Page 23 of The Man Made of Smoke

The woods around the trails were dense, but there was a slight break in the tree line ahead of me now. In the distance, the land rose steeply, and distant crags—bare outcrops of rock—overlooked the spot where I was standing. Not impossible to reach, but a long way off the path.

I looked down at the photograph.

I could still sense that shadowy, voiceless presence behind me but I didn’t ask it anything. For the moment, I didn’t need to.

Why had he brought her here?

Perhaps so that he could watch when she was found.

I marked the crag as best I could on the GPS map on my phone and then set off through the undergrowth.

There was no clear path, and within a few minutes I was fighting through the foliage, snapping off branches and pushing through tangled grass, sticks cracking beneath my feet. My destination was soon out of sight, but the phone kept me more or less on track, heading in the right direction and pushing my way slowly uphill through the forest.

What exactly was I doing?

That was a perfectly reasonable question, but one to which I had no immediate answer. The chances of finding anything out here after all this time were remote. But while I knew the woods around the crime scene would have been searched, the crag was far enough away that it would probably have escaped attention. And it was the most likely vantage point from which to take the photograph.

Eventually there was a break in the trees and the land opened up ahead. Pale stone stretched sharply upward, with a rough path in the rock that was dotted with shivery patches of grass and scrub. I started to climb carefully, using roots in the rock as handholds. The rough shingle was loose beneath my feet, and the breeze grew colder and stronger with every cautious step.

Would my father have been able to climb up here?

I thought so. He was old but active—a long way from being infirm. And as I knew very well, he had been nothing if not determined. Assuming he hadn’t gone to the police, I was sure he would have followed the evidence in the photograph at least this far. And on a less rational level, I felt a connection with him as I climbed: the strange sensation of him being right here with me, just at a different time.

I was drenched with sweat as I approached the top, despite the wind, and the woods seemed dizzyingly far below me. I clambered up and round onto a wide ledge of rock that stretched out several meters ahead.

Then I stood still for a few seconds, catching my breath.

My heart was beating hard.

Here you are, I thought.

A short distance ahead, tucked away out of sight of the edge of theoutcrop, were the remains of a campsite. There was an old tent, the thin red fabric tattered and ripped and flapping in the wind. It was held in place by tight, spidery ropes attached to nails hammered into the stone.

I dusted my hands against my thighs and made my way across.

Closer to, the sound of the tent’s torn material made a frantic cracking sound, like a bird tethered to something trying to escape. I crouched down and peered into the entrance. It was small inside, and I could see the rock pushing up sharply through the taut canvas. If someone had slept overnight in here, they must have been hardy and used to the elements.

Whoever that was had left something behind.

After a moment’s hesitation, I reached inside and picked up the single item inside the tent. It was a brown leather wallet, worn from being carried for years. It felt light and baggy in my hand, as though it had been full once but had been emptied out before being placed in the tent. Andplacedwas exactly the right word, I thought. Because there was nothing else inside, and I didn’t believe that this had been left behind by accident.

None of this felt like an accident.

I flipped the wallet open. It wasn’t entirely empty. There was a driver’s license inside, and a small photo of a man stared out at me from the left-hand side. On the right, there was a name—Darren Field—and an address.

I stared at it for a moment, committing the details to memory, then put the license back into the wallet and placed it back where I had found it. Assuming my father had come here, he had clearly decided to leave it, and so for the moment—following in his footsteps—I would too.

Then I stood up and walked as close to the edge of the crag as I dared. The fabric of the tent was still cracking desolately behind me, and the woods stretched away below. I took out my phone and turned on the camera, angling it down, trying to keep my aim steady as I zoomed in as far as I could. The foliage on the screen was shaky and blurry. But after a few seconds, I was able to locate the spot in which my father had been standing when the photograph was taken.

The angle was exact.

I lowered my phone.

And then I imagined that silent presence behind me again.

What kind of man are you?I thought.

No answer.

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