Gone (6 page)

‘Neil’d had an early meeting that day – he’s at the Citizens Advice Bureau, advises on child custody matters, that sort of thing. I’m afraid I’m the breadwinner – still in the dog-eat-dog end of life. Raking in the filthy lucre.’

She was doing a good job of it, Caffery thought. Cleo had been at King’s School in Bruton, the sort of education that’d put someone back a serious few bob.

‘It happened outside the school?’

‘Not right outside. Actually it was round the corner in the high street. I’d stopped to get something from the shop on my way into school. When I was walking to the car he just . . .
appeared
. Out of nowhere. Running.’

‘Did he say anything? Anything you remember?’

‘Yes. He said, “Get down, you bitch.” ’

Caffery stopped writing and looked up at her. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘He said, “Get down, you bitch.” ’

‘The guy who did us said something like that,’ Damien offered. ‘Said, “Get down, you piece of shit,” to me, called the missus a bitch. Told her to move her arse.’

‘Why?’ said Simone, wonderingly. ‘Is it important?’

‘I don’t know.’ Caffery kept his eyes on Simone’s face. The same words the guy in Frome had said to Rose. He felt something start to tick deep in his thoughts. He cleared his throat, lowered his eyes and wrote ‘Language’ on his notepad. Question mark. Put a circle around it. Then he gave a confident smile. Damien and Simone looked back at him seriously.

‘If it’s the same guy,’ Simone said, ‘then isn’t it a bit of a coincidence? Three different cars? Each with a different girl in it? I mean,’ she lowered her voice, ‘do you wonder if it isn’t the cars he’s after but the girls? Doesn’t it make you wonder what he might have done to Martha?’

Caffery pretended he hadn’t heard that. He let his smile broaden and encompass them in his absolute assertion that everything, everything, was going to be just fine. Fine as a fairy cake with a cherry on top. ‘Thank you both for your time.’ He switched off the MP3 player and gestured in the direction of the door. ‘Shall we go and see if someone from CAPIT is here yet?’

Caffery’s office was heated by a tiny groaning radiator in the corner, but the windows were soon steamed up with the four people that crammed into it to conduct the interview with Cleo Blunt. Caffery stood in the corner, arms crossed. A small woman in her fifties, dressed in a pale-blue sweater and skirt set, sat at his desk, with a list of questions in her hand. She was a sergeant from CAPIT. Opposite her, in swivel chairs, sat Simone and ten-year-old Cleo. Cleo wore a brown pullover and cord jeans, with pink Kickers, and her blonde hair in bunches. She was thoughtfully stirring the cup of hot chocolate Lollapalooza had rustled up from the kitchen. Caffery didn’t need to see her sitting next to her rich mummy to grasp that this little character had private schools and Pony Club membership in her blood. You could tell it from the way she held herself. Still, she was sweet with it. Not obnoxious.

‘Now,’ the CAPIT sergeant began, ‘we’ve told you why you’re here, Cleo? Are you OK with that?’

Cleo nodded. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Right. Now, the man, the one who took Mum’s car.’

‘And never brought it back again.’

‘And never brought it back. I know you’ve already had to talk about him once, and when I spoke to the police officer who asked you all the questions before, she was pretty impressed by you. She told me you were wicked at remembering things. That you thought about the questions, and that when you didn’t know the
answers, you didn’t bother making it up. She said you were really honest.’

Cleo gave a small smile.

‘But we’re going to have to ask you a few more questions. Some will be the same questions all over again. It might seem kind of boring, but it is important.’

‘I know it’s important. He’s got someone else, hasn’t he? Another little girl.’

‘We don’t know. Maybe. So we’ve got to ask you to help us again. If it gets too much just tell me and I’ll stop.’

The officer’s finger rested on the list of questions Caffery had prepared. She’d been briefed with what he wanted and she knew he wanted it fast. ‘You told the police officer before me that this man reminded you of someone. Someone out of a story?

‘I didn’t see his face. He had a mask on.’

‘But you told us something about his voice. It was a bit like someone’s . . . ?’

‘Oh, I know what you mean.’ Cleo half rolled her eyes, half smiled. Embarrassed by the words that had come out of her nine-year-old mouth just six months ago. ‘I said he was like Argus Filch out of Harry Potter. The one who’s got Mrs Norris. That’s who he sounded like.’

‘So shall we call him the Filch man?’

She shrugged. ‘If you want, but he was worse than Argus Filch. I mean a lot worse.’

