Page 21 of The Man Made of Smoke

And I realized there was one question more important right now than what my father had done when he looked at this photograph and saw what it showed and suggested.

The question was what I was going to do.

Seven

It was too early in the day for tourists to be out on the trails.

Which was a shame for them, I thought, as I walked. Beads of dew clung to every blade of glass, and I could hear the quiet clicks of the undergrowth as the world stretched itself slowly awake. Sunlight cut through the surrounding trees, and the path was scattered with pine needles, the warm air filled with the sweet smell of the woodland. The area was at its most beautiful first thing.

This was the time of day when my father had always gone out walking. He had liked sunrises. He had liked seeing hares flitting across the trail far ahead of him. He told me once that he’d spotted a deer a distance away in the trees, and I remembered smiling at the quiet excitement in his voice, which had seemed such a contrast from the intense man in my memories. Maybe that happens to all of us in time, I’d thought. We slow down a little. We loosen our knots. We learn to find pleasure in the smaller, softer moments.

But then he had found something else.

As I walked, I turned the obvious questions over in my mind.

Who had sent my father that photograph?

Who was the murdered woman?

And nagging beneath those, a different one:did whatever my father had done next play some part in his decision to take his own life?

I headed north along the trail, moving at a slow pace and scanning the trees and the undergrowth as I went. The route was familiar enough. But I’d always thought of it as peaceful and calming here, and knowing what I did gave it a sense of threat instead. The world was almost silent, and as far as I could tell I was alone, but there was the sensation of being watched. Despite telling myself it was ridiculous, I found myself listening carefully and keeping an eye on my surroundings, and I made sure to walk in the middle of the path, well away from the edge of the tree line.

Walking in my father’s shoes.

And also trying to put myself into his head.

As I’d said to Fleming yesterday, the vast majority of my work involved looking after my patients—men who had already been caught for their crimes—but I had also contributed to three active cases. Each time, I had provided a carefully considered profile of the potential offender. Doing so involved research and statistical analysis, not magic or mind reading, but there was also an element of empathy. In some ways, it wasn’t so different from my more everyday work. It was a matter of looking at the available facts, trying to work out how someone might be thinking and feeling, and then attempting to see the world through their eyes.

I didn’t have enough evidence yet to understand why my father had ended up at the Reach, but I had a lifetime of experience to help me understand him in other ways.

I pictured him walking slightly behind me now.

Why didn’t you go to the police with the photograph? I asked him.

And then I allowed my subconscious to answer me with his voice.

Talk to Liam Fleming?I imagined him saying.Have you lost yourmind,my son?

I almost smiled.

But it would have been the right thing to do, I thought.

Maybe. But I always had a complicated relationship with the job.

A hesitation.

Actually, I probably wouldn’t have put it like that, would I? But we both know it’s true.

Yes, I thought. We do.

I mean, I loved it. But it never felt like I made much of a difference. Maybe just in a few small ways, here and there. But there was never a big case—not like in those books I love so much. And by the end, I was pretty much a joke to everyone. That old dinosaur, right? The new guys made fun of me behind my back.

Go on, I thought.

It was a little life, all in all. And I suppose that when I found her body, a part of me didn’t want to be sidelined like I always had been. And it seemed to me that it wasmyjob to take care of her. You know how strongly I felt about things.

Yes, I thought.

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