He twitched his mouth, as though swallowing a smart answer that he had suddenly decided might be counter-productive. ‘As you wish.’
‘So, let’s say that my forensics report here’ – she tapped a file with her index finger – ‘shows that you have sand in the soles of your boots, in addition to the soil from near Jensen’s Store.’ She paused, to ensure she framed it correctly. Nathan was making her think about her phrasing. ‘Where would that sand have come from, Mr Whittler?’
He picked at a hangnail and spoke to the corner of the table. ‘Lots of places have sand, Detective Russo. Is this one of those things where you find an exact chemical balance in the sand which occurs only in one place in the entire country?’
She pondered for a second whether he’d recently seen television crime dramas, where that kind of story was more likely than in books. She wondered again about his claim to have been out of sight – possibly in a cave and away from people – for fifteen years.
‘No, it’s not. Unfortunately. But there aren’t, as far as I’m aware, areas of sandy soil in this region generally. We’re boggy marshes and mosquitos, for the most part. It would be quite a specific location. In fact, it would probably be next to a river or a lake.’
This one was a reach. Five minutes before they started she’d been planning her strategy. This was a byway she could shut down quickly if it was leading nowhere, but pursue if something opened up. Her level of geological knowledge made it a total guess.
It hit home. Nathan blanched once more, took an unsteady sip from the cup. His delayed touch on the bottle cap seemed almost an afterthought. She felt she’d shaken him out of a deep-rooted compulsion, and that counted as a win.
His tone was sharper. ‘Well, it’s possible I’ve walked near a river or a lake lately. Isn’t this called “the land of a hundred lakes”, Detective?’
‘It is, Mr Whittler. Well, a few lakes and a hundred swamps would be more accurate. But the fact that the sand is underneath the soil on the boot suggests that you were walking on sand just before you approached the store. And there’s no sandy ground near the store. The closest lake is a few clicks from there.’
Even with his mouth closed she could now hear his breathing. It seemed impatient, almost belligerent. He raised his voice.
‘I thought you were asking hypotheticals? This seems very… precise, Detective Russo.’
Dana took the shot across the bows with a slight incline of the head, which he would have observed as a vaguely moving shadow across the table top. She gave a slight pause, to indicate the separation from the next question: he seemed to appreciate that kind of etiquette.
‘My apologies, Mr Whittler. You’ll no doubt understand that not every question I ask is of my own choosing. I operate within a structure, a command structure.’
There was a pause while Nathan considered and Dana held her breath.
‘Of course, Detective Russo.’ His voice had lowered again. ‘But if you wish to discuss hypotheticals, they should be hypothetical and not rooted in current situations.’
Apparently, failing to stick rigidly to the definition of a word was the problem. ‘I understand. Perhaps I could, instead, ask some more general questions about your survival in such unusual circumstances?’
Silence. She took nothing as being consent. She sought a question that would pique his indignation.
‘Many of my colleagues would find it difficult to imagine being so isolated, so lacking in human contact. They would ask how you managed to bear that.’
‘Hmmm. Yes. I’m a little familiar with people’s habit of always taking their telephone with them. I ask myself how they bear that, Detective Russo. To be at everyone’s beck and call at all times, even at home, or at night. To be constantly a second away from someone intruding into your time, your thoughts, your privacy, your intentions. It’s difficult to imagine why people would put themselves into that situation – often willingly.’
Her finger and thumb reflexed beneath the table. ‘I’m with you on that, Mr Whittler. Personally, mine is switched off to a degree my colleagues find baffling. I suppose they would answer that, firstly, they don’t find it intrusive. For many, it’s a positive decision and they like, uh, “being in touch”, as it were. Secondly, they accept the trade-off: limited privacy in return for the convenience. Being able to book or cancel appointments, let a friend know that they’re running late, find a recipe or contact details, manage without diaries and pieces of paper and all that paraphernalia. They regard it as progress.’
Nathan pulled a face – the first time he’d shown outright displeasure. She was surprised how easy it was to spot. Many of his previous expressions had been impassive, or contrary; she’d regarded them as opaque, or detached from their cause. It was almost as if, when strong disgust came through, he was transparent. He became more like… any other person. She found herself a little disappointed by that.
‘Hmmph. Progress? I see it a little differently, Detective Russo. What do their messages to each other say? What important subjects are they discussing? All I’ve heard of it is shallow and empty. How are they informing each other, adding to debate, enlightening? Your colleagues find it hard to imagine how I would do without a bunch of wittering nothing in my life. I think it’s self-evident how “hard” I find it.’
‘As I say, I’m with you on the mobile phones and the banality it often brings. But I think their amazement runs deeper than that. In those fifteen years, how many people did you speak to, Mr Whittler?’
The question struck him as fully as if she had leaned over and slapped his face. He physically shook, and recoiled. Part of her regretted asking because of the wash of emotion across his features; part of her relished the impact she’d made.
‘No one, Detective Russo.’
His reply took her down. The euphoria flushed away instantly. She’d expected a small number, but not that. It couldn’t be so.
‘No one, Mr Whittler? Surely some people, intermittent contact? Accidentally bumping into people, coming across them? Someone?’
‘As I said, Detective Russo. No one.’ His voice wavered between a whisper and defiance.
She reconsidered. Could she pursue this? And why? She could tell herself she was establishing the absence of alibis, building another necessary brick in the wall. But perhaps it was simply the prurience of incredulity. Even she couldn’t imagine such a thing.
‘That must have taken enormous… discipline. Willpower.’
‘How so?’ He shook his head a little. ‘Oh, no, it doesn’t. There’s nothing heroic about it, Detective Russo. Don’t imagine me as something unique, someone who discovered some special truth about humanity. No, don’t think that.’
He was fuming now; his fists balled up, his breathing strong and furious. His voice rose and he directed it at the wall below the mirror, as though he couldn’t bear to throw this at Dana herself.
‘It’s no more virtuous than any other preference. You wouldn’t think it took strength of character to continually surround yourself with people, to be constantly in their orbit, never alone. It wouldn’t be remarkable discipline to be afraid of being by yourself, even for an hour. You’d simply view that as the person’s preference, their personality in action. So why think the reverse has any hint of heroism to it?’
He was getting close to her heart now: she could practically feel him brush past it. Soon he would want – or need – a quid pro quo, and it was too personal to give. She was supposed to empathise to some degree, but this felt too close. He was drifting on to land she’d struggled to understand her whole life, which had made her do things she couldn’t undo. And he’d clumsily run aground while a tape was running – a recording with an audience.