The Walking Man finished attending to the fire. He settled down on his bedroll, the mug in both hands, his head against a log. The edges of his huge beard gleamed red in the firelight. ‘That’s because you don’t know the full story.’
‘What full story?’
‘The truth. You don’t know the truth.’
‘I think I do.’
‘I very much doubt it. Your mind hasn’t properly formed around it. There’s one more corner you haven’t turned or even thought about turning. In fact, you can’t even see it’s there.’ He made a small motion with his hands as if he was tying an intricate knot. ‘You’re protecting her and you can’t yet see what a nice circle that makes.’
‘A nice circle?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘I don’t get it.’
‘No. You don’t. Not yet.’ The Walking Man closed his eyes and smiled contentedly. ‘Some things you have to work out for yourself.’
‘What things? What circle?’
But the Walking Man was motionless, the light of the fire playing across his blackened face, and once again Caffery knew he wouldn’t be drawn on the subject. Not until Caffery brought back to him some evidence that he’d worked at it. The Walking Man didn’t give anything away for free. It irritated Caffery – this smugness. It made him want to shake the guy. Made him want to say something that hurt.
‘Hey.’ He leaned forward. Looked hard at the smiling face. ‘Hey. Should I be asking you about the compound? Should I be asking if you’re going to try to break into it?’
The Walking Man didn’t open his eyes, but his smile faded. ‘No. Because if you asked that question I’d ignore it.’
‘Well, I’m asking you anyway. You’ve given me the job of second-guessing you – of trying to fathom you. And that’s what I’ve been doing. That compound has been here ten years.’ He nodded to where the arc lights shone through the trees. He could just make out the top of the barbed-wire fence, like a gulag. ‘It wasn’t here when your daughter was killed and you think she might be buried there.’
Now the Walking Man opened his eyes. He tilted his chin down and stared angrily at Caffery. Nothing playful in his belligerence now. ‘You’re trained to ask questions. Aren’t you trained to know when to shut up as well?’
‘You told me once that every step you walked was your preparation. You said you wanted to follow her. It was a mystery to me, why you walked, but I think I know now. You say you’re not a seer, but you can tread the same piece of land I tread and read in it a hundred things I would never read.’
‘You can talk all you like, policeman, but I make no promises I’ll listen.’
‘Then I’ll talk. I’ll tell you everything I know about what you’re doing. I know what the walking is about. Some things I haven’t figured yet. The crocuses – they’re in a line and that means something, but I don’t know what. Then there’s the van Evans dumped in the Holcombe quarry after he’d got rid of her body. That was stolen from you in Shepton Mallet and I don’t know why you’re so far away from where it happened. But I know everything else. You’re still looking for her. For where she was buried.’
The Walking Man held his gaze. His eyes were dark, ferocious.
‘Your silence,’ said Caffery, ‘says it all. Don’t you know that you can learn more about a man from what he doesn’t say than from what he does?’
‘Learn more about a man from what he doesn’t say than from what he does. Is that a policeman’s adage? Some bargain-basement homily from the cosy offices of Her Majesty’s law-keepers?’
Caffery half smiled. ‘You only bait me when I’ve touched on something.’
‘No – I bait you because I know how effete and useless you really are. You’re angry, and you imagine it’s because of the evil in the world when what really infuriates you is how toothless you are about that woman. How straitjacketed and hand-tied. That’s what you can’t stand.’
‘And you’re angry because you know I’m right. You’re angry because, for all your insight and sixth senses, you come to something like this,’ he waved at the factory compound, ‘and you can’t get in to search it. And there’s not a damned thing you can do about it.’
‘Get away from my fire. Get away from me.’
Caffery put down his beaker. He got to his feet and carefully rolled up the piece of foam, placing it next to the plates and other belongings. ‘Thank you for answering my questions.’
‘I didn’t answer them.’
‘Yes, you did. Trust me. You did.’
31
By the time Caffery got to the office the next morning it was eight o’clock and already there had been meetings, interviews and phone calls. He made a rough bed with an old towel under the radiator behind his desk, settled Myrtle there with a bowl of water and, taking sips of scalding coffee, wandered through the corridors, barely awake, his eyes bloodshot. He hadn’t slept well – never did in the middle of a case. After the argument with the Walking Man he’d gone back to the isolated cottage he rented in the Mendips and spent the night combing through the witness statements on Emily’s kidnapping. There’d been some Scotch somewhere along the line. Now he had a headache that could have brought down an elephant.
The office manager updated him. Lollapalooza and Turner were still busy tickling up warrants for the remaining properties out in the Cotswolds. The CSI ‘surgery’ had forensicated Janice Costello’s Audi and come up with nothing. They’d left it in the car park downstairs and the family had collected it last night on their way to Janice’s mother in Keynsham. DC Prody had taken a half-day off yesterday. In a strop, probably, but he must have seen sense overnight. He’d been back since five this morning, dealing with the CCTV footage. Caffery made a silent pact to broker a peace with him. He carried his now empty mug down to Prody’s office. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’
Prody glanced up from his desk. ‘I guess. Have a seat.’
Caffery hesitated. Prody’s tone was sullen. Don’t rise to it, he thought. Just don’t. He kicked the door closed, put the mug on the desk, sat and looked at the walls. The room was cheerier now. The overhead light was working, there were pictures on the walls, and in the corner there was a dust sheet with a roller tray resting on some tins. The smell of paint was overwhelming. ‘Decorators been in, have they?’
Prody got up and clicked the kettle on. ‘Not that I asked for it. Maybe someone decided I needed a proper welcome. Electric lights, too. Honestly? I’m just a bit disappointed I didn’t get a mood board through the internal first.’
Caffery nodded. He was still hearing that sullen note in the man’s voice. ‘Well? What’s come in overnight?’
‘Nothing much.’ He spooned coffee into cups. ‘The streets around the place Emily was taken have been combed – the only dark-blue Vauxhall had different digits. Turned out to belong to a nice lady with two dogs and a hairdressing appointment in the area.’
‘And the CCTV on the stations?’
‘Nothing. No data at two, and the one where the Yaris was found – Avoncliffe? – it’s a request stop.’
‘A request stop?’
‘You put out your arm, the train stops.’
‘Like a bus?’
‘Like a bus. But no one stopped the train over the weekend. He left the Yaris there and must have got away on foot. None of the local cab companies had any pick-ups either.’