had forgotten to switch the CCTV back on. Plus Paul and Clare Prody had lived for ten years in Farrington Gurney – at the time it hadn’t struck Caffery as a coincidence. Now he thought of the last six days, pictured them spread out behind him like a trail. He saw every wasted second. Every bitter lapse of concentration. Every cup of coffee he’d stopped to make and drink, every piss he’d taken. All measured against the time – minutes or hours – Martha might have left. He put his forehead to the window and stared out. This morning Ted Moon had tried to hang himself from the same tree his mother had. He was in hospital now, surrounded by his family. Did things get any bleaker?
Turner pulled into the car park of a pub that sat near the easterly entrance to the Sapperton tunnel. The place was crawling with cops: dog vans, CSI vans, support unit vans. The roar of an Air Support Unit helicopter rattled the air above them. Turner pulled on the handbrake, turned to Caffery, his face grave. ‘Boss. At the end of the day my missus always makes me dinner. We sit down and open some wine and then she asks me what happened at work. What I want to know is, am I going to be able to tell her?’
Caffery peered out of the windscreen to where the afternoon sky was cut at mid-section by the tops of the forest trees, and above it the tail rotor of the helicopter. The trees started about fifty yards from the car park – the vague white smear of the inner cordon tape was already in place, lifting lazily in the wind. He sat back. ‘I don’t think so, mate,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t think she’s going to want to hear any of this.’
They got out of the car, went past the people in the car park, and signed in with the outer cordon loggist. The containment area was enormous and there was a long way to walk – along a rutted track overhung with dripping trees, past the five-bar gate Prody had smashed through being chased by two road policing unit vehicles – until they came to the place where he’d crashed and continued on foot. They walked in silence. They were only a quarter of a mile from where Prody had parked the Bradleys’ Yaris the night he’d kidnapped Martha. You know this area, Caffery thought, as they picked up the trail the CSI’s tread-plates made into the wood, don’t you? And you’re not far from here right now. You can’t have gone very far at all now you’re on foot.
By the time they arrived at the crash site the helicopter had stopped circling and was hovering a few hundred yards to the south, over an area of dense woodland. Caffery squinted up at it, noting its position. Wondered what it was focusing on and when he’d hear something. He flashed his badge and ducked under the inner cordon, Turner behind him, to where Skye Stephenson’s four-by-four sat inside its own taped-out containment area. Caffery pocketed his card and stood for a moment, staring at the scene, measuring himself. Trying to get his heart to sit down a bit: trying to stop it battering its way out of his chest.
The vehicle was a dark almost cherry red, its flanks scarred with mud churned up in Prody’s frantic effort to drive it down this tiny lane. He’d known by then he was being followed. Its offside bumper was smashed, the tyre tread split wide to show the radial wires inside. The passenger door and both rear doors stood open. From the sill on the passenger side a blanket trailed slackly, connecting the car to a baby seat that was tipped over, its underside facing Caffery and Turner. Blue, with yellow anchors. Baby clothes lay strewn around. A small arm was just visible in the curve of the seat: a clenched fist.
The crime-scene manager looked up. He saw Caffery and came towards him, pulling down his hood. His face was ashen. ‘The guy is sick.’