‘OK. How about we call him the – I don’t know – the caretaker? Argus Filch is the caretaker at Hogwarts, isn’t he?’ Caffery pushed himself away from the wall. He walked to the door, turned and walked back again. He knew the CAPIT officer had a protocol to follow but he wished she’d get a wriggle on. He turned at the window and crossed the room again. The CAPIT officer raised her chin and eyed him coolly, then went back to Cleo. ‘Yes, I think we’ll do that. We’ll call him the “caretaker”.’

‘Cool. Whatevs.’

‘Cleo, I want you do something for me. I want you to imagine that you’re back in that car on that morning. The morning the
caretaker got into your car. Now imagine it hasn’t happened yet. All right? You’re with Mum on the way to school. Can you picture that?’

‘OK.’ She half closed her eyes.

‘What do you feel?’

‘I feel happy. My first class is PE – it used to be my favourite – and I’m going to wear my new gym T-shirt.’

Caffery watched the CAPIT officer’s face. He knew what she was doing. This was the cognitive interviewing technique a lot of the force was using these days. The interviewer took the subject back to the way they were feeling when the incident happened. It was supposed to open up the channels and let the facts flow.

‘Great,’ she said. ‘So obviously you’re not wearing the gym T-shirt yet?’

‘No. I’m wearing my summer dress. With a cardie over it. My gym shirt was in the boot. We never got it back. Did we, Mum?’

‘Never.’

‘Cleo, this is difficult but imagine it’s the “caretaker” driving now.’

Cleo took a breath. She screwed her eyes tighter shut and her hands came up to her chest. Rested there lightly.

‘Good. Now, you remember his jeans. Mum says you especially remember his jeans – with loops on them. When he was driving could you see those jeans?’

‘Not all of them. He was sitting down.’

‘He was in the seat in front of you. Where Dad usually sits?’

‘Yes. And if Dad’s sitting there I can’t see all his legs.’

‘What about his hands? Could you see them?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what do you remember about them?’

‘He had on them funny gloves.’

‘
Those
funny gloves . . .’ Simone corrected.

‘Those funny gloves. Like at the dentist’s.’

The CAPIT officer glanced up at Caffery, who was still pacing. He was thinking about gloves. The CSI’s report on the Blunts’ Yaris hadn’t turned up any DNA at all. And the guy was wearing
gloves in the CCTV footage at the exit barrier. Forensically aware, then. Bloody great.

‘Anything else?’ she asked. ‘Were they big? Small?’

‘Medium. Like Dad’s.’

‘And quite important now,’ the officer continued slowly, ‘can you remember where his hands were?’

‘On the steering-wheel.’

‘Always on the steering-wheel?’

‘Yes.’

‘They never came off it?’

‘Umm . . .’ Cleo opened her eyes. ‘No. Not until he stopped and let me out.’

‘He leaned past you and opened the door from the inside?’

‘No. He tried to open it but Mum’s child lock was on. He had to get out and come round. Like when Mum and Dad let me out of the car.’

‘So he leaned across you once to try the door? Did he touch you when he did that?’

‘Not really. Just brushed my arm.’

‘And when he got out of the car did you see his jeans?’

Cleo gave the CAPIT woman a strange look. Then she glanced at her mother, as if to say, Are we going mad? I thought we’d gone through this already. ‘Yes,’ she said cautiously, as if this was another test of her memory. ‘They were with loops. Climber’s jeans.’

‘And they looked normal? Not undone like he wanted the toilet or anything?’

She frowned, puzzled. ‘No. We didn’t stop at toilets.’

‘So he came round, opened the door and let you out?’

‘Yes. And then he drove off.’

The clock was ticking: the day was getting away from them. Caffery could feel every passing hour like a brick piled on his back. He moved to stand behind Cleo, caught the CAPIT officer’s eye and made a circling motion with his finger. ‘Move on,’ he mouthed. ‘Move on to the route he took.’

She raised her eyebrows coolly at him, gave him a polite smile,
then calmly turned back to Cleo. ‘Let’s go back to when it first happened. Let’s imagine you’re in the car just after the caretaker’s pushed Mummy away.’

Cleo closed her eyes again. Pressed her fingers to her forehead. ‘OK.’

‘You’re wearing your summer dress because it’s warm outside.’

‘Hot.’

‘The flowers are out. Can you see all the flowers?’

‘Yes – in the fields. There are those red ones. What’re they called, Mum?’

‘Poppies?’

‘Yes, poppies. And some white ones in the hedges. They’re a bit puffy and stalky. Like a stalk with a puff of white on them. And the other white flowers like trumpets.’

‘As you’re driving along are there always flowers and hedges? Or do you go past anything else?’

‘Umm . . .’ Cleo wrinkled her forehead. ‘Some houses. Some more fields, that deer thingy.’

