through”?’
Prody stopped looking at the map and raised his eyes to Caffery. ‘Yes. Just – you know, see if anything jumped out at me.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ He said it cautiously, as if it was a trick question, as if Caffery had asked him something obvious, like
Hey, Paul, why do you breathe in and out?
‘Well – because it’s fascinating? What happened to her? I mean a girl in the drying-out bin for a couple of days wanders out of the clinic one afternoon, and next you know,
ta-da
, she’s gone. It’s just . . .’ He shrugged. Faintly embarrassed. ‘Interesting.’
Caffery looked him up and down. Six months ago the Misty Kitson case had been a serious headache for the unit. At first there’d been a kind of excitement about it. She’d been a minor celebrity, a footballer’s wife and very pretty. The media had fallen on it like hyenas. That had excited a lot of the cops in the team. But when, after three months, the unit had consistently come back empty-handed, the lustre began to tarnish. Humiliation had set in. Now the case had been back-burnered. The review team still had it, and they still chastised and sent periodic recommendations to MCIU over it. The press were still interested too, not to mention the occasional starstruck cop. But most of MCIU would have liked to forget they’d ever heard the name Misty Kitson. Caffery was surprised at this – Prody going to the reviewteam off his own bat. Writing his own ticket like he’d been around the place for years and not just two weeks.
‘Let’s get this straight, Paul.’ He picked up the file and felt its weight testing the bones in his fingers, trying to pull his hand down. ‘You only still want to know what happened to Misty Kitson if you’re in the media. Now, you’re not in the media, are you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said, you’re not in the media, are you?’
‘No. I mean, I’m a—’
‘You’re a cop. Your official stance might be “We’re still pursuing lines of enquiry,” but the truth in here,’ he tapped his temple, ‘is you’ve moved on. The unit’s screwed the lid on the Kitson case. It’s over. Finished.’
‘But—’
‘But what?’
‘Be honest. Aren’t you intrigued?’
Caffery didn’t need to be intrigued. He knew exactly where Misty Kitson was. He even knew roughly the route she’d taken out of the clinic’s grounds because he’d walked it himself. He knew who had killed her too. And how. ‘No,’ he said levelly. ‘Of course I’m not.’
‘Not in the slightest?’
‘Not in the slightest. I’m fighting one serious fire here with the jacker case. And I need all hands on deck. I don’t need my men wandering into the review team and “having a flick through” old cases. Now.’ He dropped the file on Prody’s desk. ‘Do you want to take it back or shall I?’
Prody was silent, looking at the file. There was a long pause, and Caffery sensed him struggling not to argue. In the end he swallowed it. ‘Yeah, whatever. I’ll do it.’
‘Good.’
Caffery left the office, feeling irritated and jangled. He closed the door softly, not giving in to the urge to slam it. Turner was standing outside his room, waiting for Caffery as he came down the corridor. ‘Boss?’ He was holding a piece of paper in one hand.
Caffery stopped in his tracks, gave him a long look. ‘From your face, Turner, I’d say I’m not going to like what you’re going to tell me.’
‘Probably not.’
He held out the paper. Caffery closed his thumb and forefinger on it. But something stopped him taking it from Turner’s hand. ‘Tell me.’
‘We got a call from boys in Wiltshire. They found the Bradleys’ Yaris.’
Caffery’s grip on the paper tightened. Still he didn’t pull. ‘Where?’
‘On some disused farmland.’
‘And Martha’s not in it. Is she?’
Turner didn’t answer.
‘If she’s not in it,’ Caffery’s voice was calm, ‘it doesn’t mean she won’t still turn up.’
Turner
Prody stopped looking at the map and raised his eyes to Caffery. ‘Yes. Just – you know, see if anything jumped out at me.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ He said it cautiously, as if it was a trick question, as if Caffery had asked him something obvious, like
Hey, Paul, why do you breathe in and out?
‘Well – because it’s fascinating? What happened to her? I mean a girl in the drying-out bin for a couple of days wanders out of the clinic one afternoon, and next you know,
ta-da
, she’s gone. It’s just . . .’ He shrugged. Faintly embarrassed. ‘Interesting.’
Caffery looked him up and down. Six months ago the Misty Kitson case had been a serious headache for the unit. At first there’d been a kind of excitement about it. She’d been a minor celebrity, a footballer’s wife and very pretty. The media had fallen on it like hyenas. That had excited a lot of the cops in the team. But when, after three months, the unit had consistently come back empty-handed, the lustre began to tarnish. Humiliation had set in. Now the case had been back-burnered. The review team still had it, and they still chastised and sent periodic recommendations to MCIU over it. The press were still interested too, not to mention the occasional starstruck cop. But most of MCIU would have liked to forget they’d ever heard the name Misty Kitson. Caffery was surprised at this – Prody going to the reviewteam off his own bat. Writing his own ticket like he’d been around the place for years and not just two weeks.
‘Let’s get this straight, Paul.’ He picked up the file and felt its weight testing the bones in his fingers, trying to pull his hand down. ‘You only still want to know what happened to Misty Kitson if you’re in the media. Now, you’re not in the media, are you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said, you’re not in the media, are you?’
‘No. I mean, I’m a—’
‘You’re a cop. Your official stance might be “We’re still pursuing lines of enquiry,” but the truth in here,’ he tapped his temple, ‘is you’ve moved on. The unit’s screwed the lid on the Kitson case. It’s over. Finished.’
‘But—’
‘But what?’
‘Be honest. Aren’t you intrigued?’
Caffery didn’t need to be intrigued. He knew exactly where Misty Kitson was. He even knew roughly the route she’d taken out of the clinic’s grounds because he’d walked it himself. He knew who had killed her too. And how. ‘No,’ he said levelly. ‘Of course I’m not.’
‘Not in the slightest?’
‘Not in the slightest. I’m fighting one serious fire here with the jacker case. And I need all hands on deck. I don’t need my men wandering into the review team and “having a flick through” old cases. Now.’ He dropped the file on Prody’s desk. ‘Do you want to take it back or shall I?’
Prody was silent, looking at the file. There was a long pause, and Caffery sensed him struggling not to argue. In the end he swallowed it. ‘Yeah, whatever. I’ll do it.’
‘Good.’
Caffery left the office, feeling irritated and jangled. He closed the door softly, not giving in to the urge to slam it. Turner was standing outside his room, waiting for Caffery as he came down the corridor. ‘Boss?’ He was holding a piece of paper in one hand.
Caffery stopped in his tracks, gave him a long look. ‘From your face, Turner, I’d say I’m not going to like what you’re going to tell me.’
‘Probably not.’
He held out the paper. Caffery closed his thumb and forefinger on it. But something stopped him taking it from Turner’s hand. ‘Tell me.’
‘We got a call from boys in Wiltshire. They found the Bradleys’ Yaris.’
Caffery’s grip on the paper tightened. Still he didn’t pull. ‘Where?’
‘On some disused farmland.’
‘And Martha’s not in it. Is she?’
Turner didn’t answer.
‘If she’s not in it,’ Caffery’s voice was calm, ‘it doesn’t mean she won’t still turn up.’
Turner
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