‘Why is your phone switched off?’ The Walking Man didn’t look up from the fire. ‘Usually you treat it like a second heart.’
Caffery took it out of his breast pocket. He put it on the ground and stared at it. Not as if it was a heart. As if it was a snake.
‘Well?’
‘I don’t know what I’d do if I switched it on. Don’t ask me again.’
The Walking Man shrugged. He scooped the food on to two plates: each had four thick rashers of bacon, three fried eggs, two sausages and a slice of fried bread. He walked all day and he needed his fuel. His plates always brimmed over and he made sure his guests ate well too. He straightened, put one plate next to his bedroll and brought the other across to where Caffery sat. When he saw Caffery’s expression, the sick way he looked at the food, the way there was water in his eyes, he hesitated. ‘OK,’ he grunted. ‘OK.’
He straightened, took a few steps away from the fire and crouched to scrape the food off the plate on to the ground. ‘The badgers will like you for it.’ He went back to his bedroll, walking carefully because he only had his socks on, and if there was one thing the Walking Man had to do, it was care for his feet. He settled down, the tin plate resting on his knees, and ran a thumb and forefinger through his beard, studying Caffery’s face through narrowed eyes. ‘You know what you’ve come to.’ He nodded at the phone. ‘Don’t you?’
Caffery was sullen. ‘What?’
The Walking Man grinned. ‘Crossroads,’ he said. ‘Your absolute crossroads. And now, now, your hand is going to be forced. I don’t know why or what’s happened but when you switch on that phone you’ve got to make a decision. Haven’t you?’
Caffery stared at the Walking Man. The bastard was right. It had been coming to him as he slept. Hallucinations crossing and double-crossing him. That in the morning he’d have to speak to Powers. He’d have to make the decision. He’d have to tell him what he knew about Misty Kitson.
‘And this is the decision that’s been coming at you for years. You might not see it but this decision is about whether you stay facing death, or whether you turn the other way and choose life instead. That’s all.’
Caffery made a small, contemptuous noise. ‘I’m being preached to about choosing life by you? Someone who’s chosen death? How does that work?’
‘Or maybe you’re being preached to by someone who’s been chosen by death.’
‘You’re not dead.’ He studied the Walking Man’s eyes. They were blue. Like his own. As if they were from the same family. Except Caffery knew that the wisdom in the Walking Man’s eyes wasn’t in his own. Not yet. ‘You’re still alive.’
‘Yes. Oh, yes.’ The Walking Man looked at his hands. Turned them over and over as if they belonged to someone else. ‘It seems I am.’
‘You’ve got a plan. I don’t know what the plan is, but it’s there. So you haven’t chosen death at all.’
The Walking Man laughed – sympathetically, as if Caffery was so simple, just a child. As if it would take him years to come to any maturity of thought or emotion. ‘When Craig Evans killed my daughter,’ he wiped his moustache, ‘when he told me what he’d done… when he told me how many times he’d raped her before he did it,’ he tapped his finger against his lips, as if for a moment he didn’t trust himself to complete the thought, ‘when he told me it all, I knew then that the choice had been made. For what she had suffered she had to be comforted. And to comfort her I had to follow her.’
Caffery leant forward. It was the first time the Walking Man had spoken directly about his daughter’s death. ‘Follow her where?’
‘Into the next world, of course. That was just how it had to be. It’s the natural way of things. Everything I do, every mile I walk, is my preparation. I have to find the time and the place.’ He looked up. ‘You don’t know what happened to your brother’s body.’
‘No.’
‘You’ve searched everywhere you can think of.’
‘Yes. There’s nowhere else. Once I thought I got close. A long way from here. Out in the east, not the west.’
‘Yes?’
‘I was wrong.’
The Walking Man nodded thoughtfully. He eyed Caffery a little longer then picked up his fork, settled down and began to eat, his eyes on the horizon. Caffery watched him. He noticed how he kept his beard clean of food, wiping his fingers on a cloth. The Walking Man was filthy, from his head to his toes, but there was something strangely fastidious about the way he cared for himself.
‘You’re not as lucky as I am,’ the Walking Man said after a long silence. ‘I have no choice, and that makes me fortunate. But you? You still have to choose. And that’s more difficult. Particularly now. When there’s a new complication in that choice.’
Caffery frowned. ‘How do you-?’
‘It doesn’t matter how I know. What is important is the choice you make and why you make it. Look at me.’ He put down his plate and turned to Caffery, his arms wide, his filthy padded jacket falling open to show his torso in the stained thermals. ‘You, dear policeman, are learning to judge me for what I am, not for what you think I am.’
‘So?’
‘So?’ He closed the jacket and picked up the plate. ‘So be careful to use the same judgement here, Inspector Caffery. Be careful to judge only when you have the whole picture. It will take time but when you can see it all, things may look very different.’
The whole picture. More images came to Caffery. Flea’s face that day in her new car at the quarry: the tight, anxious set of her forehead. The look in her eye early this morning as she pulled Misty’s corpse into the water. The way she seemed to be apologizing. As if she hadn’t meant it to happen.
‘And something else.’
Caffery looked up. ‘What else?’
‘Something I shouldn’t need to remind you of.’ The Walking Man lowered his head and stroked his moustache, his hand hiding the ironic half-smile on his mouth. ‘That before you pass judgement on another human being, you should always look back a little. Maybe into your own past?’
Caffery fixed his eyes on the Walking Man. It wouldn’t surprise him one bit if somehow the Walking Man knew all about that too: his secret, one he’d carried for nearly ten years now, how back in London there had been a killing. He’d murdered a man there – secretively, and with his own bare hands.
He leant forward and pulled the mobile phone closer. Rested his finger on it. He was so, so tired. Maybe it was true, maybe choice really was the root of all human happiness – and of all human sadness.
‘It’s time,’ the Walking Man said. ‘You know it’s time.’
Caffery took a deep, weary breath and picked up the phone. He stood, looking at the blank screen. ‘Don’t watch me. OK?’
The Walking Man gave a long, slow smile. He inclined his head politely and held out his hand, indicating Caffery should move away from the campfire.
Caffery got up and walked in the opposite direction from the trees. He stood at the edge of the hill. The mist had cleared, as the Walking Man had said it would, and from here the land opened up, with all its mounded green forests and glacial ridges. A long way from Bath he could see the misty Avon valley, the vague smudge of the White Horse at Westbury. Closer – from Charmy Down on the other side of Solsbury Hill – another line of smoke rose in the air. It was like the Walking Man’s, only this one was darker. Black and concentrated. Leaving smears on the sky.
He switched on the phone, jabbed in Powers’s number and, his eyes on the black smoke, waited for the phone to connect.
‘Boss. Did I wake you?’
‘Yes, you did.’ Powers kept his voice low. He coughed a couple of times. ‘Jack, what was all that about earlier, then? You put the phone down on me. I called back but you’d switched off.’