Page 78 of The Man Made of Smoke

“I haven’t been crying,” he says.

“Well, you look like you have.” Fleming’s frown deepens, the fake concern going up a notch. “And you look verytired. Is it bothering you, or something? I know it’s not a pleasant thing to stumble upon, an old man out walking like that.”

“No,” he says. “I’m glad it was me who found her.”

“Okay. I mean, that’s a littleodd. But okay.”

As opposed to a tourist finding her, John thinks.

Because I’ve seen terrible things before.

But he doesn’t say those things out loud. It would only buy intoFleming’s narrative and feed him further lines—not really, John; you never handled anything as serious as that—but it’s also because his words just now have tripped his thoughts and caused them to stumble.

I’m glad it was me who found her.

That was what he’d said to Sarah, but that had beenbeforehe’d discovered the connections to the Pied Piper. It has become obvious that he didn’t reallyfindthe woman’s remains at all. They were left for him personally. He’s being manipulated, which means there is some kind of game being played here: one strung with trip wires and scattered with traps. In both of the accounts he’s heard, the victims were warned not to talk to the police about what happened or else they would be taken next. Assuming Darren Field is dead now, that might well be John’s fault. But if someone else watched Field die, then what if—by John giving his own account to Fleming now—he seals their fate too?

What if he makes everything worse?

It feels like, all his life, he’s had form on that score.

“Is it something you forgot in your statement?” Fleming says. “Because I know you’re putting a brave face on things now, but I remember how upset you were at the time.”

Tell him, John orders himself.

Just get the photograph out and tell him.

But his hand doesn’t move, and the words won’t come. He looks back over at the wall again. Daniel would know what to do. Not only would he have figured out exactly what to say to Fleming, he would probably have already prepared a profile of the man responsible. Right now, John can hardly think straight.

What is the right thing to do?

Fleming shifts his stance, losing his patience.

“Look, John,” he says. “It’s highly unlikely you missed anything that’s going to help us at this point. We know what we’re doing. We’ve got everything in hand.”

“Right,” John says quietly.

“What I think you should do is forget about it. Get some therapy or something. Your boy can probably put you in touch with someone, right?And then maybe just try to enjoy your retirement as best you can. Work on all those little cases you imagine you’re going to solve.”

The words smart. He had no idea Fleming knew about that. He remembers talking about them with a few of the other officers sometimes, never imagining it going any further. Now he pictures them all laughing at him behind his back. Because why wouldn’t they?

“Right,” he says again.

“And for God’s sake… get a long fuckingsleepor something.”

Finally, John looks back at him.

“Yes,” he says. “Maybe I’ll do that.”

And maybe he won’t.

He does try though. Instead of driving to the Reach, he goes to the shop and buys food, then unloads it carefully into the fridge. He cooks an elaborate dinner and then eats it alone at the kitchen table with a glass of good red wine from his cellar. He attempts to keep going.

But while he chews slowly and methodically, he barely tastes the meal. When he attempts to read for a time, the sentences are too slippery and he can’t get a purchase on them. In the shower before bed, beneath the deafening hiss of the water, he imagines furtive movement in the house beneath him, but each time he cuts off the spray he hears nothing beyond the thud of his own heartbeat.

Last thing of all, he checks the doors and windows and turns off the lights inside the house one by one.

And then he lies awake in bed, the silence ticking softly.

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