And that was the deepest cut, thought Dana. The guilt wasn’t merely that he was robbing stores on a regular basis. It was the knowledge that he was deliberately leading a life that made that theft inevitable. It was the knowledge that he chose and continued to choose that life and never tried to change it: that would eat Nathan Whittler from the inside.
Had done so.
She couldn’t allow this self-flagellation to continue. He would fall into a morass. Dana had seen that kind of spiral thinking, the circular drain of self-loathing. She’d seen it in a mirror. Felt it today, in fact. If he continued down this path, she’d lose his co-operation. Perhaps for the final time.
‘You never tried to fish, Mr Whittler? Or grow things?’
She wondered if she’d framed the question diplomatically enough; whether he’d see it as an implied criticism.
Three tears stopped at his jowl, fading. Nathan tapped his fingertips together. ‘Considered it. The main problems with fishing were being exposed, and actually eating it. I never saw edible fish in the pool by the cave. It doesn’t have any weeds in the water – I suppose that’s why. I would’ve needed to be out on the lake itself and I didn’t want to risk being seen.’
He shook his head, as though replaying that very debate in his mind.
‘Occasionally there were hikers; not just near the cave, but up on Dakota Ridge. Even if I wasn’t recognised or bothered, the fact someone was fishing on that lake might lead others to try their luck there. I saw a few people try to fish on the far shore, but they didn’t seem to catch anything and rarely came again.’
‘And eating fish? Don’t you like it?’ she asked.
‘Assuming I ever caught something. Well, for one, I’d have to gut a fish and prepare it properly. I might have acquired a book about that, I suppose. I would have been concerned about the risk of getting it wrong and poisoning myself. Disposing of the offal without attracting animals would have been one more chore. But mainly, I would have needed to cook it. I wouldn’t risk a fire. So no; no fish for me unless it was already canned.’
Dana could understand his reasoning in refusing a fire. Cooking, not so much. Without being an expert, she thought a small gas camping stove wouldn’t have made him more visible. At least it would have been warm food in winter. Clearly, once Nathan had a concept in his head, he followed through in a blinkered, linear fashion. All or nothing. According to Pringle, he’d always had that streak.
‘And you mentioned the fire. That struck me in particular. You daren’t risk any means of cooking?’
‘No. I periodically considered gas: maybe a barbecue, or maybe constructing some kind of hearth from stones. But by then I was sort of used to it – the cold food. Any smoke, out there, Detective: it can be seen. I worried the rangers would always investigate smoke, in case it was the start of a major bush fire. In winter, it would be a dead giveaway that it was man-made and not some lightning strike. And you could spot the smoke from a plane, no problem. No, it was too risky. I only had to get it wrong once for the whole thing to fall apart. I couldn’t experiment.’
‘But that also meant you had no heat. Ever.’
He nodded. ‘Pretty much. I’d made sure the sleeping bag was outstanding, though. And I did a decent job of stopping the damp rising to the mattress: raw wool is fantastic stuff, Detective, amazing. I did cheat a little: I had some pocket warmers for the very cold nights. I could use them if I really felt my hands or feet were in serious danger of frostbite. But generally, no; heat and cooking were non-starters.’
‘And no agriculture?’
‘I tried a little. I mean, I was worried that someone from the air might spot a garden, as such. You know, I thought it would stand out from random nature to have man-made furrows and vegetation. I didn’t want to give anyone a reason to hike out that way. But I attempted little efforts under trees or bushes. They either didn’t take or animals ate them long before I could. Again, I didn’t want to encourage wildlife, especially animals that might attract predators.’
‘Thank you, Mr Whittler. I’m pretty certain we have everything we need on that score. I don’t think we’ll need to revisit it.’
‘Detective.’ Nathan gave no hint as to whether he’d found the latter admissions humiliating or cathartic. She realised she was too tired to read him well. She worried that, in the back of her mind, another panic might be forming. Sometimes, it was a self-fulfilling prophecy.
‘Some more water for you, Mr Whittler.’
She waggled a bottle at him and he passed the empty one to her.
‘Can I bring you anything else, when I return?’
He thought for a moment. ‘No, thank you, Detective Russo. I’m okay for now.’
She sensed that he was mulling something over, something vital. But he wasn’t ready to give it up yet. He needed to think through the ramifications, and she had to give him the space to do so.
Chapter 23
Mike stopped off at Custody when he returned to the station. He authorised Spencer Lynch’s release, but schlepped on some gloves and played Spence’s voicemail before releasing the lawyer’s phone and personal effects. Four messages: three were banal crap from the office about upcoming cases and a charity dinner. The last – left six minutes after Mike left her mother’s townhouse in Gazette – was from Megan Cassavette.
Hey Spence. Me. Just had that detective, Mike Something, here. I know he spoke to you before he turned up here. Uh, look, hang in there. Call me when you can. We need to talk. Miss you special. Bye.
Mike played it twice, listening the second time for the rhythm, intonation; what was said in the gaps. Megan had been deliberately neutral. There was no drama, no edge and no emotion in her voice. The last part sounded like the kind of saying two people shared. But she might have been ringing to arrange for a parcel delivery, the amount of emotion she put into it all. Very poised and very controlled for someone who became a widow nine hours ago, he decided.
Lucy was at the spare desk in Mike’s office, sitting up very straight and looking triumphant.
‘That’s one happy Delaney,’ said Mike as he came in.
She smiled. ‘I love adding new strings to my bow. In fact, my bow is getting heavy and cumbersome, it has so many strings.’
Mike carefully placed his jacket on the back of his office chair, smoothing out any perceived wrinkles, and rubbed his eyes. ‘You need a bow assistant to help carry your many and varied talents.’
‘Ooh, a talent monkey. Yes, please.’
‘Anything show on the employee interviews yet?’
‘We’re about two thirds through; notes are on the shared drive. Frankly, they’re a sorry bunch of misfits, never-saw-nothings and people who remain startlingly unaware of everything around them.’
Mike took out his notebook and re-read the last two things he’d written: ‘yes’ and ‘maybe nothing’.
‘Megan’s a catch, am I right?’ Lucy looked at him from below her fringe.
‘I’d say so. Did you see Lynch’s interview?’
‘I was behind the mirror the whole time. At least, until he mentioned the smart-meter thing. Then I had to get researching. He wasn’t quite as much of an idiot as I first assumed. Not that he gets a free pass, or anything.’ She mock-pouted.
‘I know what you mean. I think we can take it that he’s genuinely besotted with Megan. No mid-life crisis or quick liaison going on there.’
‘Yeah, disappointingly lacking in sleaziness. You said you’d let him know what his tell was. You follow through with that?’