The kettle was boiling, and she poured the water into the teapot wondering how far Thom had wound Prody up. He was the type of cop who, when he'd decided to 'do it by the book', didn't know where to stop. If he was really pissed off he might even ask for a breathalyser. And there was the ibogaine. The fucking ibogaine. It might play a trick on her and make it come up positive. 'Stupid,' she hissed. Breathalysers only tested for alcohol, but she didn't know the science, and what if — what if the ibogaine triggered something, a chemical reaction, maybe?
She filled the pot quickly, and moved round the kitchen, finding plates and cups, teaspoons and biscuits in Tupperware containers, trying to behave normally. But by the time the tea was ready and she had put a couple of ginger biscuits on one of her mother's lacy creamware plates, her hands were trembling. The biscuits slid around as she carried them into the living room.
'You really didn't see me?' In the living room Prody had cooled off a bit. His breathing was slower, his face normal in the pool of light from the table lamp at his elbow. 'It's just, you know, I had my lights on all the way from the Freshford traffic lights, and you still didn't see me?'
She put the biscuits and the tea down, sat in the armchair and rested her fingers over her eyes. For a few minutes the only noise was the carriage clock ticking on the mantelpiece. When her heart had slowed she dropped her hands, and forced her voice to stay low, level. 'You know, I think I'm going to have my six-monthly counselling session brought forward. I mean, this is getting crazy.' She looked at him. 'You don't have counselling in Traffic, do you?'
'No, but I know why you lot do. I heard what Thailand was like — all those bodies, all those people you knew you'd never find. I'm not surprised you need to speak to someone.' He finished the biscuit and leaned forward for another, his fluorescent tabard creaking. 'I suppose it's always the kids that are the worst, isn't it? Makes you wonder how the parents deal with it.'
'Yes. That's right.'
'A lot of children in Thailand, were there? A lot of little ones?'
'A fair few.'
'The injuries — on the kids — I bet they were awful. Awful for the parents to see.'
'Yes. They were.' She was quiet for a moment, then she said, 'You know we've pulled some hands out of the harbour recently, don't you?'
'Hands? No. We don't get much filtering through to us, these days.'
'Well, I did. A pair of hands was buried under one of those restaurants. And for some reason it's got to me — more than anything I've done before. You'd think with all the stuff I've seen, in Thailand and the rest, the kids and things-'
'Yeah, the kids…'
'You'd think it'd be easier bringing up a part of a body than the whole thing. Wouldn't you?'
'I would.'
'And so I have to ask myself, why was it this one, these hands, that tipped me over?' She rotated her head, making out she was trying to get a crick from her neck. 'Or maybe it all just built up and now it's coming out. Maybe it's nothing to do with the hands, and everything to do with the last few years. All I know is…' she put a hand on her head '… I've got this pressure in here. And when it comes on sometimes I can't even see my own face in the mirror.' She looked him in the eye, wondering if he was thawing. She thought she saw something in his face relax a little. 'Tell you the truth, you should arrest me. Throw me in overnight. It'd do me good.'
'Know the feeling, Sarge. Just a chance to check out for a day or two — it'd suit us all.' He smiled and she smiled back, feeling a little weight lift off her. She'd cracked him. She was about to lean over and offer him another biscuit when he shifted on the sofa, then pulled out a notepad and the breathalyser from his pocket. She stopped, half sitting forward, fixing her eyes on it.
'Tell you what we'll do.' He tapped his pen on his temple, thinking. 'There are no speeds on the log at Control, but they know I thought you were pissed — OK.' He cleared his throat and glanced at the decanters on the sideboard, the light twinkling in them like Christmas baubles. 'So, why don't we just do this and then it's all out of the way? I mean, you're not acting pissed — and you don't smell it either.'
'That's because I'm not.'
'It's just…' He seemed embarrassed as he switched on the breathalyser, waited for it to run its self-check routine and fitted the mouthpiece. 'I need to rule this out.'
'You're going to make me blow into that?'
'Someone has to.'
'This isn't the custody suite. There're no cameras.'
He smiled again, as if he didn't get her meaning. 'Just so it's out the way. I'm off duty in ten.'
She stared at him, heart pounding. 'You might look stupid cancelling the Control log, but you could breathe in that thing and no one would be any the wiser.'
Prody pretended not to hear her. 'I'm requiring you to provide me with a specimen of breath for a roadside breath test, which I'm empowered to require under-'
'It's OK,' she said, standing up and snatching it from him. 'I know the bloody drill.'
He opened his mouth to protest, his eyes on the breathalyser, but she stood in front of him and breathed steadily into it, keeping her eyes on him, counting in her head up to five until the unit made a little click and beeped twice. She took it out of her mouth and looked at the LCD screen. 'ANALYSING', it said.
'There,' she said tightly, handing it back to him and sitting on the sofa. She watched him study the gauge, hating him. A few seconds passed and the machine bleeped. His expression didn't change. He leaned across the table and showed her the readout.
'ZERO,' it said.
She gave a small smile. She'd have liked to say something. She'd have liked to say, 'It serves you right, you shit-for-brains bastard.' But she didn't. Best not to lose it with the traffic guys, motorway monkeys. Really best not. Instead she waited for him to finish his pocket book, then got up and held the door for him, politely extending her hand to lead him out.
Ten minutes had gone past and Caffery's body was so clenched and tense it had started to ache. He opened his eyes and, moving stiffly, sat up a little. He had to rub his eyes they'd been closed for so long. The moon had moved in the sky, but the Walking Man was sitting exactly where he'd been, on a rolled-up chunk of foam, staring vacantly into the fire as if he'd forgotten anyone else was there.
'I've been thinking.' Caffery cleared his throat. 'You know you told me I was looking for death?'
The Walking Man didn't nod or respond so he got painfully to his feet. He could feel the cold in his bones and now he remembered how tired he was. He looked down at the Walking Man, who still hadn't made a sign that he'd heard. He took his keys out of his pocket and jangled them a little, waiting for a response. The Walking Man wiped his eyes, as if tears had been there, but his face remained the same — stony and distant, as if he was off somewhere, fighting a war in a different universe.
'What did that mean?' Caffery asked, in a quieter voice. He stood next to the man. 'I can't get it out of my head — that I'm looking for death. What did that mean? You said you were the same, that you were looking for death.'
The Walking Man didn't move. He sat, the cup still in his hands, his dark, intelligent eyes reflecting the dying flames.
Caffery bent to place his own mug next to the fire. He had straightened and turned to go when a hand grabbed his ankle. He twisted, surprised, and there was the Walking Man splayed out on the ground like a snake, his face turned up to Caffery's, the sinews in his neck taut and shadowed, the moonlight glinting in his eyes.
'Death and I are best friends,' he hissed. 'I know death better than I know anything.'