Ritual

'Mabuza,' he said. No preamble. Better this way — just give him the name, and check out the response. 'Gift Mabuza.'

'Mabuza?' Tig frowned, trying to act surprised, but Caffery could see he wasn't. Not at all surprised to hear that name. 'Yeah, of course I know him. What about him?'

'How do you know him?'

'He's a benefactor of the charity.'

'He gave you money.'

Tig didn't answer at first. He didn't back away but took his time eyeing Caffery, making sure he knew it was happening. Classic aggressive behaviour, Caffery thought, but go ahead, take your time, if it makes you feel better.

'He gave me a one-off donation for the charity. That's all.'

'Why do you think he did that?'

'He's done it to all of us.' He turned away and began to study the board, pulling notices off and reordering others. Another classic tactic, Caffery thought. Just show me how disinterested you are. 'If this is something to do with that photo you gave me, you're making connections where there aren't any.'

'Am I?'

'Yeah.' Tig screwed up a couple of out-of-date notices and chucked them into a bin, moving casually so that Caffery would know he wasn't intimidated. 'Mabuza's son was an addict — did you know that? He's recovering now, thanks to someone a bit like me. Where I come from that makes the money straightforward. He has a thank-you to say.'

'But not to you. It wasn't you helped get his boy off the gear, was it?'

'No. But he knows how to spread it around.'

'So he's got other thank-yous to say? Do you know to who else?'

Tig shook his head. 'Nah. Nah — see, this is where I can't help. I really can't. I can't be talking to the police about him behind his back.'

'Why not?'

'There's nothing to tell. Even if I wanted to, there would be FA to say.' He turned from the noticeboard and held Caffery's eyes. 'Fuck All.'

'And what happens if I move the goalposts? What happens if I tell you he might be involved in a killing? The mutilation we were talking about? Ian Mallows — not even out of his teens. What do you say then?'

The word 'killing' got Tig. He blinked once or twice and swallowed. 'You know, it's just occurred to me this conversation is over.'

'I don't think so. You've got more to tell me.'

Tig turned back to the board and began fiercely jamming in drawing-pins, turning them with his thumb as if they'd fall out without his help. But Caffery could see the effect on him. He could see colour starting in a band on the top of the man's shaved head and spreading down the back of his scalp, finding a spidery network of veins on his neck and going down under his T-shirt. Sometimes it got people like that, when they heard words like 'killing'. It was then that some realized, for the first time, how serious things were.

'Like I said, I think you've got more to tell me.' He waited, but Tig didn't answer. He went on with the drawing-pins, working furiously as if his life depended on it. 'What? Nothing else? Even when I remind you of the way they cut off his hands? When he was still alive?' But still Tig didn't answer. Caffery got his card out of his pocket and stepped forward, used a pin to fasten it to the board. 'There.' He tapped it. 'That's for if you remember anything.' He considered the side of Tig's face, then walked away, swinging his keys on his forefinger.

He was at the door when Tig spoke, so low that at first Caffery thought he'd imagined it. He turned. Tig still had his back to him, but he'd stopped the furious jamming in of pins, and was standing with one hand resting at the top of the board, the other pressed into his side, his head down like a runner recovering from a stitch. As if he'd surrendered.

'What did you say?' Caffery walked back across the hall, his feet squeaking on the laminate floor.

'TIDARA.' Tig said it quickly, as if that would excuse him spilling the beans. 'The name of the clinic.'

'Clinic? What clinic?'

'The place he gives money to. It's the only place he won't talk about and I don't know why.'

'TIDARA? Where is it?'

'I don't know anything about it, just the name. TIDARA. But you didn't hear that from me.' He raised his head cautiously. 'Not from me — OK?'

In spite of the bad state this guy was in, in spite of the way he was trying to help even though he didn't want to, it was difficult to summon up any liking for him, Caffery thought. He nodded, then came back and unpinned his business card from the board and put it into his pocket, patting it to show it was safe.

'You never even spoke to me. I was never here. Never set foot in here. And…' He tipped back on his heels and looked at the door, at the empty hall. No one was watching them.

'And?'

'And I never said thank you. OK. That bit never happened either.'

He found TIDARA through a directory search and drove the ten miles out of Bristol to a tree-surrounded complex near Glastonbury, with laminated-glass walls and water flowing discreetly across flat white pebbles. Specialists of every description had clinics here — aromatherapists, acupuncturists, chiropractors. TIDARA occupied a light-filled building, surrounded by green bamboo and reached along wooden walkways that spanned the running water. The reception area resembled the entrance to a swanky spa, with two girls in matching cream waffle yukatas smiling up at him from the desk.

TIDARA had been open for ten months and its director — Tay Peters, a coolly attractive Malaysian in her forties, dressed in cream linen and expensive sandals — was relaxed and courteous as she showed him into her office. She poured two tall glasses of juice and pushed one towards him.

'Acai,' she said. 'From Brazil. Twice the antioxidants of blueberries.'

Caffery put his finger into the lip of the glass and tipped it towards him, inspecting the liquid. 'Thank you,' he said, pushing the glass to the side. He picked up his folder and pulled out a file. 'And thank you for seeing me so quickly.'

She held up her glass to him and smiled. 'You're very welcome.'

He took out his notebook, loosening his tie and getting comfortable. He didn't really need the notebook — used it as a prop, a way of giving himself room to think. 'I wanted to know about your funding.'

She raised her eyebrows and lowered the glass. 'Our funding?'

'It sounds like I'm going round the houses, doesn't it? But bear with me because I am heading somewhere. You've been open — what? Ten months? And you started from scratch?'

'I did. I had some seed money from my husband, but the rest of it was my own work — you know, business plans, executive summaries, a mail-shot, then interviews, presentations, et cetera, et cetera. It was all me — on my own.'

'And your investors?'

'All private, no public money. Some are venture capitalists, but I've got my angels, you know, my private investors, and even some philanthropists giving me donations. Philanthropists because of what we do here.'

'You get people off drugs?'

'Yes, but not in the usual way.' Tay opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a leaflet. On rough, unbleached paper, the word 'TIDARA' was embossed in pale grey. 'We use all natural products. This,' she opened the first page, 'is the Tabernanthe iboga root.' Her manicured finger rested on an illustration of a gnarled root, coiled like a basket. Above it were two or three leaves. 'We create an alkaloid from it we call ibogaine. It's a psychoactive drug, used ritually by the Bwiti tribe in Cameroon. It reduces the craving for heroin and crack cocaine, helps the user understand his or her motives for taking the drugs and, more importantly, reduces the symptoms of withdrawal.'