‘Deer thingy?’

‘You know. Bambi.’

‘What’s Bambi?’ said Caffery.

‘The Bulmer’s factory in Shepton Mallet,’ Simone said. ‘They’ve got the Babycham fawn out at the front. She loves it. A huge great fibreglass thing.’

The CAPIT officer said, ‘What happened then?’

‘Lots of roads. Lots of bends. Some more houses. And the pancake place he promised.’

There was a moment’s silence. Then it sank in: she’d said something that hadn’t been in her first interview. Everyone looked up at the same time.

‘A pancake place?’ Caffery said. ‘You didn’t mention that before.’

Cleo opened her eyes and saw them all looking at her. Her face fell. ‘I
forgot
,’ she said defensively. ‘I forgot to say it, that’s all.’

‘It’s OK,’ he said, holding his hand up. ‘It’s all right. It’s not a problem that you didn’t say.’

‘It was an
accident
that I didn’t say it before.’

‘Of course it was.’ The CAPIT sergeant gave Caffery a steely smile. ‘And aren’t
you
the clever one for remembering now? I reckon you’ve got a much better memory than I have.’

‘Have I?’ she said uncertainly, her eyes flitting from her to Caffery and back again.

‘
Yes!
Much,
much
better. A shame you didn’t get the pancake. That’s all I can say.’

‘I know. He promised me one.’

Her eyes stopped on Caffery. Hostile. He folded his arms and forced a smile. He’d never been good with kids. He thought they saw through him most of the time. Saw the empty hole he was mostly able to keep hidden from adults.

‘He wasn’t very nice, then, was he, the caretaker?’ said the CAPIT officer. ‘Especially as he promised you a pancake. Where were you going to have the pancake?’

‘At the Little Cook. He said there was a Little Cook up there. But when we got to it he just went straight past it.’

‘Little Cook?’ Caffery murmured.

‘What did the Little Cook look like, Cleo?’

‘Little Cook? He’s red. And white. Holding a tray.’

‘Little Chef,’ said Caffery.

‘That’s what I meant. Little Chef.’

Simone frowned. ‘There aren’t any Little Chefs around here.’

‘There are,’ the CAPIT officer said. ‘In Farrington Gurney.’

Caffery went to the desk, pulled the map over. Shepton Mallet. Farrington Gurney. Right in the heart of the Mendip Hills. From Bruton to Shepton Mallet wasn’t a long way, but Cleo had been in the car forty minutes. The jacker had driven her in zigzags. He’d gone north, then hairpinned back south-west. And in doing that he’d gone past the road that led to Midsomer Norton. The place the convenience-store manager had mentioned. If they had nothing else for the jacker at least they could put a pin in the map on the Midsomer Norton and Radstock area. And focus on it.

‘They do waffles there,’ said the CAPIT woman, smiling at Cleo. ‘I have my breakfast there sometimes.’

Caffery couldn’t keep still. He pushed the map away and sat at the desk. ‘Cleo, in all that time you were with the caretaker, did he talk to you? Did he say anything?’

‘Yes. He kept asking about my mum and dad. Kept asking what their jobs were.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I told him the truth. Mum’s a financial analyst, she earns all the money, and Dad, well, he works to help little children when their mums and dads split up.’

‘You sure there’s nothing else he said? Nothing else you can remember?’

‘I guess,’ she said unconcernedly. ‘I think he said, “It’s not going to work.” ’

‘It’s not going to work?’ Caffery stared at her. ‘When did he say that?’

‘Just before he stopped. He said, “It’s not working, get out.” So I got out and went to the side of the road. I thought he was going to give me my bag with my T-shirt in it but he didn’t. Mum had to buy me a new one because we never got our car back, did we, Mum? We got the T-shirt at the school shop. It’s got my initials and it’s . . .’

Caffery had stopped paying attention. He was staring at a point in mid-air, thinking about the words:
It’s not working
. Meaning it had gone wrong. He’d lost his nerve.

But if that was true for Cleo, it wasn’t true for Martha. This time it was different. This time the jacker had kept his nerve. This time it was working.

By three o’clock the cloud cover had broken in places and the low sun shone obliquely across the fields in this corner of north Somerset. Flea wore the jacket with reflective strips for her afternoon jog. She’d got her dumb nickname as a child because people told her she never looked before she leaped. And because of her irritating, incurable energy. Her real name was Phoebe. Over the years she had tried systematically to iron the ‘Flea’ part out of her character, but still there were days when she thought her energy might burn a hole through the ground she stood on. On those days she had a trick to calm herself. She ran.