She started to close the door but Flea got her foot inside. 'I'm not interested in the road, Katherine. I'm interested in whether you're going to speak to him.'
Katherine Oscar coloured. 'I'm sorry?'
'Are you going to speak to your son?'
'Of course I'm going to speak to him. What do you take me for?'
I take you for trash, Flea thought, looking at the blonde hair, the expensive blouse, the stud earrings. In fact, you know what, Katherine? I hate you. I hate the way you look down your nose at me, I hate the way you respect power and money, the way you swing your SUV round corners and force other cars to stop for you. I hate the way the other day you left your car blocking the road, got out and had a long conversation with your gardener not caring that three other cars had to wait five minutes so you could talk about fertilizer and bedding plants. I hate the way your chimneys belch smoke, the way you put out twenty bags of rubbish a week, and the way you speak differently to people who come to the manor to work for you. You'd scream the place down if a criminal came near you, and yet your husband is a pig in a Barbour who spends his life at a computer stealing from other people and is the biggest criminal I've ever met in my life.
She'd have liked to say it all. She'd have liked to pin Katherine Oscar to the wall and say it into her face. But, of course, she didn't. She knew how to hit someone, she knew how to do it efficiently and fast, but she knew how to hold herself together too, so instead she nodded. 'Good,' she said calmly. 'You speak to him, then. And speak to him properly, because if it happens again I'll have him done. Get it?'
After that the Oscars left her alone. From time to time she'd catch the boys glaring at her from behind the smoked glass of the SUV on their way to school and she'd hear them laughing at her from the windows of the house, but that didn't matter. The less she saw of them the better. For a while the only thing she heard from the Oscars was the faint sound of the horses in the stables on long summer evenings. But if she thought it would stop there she was wrong because Katherine simply couldn't let the garden idea go. About six months later she started leaving voice messages on Flea's phone, telling her how much the Oscars would still like to buy back the garden, in spite of their differences, and how they were going to speak to the council, to English Heritage, to local residents' groups and the National Trust about reinstating it as part of the manor. She posted notes through the door two or three times a month and dropped by every week just to 'say hello and see if you've had any more thoughts'. Keeping up the pressure.
Now, as the doorbell echoed through the cottage again, Flea knew she was here to ask about the note: Did you get it? Have you thought about what I said? About property prices? So she stood quite still, knowing she couldn't be seen, until Katherine got fed up with waiting and, with an impatient shake of her head — as if to say she never had been able to understand the Marleys, and why did they spend their money diving in stupid parts of the world when they could have bought a decent vehicle so their shabby cars didn't mess up the neighbourhood — she turned and walked stiffly up the drive. Even the sound of her footsteps crunching in the gravel had a specific note to it — as if her feet struck the stones more sharply than other people's would.
Flea waited for her footsteps to go and then, when she was sure she was alone again, she turned back to the opened bathroom cabinet, quickly scanning all the familiar things: spare toothbrush, nail scissors, her contraceptive cap in its case — years since she'd needed that, she should throw it away — moisturizer, hair clippers. She'd forgotten now what she was looking for — her head was too hot and full with all the things that had happened last night, as if an infection was starting.
Tucked at the back of the cabinet behind the vitamins she took, thinking they would boost her immune system and fight off the bugs and germs she was always immersing herself in, was a packet of Kwells, kept there for Thom's travel sickness. She was probably going to be sick this evening. Kaiser had warned her that the psychoactive ingredient in ibogaine would give her the symptoms of travel sickness. She hooked the packet out — probably years out of date, but better than nothing — and propped it on the sink for later. Then she closed the cabinet and dried off, throwing on loose trousers, a T-shirt and an old Chinese workers' cap over her wet hair. Finally she found her keys and jumped into the car. Holding the steering wheel, she studied the veins in her arm, standing blue and cold against the skin. Later today she was going to put a poison into her bloodstream, something to let her speak to the dead. And to do that she needed as much peace in her head as she could gather. So she didn't care what her line manager said about interfering with inquiries, it was very simple: the things she'd seen and felt last night had to go. They had to be passed on before she took the ibogaine.
As she left the driveway she let the old Ford spin its wheels in the gravel a couple of times. Then she sailed past the manor, sounding the horn a couple of times. Just enough so that Katherine Oscar heard and knew she'd been there all along.
It was the dust marks that had really got into Flea's thoughts. Mrs Mabuza — if the woman in the bedroom had been Mrs Mabuza — might have been a good cook but she was a bad housekeeper. The crucifixes dotted around the house were all perfectly clean, but each one stood in a larger dust mark. The crosses were clean because they were brand new, not because they'd been polished. And they stood in dust marks because they had very recently replaced something that had been there for a long time. The crucifixes were for show, Flea was sure of it. They were to make the world believe this was the house of a Christian.
When she knocked on the deputy SIO's door no one answered so she pushed it open a fraction. Caffery was alone, in shirtsleeves, standing with his hands shoved into his trouser pockets, his feet slightly apart, and absorbed in something outside the window. She studied him from behind, getting the clear impression he hadn't been home the night before. If it didn't sound so crazy she'd say he'd spent the night in the office. Or sleeping in the car. She wondered if he even had a home here, or if he was living in an HQ training-wing bedsit until he got settled.
Then, as she looked at the way his hair was cut short, clipped at the back of his neck, a picture flashed into her head of him in bed. He was asleep, one hand pushed out at his side. He was tanned and his face was squashed against the pillow so she could see the muscles in his shoulders slightly flexed. She cleared her throat, making the picture go.
'Hello.'
He turned. Something blank and half angry came into his eyes and for a moment it was as if he didn't recognize her. Then his face cleared. He took a breath and smiled. 'Oh, hi. Sorry — miles away.' He pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit. 'You caught me on a daydream.'
She took off her cap, shuffled her fingers in her hair, and sat. 'What about?'
He leaned back against the desk, his arms crossed over his chest, one hand fiddling with a paperclip, and studied her. She didn't let herself think about it too much but a big part of her had registered lots of things about him — for example, that he didn't have brown eyes, as she'd originally thought, but blue, with very dark lashes. As dark as his hair. 'I wasn't expecting you,' he said, 'wasn't planning on working with your unit today. You must know something I don't.'