Page 32 of The Man Made of Smoke

Nine

John’s on the motorway when Daniel finally phones him.

It’s not the most opportune time—it’s raining and the traffic is heavy—and for a second he thinks about not taking the call. He doesn’t use the hands-free in the car much and doesn’t want to fumble around with it in these conditions. And perhaps more importantly, he doesn’t want to have to lie to his son.

But the thought is only fleeting. They’ve not spoken for what feels like an age, and he wants the connection. He turns the radio off, and a moment later, Daniel’s voice sounds in the car.

“Dad?”

“That’s me,” John says, pleased with himself for getting the phone to work. “But I’m driving, my son. Can you hear me okay?”

“Yes, I can hear you fine. What are you up to?”

“Nothing much,” he says. “Just out and about.”

The lie comes surprisingly easily.

He navigates the traffic carefully, the windscreen dappled with rain that the wipers smear away. The two of them talk about nothing much. That should please him, because it means his son called for the sake of it rather than for a particular reason, but today puts him on edge. Hehas to be careful. A conversation without a focus has the potential to find one.

He asks what Daniel’s been up to, but it’s just work, and there’s no real news on that score: steady therapeutic work rather than consulting on some exciting case. There’s been no woman in his son’s life since that breakup last year—or none that Daniel’s mentioned, at least, as John isn’t naive enough to imagine he’s privy to everything. Their relationship is better now than he would have dreamed possible, but it’s still a house with its fair share of locked rooms. He knows how tightly his son keeps some of those doors closed, and that nothing good will come from pushing at them.

Of course, he has a secret of his own now.

He thinks of the photograph. The tent on the crag it led him to.

“What have you been up to?” Daniel asks.

John glances out of the passenger window.

“Nothing much,” he says.

“You’re okay, though?”

“Yes,” he lies. “I’m fine.”

Except is it really a lie? That question occurs to him after the call is over—when it’s just him and the rain and the radio again. There are butterflies in his stomach and his nerves are singing a little. While he’s full of doubt about what he’s doing, it’s also been years since he’s felt quite asaliveas he does right now. He’s a man who had grown used to walking the same trail every morning, and who now has a different one to follow.

A short while later, he parks outside the address.

He sits in the car for a couple of minutes, with the radio off now and the rain tapping gently on the roof. He hasn’t exactly thought this through, and he’s not sure how to play things now that he’s here. The conversation he’s about to have with Darren Field might have been easier if he’d brought the man’s wallet with him.

Here, he could say.

I found this on an isolated outcrop where someone photographed me standing next to a murdered woman’s body.

Do you want to tell me what it was doing there?

Well, perhaps nothing quite as direct as that, but it would provide a way in. It’s a moot point though: he decided to leave the wallet in the tent on the cliff.

If that was a mistake then there are probably a bunch of other things he should have done differently too. When he arrived home after finding the tent, he was aware that the correct course of action was to go to Fleming and tell him everything. But he also knew that he wasn’t going to. He can rationalize that decision if he tries. Not enough to go on; maybe it didn’t mean anything; need a stronger case. And so on.

But deep down, John knows it wasn’t about logic or common sense or doing the right thing. It was about the way his life feels so small and pointless these days, like there’s nothing worth sticking around for. It’s about a path that doesn’t lead him to the edge of the Reach, kicking pebbles into the void. It’s about the butterflies he could already feel gathering inside him.

They’re stronger than ever now.

He gets out of the car and approaches the house. Should he be nervous? Maybe. But even though he’s no longer police, he knows he can still project some of the authority he gained in his years on the job. And while there has to be some kind of connection between Darren Field and the remains he found, he’s pretty sure he’s not walking toward the home of a killer right now. If he talked it over with Daniel, he imagines his son would tell him the same thing his own intuition is. Murderers don’t tend to lead you straight to their front door.

So whatever he’s going to find here will be something… else.

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