Free Gone by Mo Hayder Page A

longer had eyes to watch children nor a penis to rape them with.
    ‘Is that what makes you different?’ Caffery said. ‘Is that what makes you able to see?’
    ‘To see? What does that mean?’
    ‘You know what I mean. You
see
. You see more than others see.’
    ‘Supernatural powers, you mean.’ The Walking Man snorted. ‘Don’t talk mumbo-jumbo. I live out here and off the ground, like an animal. I exist and I absorb. My eyes are open wider and more light gets into them. But it doesn’t make me a seer.’
    ‘You know things I don’t.’
    ‘So? What do you expect of yourself? Being a cop doesn’t make you superhuman. No matter what you think.’
    The Walking Man came back to the fire. He lifted some more wood on to it. His walking socks were spread out to dry on a stick shoved into the ground near the flames. They were good socks. The most expensive money could buy. Made from alpaca. The Walking Man could afford it. He had millions tucked away in a bank somewhere.
    ‘Paedophiles.’ Caffery sipped his cider. It stung the back of his throat and sat flat and cold in his stomach, but he knew he’d drink the whole mug and more before the night was finished. ‘My specialist subject. Stranger kidnaps. The outcome is usually the same: if we’re very lucky the child gets returned almost immediately after the assault, and if we’re not, the child will be killed within the first twenty-four hours.’ It was nearly thirty hours since Martha had gone. He lowered the mug. ‘Or, now I think of it, maybe that’s when we
are
lucky.’
    ‘If the child is killed in the first twenty-four hours you’re lucky? What’s that? Police logic?’
    ‘I mean that maybe it’s a better outcome than those who are kept alive longer.’
    The Walking Man didn’t answer. The two men were silent for a long time, pondering that. Caffery raised his eyes to watch the clouds roll across the moon. He thought how lonely and majestic they were. He imagined a child with golden hair peeping down from them, watching for her parents. Somewhere in the woods a fox cub was calling. And Martha was somewhere out in the great spread of the night. Caffery reached inside his jacket pocket. He pulled out the photocopied letter that had been wrapped inside her underwear and held it out. The Walking Man grunted. Leaned over and took it. Opened it and began to read, tilting the paperforward so it caught the light from the fire. Caffery watched his face. A handwriting expert had already decided the jacker was trying to disguise his writing. While the Bradleys’ car was being crawled over by the forensics guys, Caffery had spent a long time in his office, poring over the letter. Now he knew every word by heart.
    Dear Mummy of Martha
,
    I am sure Martha would of wanted me to get in touch with you though it’s not like she’s said or anything. She’s not very TALKATIVE at the moment. She has told me she likes BALLET DANCING and DOGS, but you and I know very well that girls of this age lie all the time. THEY ARE LIARS. See what I think is I think she likes other things. Not like she’s going to admit that to you now, of course. She LOVED the things I did to her last night. I wish you could of seen her face
.
    But then she turns around and lies to me. You should see her face when she does that. Ugly don’t even come near it. Luckily now I have REARRANGED things in that department. She looks much better now. But please, Martha’s Mummy please can you find it in your heart to do me a kindly favour???? Pretty please? Can you tell the police cunts that they can’t stop me now so don’t bother. It’s started now, hasn’t it, and it ain’t going to stop just sudden. Is it now?
    Is it?
    The Walking Man finished reading. He looked up.
    ‘Well?’
    ‘Take it away from me.’ He thrust the letter at Caffery. His eyes had changed. They were bloodshot and dead.
    Caffery returned it to his pocket. He repeated, ‘Well?’
    ‘If I was really a seer or a