Page 77 of The Man Made of Smoke

You’re going to.

Twenty-Two

Notify my son.

John puts the note in the glove box and then gets out of the car.

He looks down at the photograph he’s brought with him: at the image taken of him in the woods with the body of a woman he now believes to be Rose Saunders. His arrogance in investigating the photograph took him to Darren Field’s door, which in turn has led to Field’s death. He’s sure of that now, and the guilt he feels is stronger than ever. But perhaps he can at least try to make amends of some kind before acting on it.

Across the road, the police station is lit by an angle of early evening sunlight.

John hasn’t been inside since his last day at work the year before. It had been an uneventful final shift that seemed like an afterthought at the time; to all intents and purposes, he might as well have already left. At six o’clock, there was a haphazard informal gathering at which the super had said a few words, but there had been no drinks afterward, no gifts or decorations, nothing you could call a proper send-off. John had been happy enough with that. He had spent most of that last day feeling likean outdated piece of office equipment that nobody would miss when it was taken away, assuming they even noticed it was gone at all.

The building looks strange to him now. It’s still familiar, of course; he spent far too many years working there for it not to be. But it’s also alien, like an old home for which he no longer has the keys or any right to enter.

The door opens.

Liam Fleming emerges from the police station, a blustery energy about him. John puts the photograph in his pocket and steels himself. It’s Fleming he needs to talk to: the guilt demands a confession. He needs to tell the man everything and confess just how badly he’s failed. Whatever the resulting humiliation might be, he deserves that and more. And the Reach is always there.

He leans away from the wall and heads quickly across the street, aiming to meet the man a short distance from the door.

“Liam,” he calls over.

But he’s misjudged the distance. And while Fleming clearly hears him, and sees him approaching, the man keeps walking, and is already past him when John gets to the other side of the road.

“Liam—”

Fleming comes to a stop on the pavement a short distance away. He doesn’t turn around. There is a tension to him, though, like a man trying his best to walk away from a bar fight, but who keeps being called back inside against his will.

“What is it, John? I’m really busy.”

“It’s about her,” John says. “The woman in the woods.”

Fleming sighs.

“I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with a civilian. You know that.”

“I know. But hear me out.”

Fleming turns around deliberately slowly. When they used to work together, John often noted a look of contempt on the man’s face, and perhaps Fleming sometimes caught a mirror of it reflected on his. But there’s nothing at all there now. Fleming’s expression is blank, as thoughhe won the battle between them a long time ago, and hasn’t wasted much time thinking about John since.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and gestures out with his elbows.

“What then?”

“I—”

John stops. The emotion has brought him here. He hasn’t rehearsed what he needs to say, and now that the moment has arrived, he doesn’t know where to start. In the face of Fleming’s indifference, he feels even more stupid than before, not just for his mistakes but for his inability to express them. He glances at the wall back across the street, where Daniel used to wait for him sometimes after work, and it occurs to him that his son would be able to explain the situation. Daniel would weave an account together that Fleming would take seriously. Whereas John has only ever been as good with words as he has been with everything else.

Fleming frowns.

“You all right, John? You seem upset.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’ve been crying.”

And again, John says nothing. Fleming’s line is straight out of the bully’s playbook: pretend concern designed to belittle. Hehasn’tbeen crying. Has he? He remembers that time when he walked into Daniel’s bedroom after he left for university, and has to resist the urge to touch his face now to check. Perhaps Fleming is right and it happened without him realizing.

---