Caffery remembered that feeling: like Dean, staring at his mother's tears falling from under the curtain of hair, feeling her shiver as she prayed, prayed for God to find Ewan.
'It's a crap excuse for not living your life.'
The words came with such clarity that he touched his forehead, holding his hand against his face, concerned that others might see his expression.
'You're supposed to have let it go by now — moved on.'
Wasn't this, he thought, what they'd all been saying in their own ways, the women, the girlfriends, over the years? Maybe they had been justified in their fury, maybe they knew better than he did about what to hold on to, what to allow to drift away. Here he was: thirty-four years old. Thirty-four and he still didn't know how to play the game, the big, important game. As if he hadn't fully inhabited his life but had sat looking the opposite way, watching and planning, trying to make amends, trying to trap the past, while his life played itself out over his shoulder. He could let it go on, continue to scratch at it — rise to Penderecki's bait, allow him to reinvent ways to keep the torment fresh — and trek on, alone and childless in this life. Or—
Or he could choose to drop the battle.
As the minister started the commendation — hushed, gently dipping — Caffery leaned forward very suddenly. Kryotos wiped her nose and looked up.
'What?' she whispered, putting her hand on his arm. 'What is it?'
He was staring into mid-air as if a ghost had risen from the transept up into the fan vaulting.
'Jack?'
After several seconds his face cleared. He sat back in the pew and looked at her.
'Marilyn,' he whispered.
'What?' He smelled so clean. She waited while they stirred; all those little life facts that he made her regret. 'What is it?'
'Nothing.' He smiled. 'Something crazy.'
After the wake he drove back to London — fast through the flat, sunny Suffolk fields. By the time he got home the day had slipped across to early evening: above the little terraced house the sky was streaked orange.
Jack hadn't been in Ewan's room for more than two weeks — now he went there without hesitation, throwing all the empty files into a binliner, tying it up, carrying it into the street and dumping it in the wheelie bin. He wiped his hands, went back into the house, removed his jacket, found a claw hammer in the cupboard under the stairs and unlocked the back door.
The garden had found its rhythm now July was near. Roused by the summer sunshine, it was blown full with life — brilliant acrylic-coloured flowers dotted the beds and the Rosa mundi, planted by his mother and now in its thirtieth year, stood quietly next to the fence, its sugar-pink medieval blooms unfolded like babies' hands. Jack ducked under the willow, went straight to the old beech and dropped the hammer in the grass at his feet.
Do it. DO IT. If you think about it now you'll waver.
He rolled up his sleeves, took a deep breath and gripped the lowest plank — levering it up against the trunk. It was weak and rotten. It almost leapt away from the tree — shooting a cloud of lichen onto his shirtfront.
No hesitating.
He carried the wood a few yards along the fence and hoisted it over, letting it drop into the deep undergrowth. He wiped his forehead, returned to the beech and started on the next plank.
The hammer lay unused in the grass and the shadows lengthened. Before long his palms were raw, sweat-streaked, his shirt was covered in moss and a solitary plank dangled from the tree's flank. As he closed his hands on it, taking a step back and bracing himself, something made him pause. A new and uneven element had attached itself to his horizon, changing the evening in the space of a breath.
He released the plank and looked up.
Drawn out of his house by some stale instinct, some old awareness — as if he could smell the change in Jack's intent — Penderecki had appeared in the garden across the cutting. He stood at the fence, in his braces and stained aertex vest, chewing and scratching the back of his head, his jewel-bright eyes blinking and watching.
Jack took a deep breath and straightened. Ordinarily he would have walked away, or, worse, been drawn in. But now he stood straight and cool — meeting Penderecki's eyes square-on. In control.
No trains passed. No sounds. Reflected in the windows of the terraced houses, bright evening clouds floated above the trees. A seagull, blown off course from the Thames, circled overhead eyeing the two men. And then Ivan Penderecki's eyes flickered.
It was little more than a shadow but Jack saw it.
It meant the scales had tipped.
He smiled. Smiled slowly, his heart rising. He took a step back and in a single move wrenched the plank up from its moorings. He carried it to the fence, paused long enough to make sure Penderecki was still watching and flung it ten feet or more into the undergrowth. Along the 'death trail'. The last place he'd seen Ewan.
The plank landed, bounced twice, momentarily visible above the grass heads and cowslips, executed one more cartwheel and came to rest, out of view beneath the green. He wiped his hands and looked up.
Good.
Penderecki's expression had changed.
He hesitated for a moment, tapping his fingers on the fence, lizard eyes lowered, flickering uncomfortably from side to side. Then quite suddenly he hiked up his braces, spat into the cutting, wiped his mouth and, without looking up, pushed himself away from the fence. He turned — his back rigid now, arms stiff at his sides — and walked with scientific precision straight back to the house. Closed the door neatly behind him.
Across the cutting, Jack — dressed in the second mourning suit of his life, sweat darkening the shirt — knew it was over. He dropped his head and stood against the fence, hands linked in the wire, his heart slowing while the evening gathered around him.
Suddenly a commuter train roared by, dotted with city workers late from the office. He looked up, astonished. As if the train was the last thing he had expected to see on a railway line. He stretched forward and watched the train's yellow rump dwindle in the distance. When it had disappeared under the Brockley bridge he continued to watch the little shimmer of movement for a long time, until he didn't know if he was looking at sky or evening heat or a trick of the light.
He went back into the house, changed out of the suit, showered and drove to Lewisham Hospital.
Acknowledgements
Acknowledgements are due to everyone at AMIP Thornton Heath and Beckenham, especially DCI D. Wilson, DI C. Davies, DC D. Glenister and PC M. Little. Also Iain West of the Forensic Pathology Department, Guy's Hospital; Dr Elizabeth Wilson and Doug Stowton of the Forensic Science Services; pathologist Ed Friedlander, University of Health, Missouri; Dave Reeve; and Zeno Geradts, all of whom were professional and supportive beyond the call of duty.
A special mention to DCI Steve Gwilliam for his patience and help.
For their friendship and their faith in me: Jimmy Brooks, Karen Catling, Rilke D., Linda Downing, Jon Fink, Jo Goldsworthy, Jane Gregory, Dave and Deborah Head, Patrick Janson-Smith, Sue and Michael Laydon, Doreen Norman, Lisanne Radice, Sam Serafy and Simon Taylor. Thank you also to Caroline Shanks who saved my life years ago, to Mairi Hitomi who continues to do so, to my truly outstanding and wonderful family (the most educated and resourceful bunch of people I have ever encountered) and, most of all, to Keith Quinn.