Ritual

Caffery studied the picture, thinking: Ibogaine. Ibogaine.

'The withdrawal symptoms are the reason most people come to us. The other two effects are sort of side benefits — a happy coincidence, if you like. And all completely legal. Please.' She closed the leaflet and passed it to him. 'Keep it.'

He took it and flipped through it. 'I'll pass it on to someone in Community Safety — I think they keep a list of organizations.' He put it into his pocket. 'There's a name I want to give you. You might know him as one of your philanthropists.'

She shrugged. 'I've got nothing to hide. All my donors are extremely high-class individuals.'

'Is the name Gift Mabuza familiar?'

'Yes.'

'Can you tell me about him?'

'He gives a lot of money to charities. He's known in the industry — if you can call this an industry.'

'And you? Did he give you a lot of money?'

She smiled. 'No. He didn't give us any.'

'I'm sorry?'

'He didn't give us any. In fact, he didn't approach us and we didn't approach him.'

'But you know him?'

She laughed. She had the whitest, most even teeth he had ever seen. 'It's a small world but not that small. I've never met Mr Mabuza. I know him by reputation but I've never seen him face to face.'

'Or had any business dealings with him?'

'Or had business dealings.'

'Are you sure?'

She stood up, went to a filing cabinet and brought out a manilla folder stamped with the name of a firm of accountants. 'Here.' She pulled out a bound report and placed it on the table. 'The details of my investors.'

Caffery studied the details, scratching his forehead distractedly. 'TIDARA,' he said. 'Is that a name of something?'

'Tabernanthe Iboga Detoxification and Rehabilitation Association.'

'And are there any others called that?'

'I sincerely hope not. We're a registered company.'

'No other branches?'

'Just us. Why?'

The woman's cool was making him feel inefficient, like Columbo in a creased raincoat. He pulled out the photo of Mossy and pushed it in front of her. She took a pair of reading glasses from a slim ivory case and perched them on her nose. He kept his thumb on the corner, and was ready to pull it back, but she frowned and rested her forefinger on the other side and drew it closer.

'Ring any bells?'

She was silent, studying Mossy. Then she went to the door. 'Chloe,' she said, to one of the receptionists, 'would you?'

There was the sound of a chair being pushed back, then the taller of the two girls, her black hair tied in a neat ponytail at the nape of her neck, came into the doorway. Tay handed her the photo. 'I was thinking about last week,' she said, 'when we were waiting for that delivery — remember?'

The girl studied the photo. 'It could be.' She held the photo at arm's length, considering it with her head on one side, nibbling at her thumbnail. 'Yeah — I mean,' she looked at Caffery, 'he was only here for a second or two, but it could be. Why? What's he done?'

Caffery came to stand in the doorway with the two women. Outside, the sun slanted through the trees in white stripes, filling the reception area with light. 'What happened when he was here?'

'Not much. He came in, asked how much treatment would cost. I only remember because, to be honest, it's not usually his type here. Can't afford it, and people don't just wander in off the streets. We're not a drop-in centre.'

'How much is the treatment?'

'Depends. If you have a full medical with us it can be up to seventeen hundred pounds. But his type, he could probably get the medical done at his GP's if he was clever and said the right things. Anyway, I told him how much and he goes, "OK, see ya", and that was it — he was gone.'

'On his own, was he?'

'Yeah — I mean, he came in on his own, but he, you know, had his mate waiting outside for him.'

'His mate?'

'Yeah. He went out and must've told him how much it was, because the other guy got straight on the phone and was telling someone.' She gestured at the front to where a varnished tree-trunk had been carved into a bench and set into the concrete just outside the glass doors. 'They were right there. And when they stopped talking on the phone the two of them just sat, really quiet, not even looking at each other. I got the feeling they were upset, as if they were sort of scared to speak to each other because everything was awful. But there you go,' she said. 'A lot of people are like that round here.'

Caffery stared at the bench in the dappled light. 'What was he like?' he said. 'The friend? Did you speak to him?'

'He stayed outside. Never come in.'

'Do you remember what he looked like?'

'Not really.'

'Nothing? Was he white? Black?'

'Oh, black,' she said, as if that much was obvious. 'But I don't remember what he actually looked like.'

'Was he old?' She had pushed a finger into her mouth and was sucking it thoughtfully, trying to remember. She wasn't nearly as sophisticated as he'd thought at first — he could see the places her lip-liner had gone wrong. 'Young?'

'I really don't know.'

'Tall?'

'He was sitting down.'

'What was he wearing? What was his hair like? Did he have anything unusual about him? Anything at all?'

'I think he might have been wearing a white shirt,' she said. 'Maybe a jacket over it. I'm not sure. I wasn't paying attention.'

'OK,' he said eventually, a little vague because he was trying to think too. Even if Tay thought Mabuza hadn't got a connection here she was wrong. There was a connection, but maybe she wasn't aware of it.

'OK.' He patted his pockets. 'I need to make a phone call. I'm going to sit outside for a minute or two.'

'Please,' Tay extended a hand to the door, the creamy cuff riding up her slim arm, 'I'll put your juice in the fridge.'

Outside it was warm. The world was getting hotter and who knew what parts of this country would still be above water in fifty years' time? The trees stood, as they must have for decades, on the south side of the slope, native deciduous trees and small, Oriental saplings lining the path, keeping the entrance to TIDARA shady. He looked back into the reception area. Chloe and Tay had their backs to him, both bending over paperwork. He went behind the bench, half sat on its hard back where he was out of sight, and pulled his tobacco pouch from his pocket. He had lied about the call. He needed a smoke. And to think.

It was the character in the white shirt and jacket he was interested in. He lit the cigarette and filled his lungs, letting the poison touch his body in all the places he knew it shouldn't. Someone had been sitting on this bench next to Mossy on maybe the last day he was seen alive. Pretty fucking interesting in its way. He exhaled, letting the smoke make a snake trail, up, up into the pine needles, curling subtly around the hand-like ginkgo leaves and heading up into the blue.

Something in the trees moved. He caught it out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned there was nothing, just a few frayed shadows dancing across last year's leaves on the ground. He stared hard at the tree-trunks, trying to decide if it had been an animal or a branch moving, or just something scampering around on the inside of his brain. There was something creepy about this part of the world anyway. The land he was sitting on had once been under water. Until the seventeenth century Glastonbury Tor had been an island. But then had come the drainage of the Somerset Levels, and Glastonbury had spread as a town with its reputation as a centre for witchcraft. It was funny, he thought, it didn't matter which country or culture you came from, somewhere superstition and witchcraft had a hold. Tay had said the ibogaine was used by an African tribe. Used ritually, she had said. Ritually…