Page 7

Seven

It was too early in the day for tourists to be out on the trails.

Which was a shame for them, I thought, as I walked. Beads of dew clung to every blade of glass, and I could hear the quiet clicks of the undergrowth as the world stretched itself slowly awake. Sunlight cut through the surrounding trees, and the path was scattered with pine needles, the warm air filled with the sweet smell of the woodland. The area was at its most beautiful first thing.

This was the time of day when my father had always gone out walking. He had liked sunrises. He had liked seeing hares flitting across the trail far ahead of him. He told me once that he’d spotted a deer a distance away in the trees, and I remembered smiling at the quiet excitement in his voice, which had seemed such a contrast from the intense man in my memories. Maybe that happens to all of us in time, I’d thought. We slow down a little. We loosen our knots. We learn to find pleasure in the smaller, softer moments.

But then he had found something else.

As I walked, I turned the obvious questions over in my mind.

Who had sent my father that photograph?

Who was the murdered woman ?

And nagging beneath those, a different one: did whatever my father had done next play some part in his decision to take his own life?

I headed north along the trail, moving at a slow pace and scanning the trees and the undergrowth as I went. The route was familiar enough. But I’d always thought of it as peaceful and calming here, and knowing what I did gave it a sense of threat instead. The world was almost silent, and as far as I could tell I was alone, but there was the sensation of being watched. Despite telling myself it was ridiculous, I found myself listening carefully and keeping an eye on my surroundings, and I made sure to walk in the middle of the path, well away from the edge of the tree line.

Walking in my father’s shoes.

And also trying to put myself into his head.

As I’d said to Fleming yesterday, the vast majority of my work involved looking after my patients—men who had already been caught for their crimes—but I had also contributed to three active cases. Each time, I had provided a carefully considered profile of the potential offender. Doing so involved research and statistical analysis, not magic or mind reading, but there was also an element of empathy. In some ways, it wasn’t so different from my more everyday work. It was a matter of looking at the available facts, trying to work out how someone might be thinking and feeling, and then attempting to see the world through their eyes.

I didn’t have enough evidence yet to understand why my father had ended up at the Reach, but I had a lifetime of experience to help me understand him in other ways.

I pictured him walking slightly behind me now.

Why didn’t you go to the police with the photograph? I asked him.

And then I allowed my subconscious to answer me with his voice.

Talk to Liam Fleming? I imagined him saying. Have you lost your mind, my son?

I almost smiled.

But it would have been the right thing to do, I thought.

Maybe. But I always had a complicated relationship with the job .

A hesitation.

Actually, I probably wouldn’t have put it like that, would I? But we both know it’s true.

Yes, I thought. We do.

I mean, I loved it. But it never felt like I made much of a difference. Maybe just in a few small ways, here and there. But there was never a big case—not like in those books I love so much. And by the end, I was pretty much a joke to everyone. That old dinosaur, right? The new guys made fun of me behind my back.

Go on, I thought.

It was a little life, all in all. And I suppose that when I found her body, a part of me didn’t want to be sidelined like I always had been. And it seemed to me that it was my job to take care of her. You know how strongly I felt about things.

Yes, I thought.

That makes sense to me, Dad.

I continued along the trail, my shoes crunching softly on the pine needles strewn across the path. Still picturing my father walking patiently behind.

Why didn’t you tell me about the body?

He was silent for a moment. Perhaps my subconscious didn’t want to provide an answer. My father and I had rarely talked about the work I did with my patients, because he had indeed felt things strongly , and I knew he had struggled to see such people as worthy of empathy or understanding. But even so, he must have known my expertise could have been useful. And yet he had chosen not to talk to me.

Why didn’t you tell me, Dad?

Maybe exactly because of what you just thought.

I frowned to myself.

What does that mean?

Because you’ve done work that matters. You’ve caught killers.

I looked down at the trail, considering that. I always tried to downplay my occasional role in cases. That wasn’t out of modesty, but realism; the way I saw it, the police would have got there eventually without my help. And yet the truth was that my work really had helped to catch three men that I knew of, and most likely before they had gone on to hurt others. I had talked to my father about that. Perhaps, unlike with my work at the prison, I had wanted him to be impressed or proud. But I hadn’t stopped to think that they were exactly the kind of cases he had always dreamed of being involved in and never had been.

Maybe I just wanted something on the ledger that was mine.

Anyway—we’re here.

I looked up again.

A few meters ahead, I saw the white branch emerging from the tree line, poking down crookedly into the undergrowth at the edge of the path. The surprise was such that I actually turned and checked behind me—but of course the trail was empty. My father wasn’t really there. I had just been lost in thought, and my subconscious had noticed where I was a few seconds before my mind actively registered it.

I approached the tree.

It had been over a month since the woman’s body had been found, and no evidence remained of it ever having been here. The foliage by my feet was undisturbed. There were no scorch marks. But then, the news reports I had read indicated that police believed she had been killed somewhere else and then brought here afterward.

Why would someone do that?

Without access to an actual case file, it was impossible even to begin to answer that question. When constructing a profile, you always had to be cautious—to stick to the available facts and remember that the same act could have multiple explanations. Burning the victim might have personal meaning to the killer. It might have been an attempt at hiding her identity. Or perhaps it had seemed like the most straightforward method of destroying evidence. Or a combination of all three, along with any number of other possible motivations.

But the location was curious.

Some killers kept their victims’ bodies, but the majority of patients I had worked with or studied had either destroyed or disposed of them. The intention was almost always that the body would not be discovered for as long as possible. There were plenty of wilder, less accessible spots on the island that would have been more effective dump sites than this, but the killer had gone to the effort of moving the dead woman, with all the risk that entailed, and then left her where she was certain to be found.

Why would he do that?

I imagined a different presence standing behind me now. Not my father. A more shadowy and insubstantial figure this time; a man made mostly of smoke for the moment. And while the woods remained quiet, and the early morning sun continued to hang like mist between the trees, the world seemed to darken slightly.

I steeled myself.

Why did you bring her here? I thought.

Silence.

What were you trying to say?

Silence.

But then, I didn’t know nearly enough yet to give the killer a voice in the same way I had with my father.

I shook my head, then reached into my jacket and took out the photograph. Using the distinctive branch as a guide, I moved myself closer to the exact place in which my father had been standing. One foot here; the other there. Then I turned, angling my body so I was facing in the direction he had been when the photograph was taken.

And then held my breath.

The woods around the trails were dense, but there was a slight break in the tree line ahead of me now. In the distance, the land rose steeply, and distant crags—bare outcrops of rock—overlooked the spot where I was standing. Not impossible to reach, but a long way off the path.

I looked down at the photograph.

I could still sense that shadowy, voiceless presence behind me but I didn’t ask it anything. For the moment, I didn’t need to.

Why had he brought her here?

Perhaps so that he could watch when she was found.

I marked the crag as best I could on the GPS map on my phone and then set off through the undergrowth.

There was no clear path, and within a few minutes I was fighting through the foliage, snapping off branches and pushing through tangled grass, sticks cracking beneath my feet. My destination was soon out of sight, but the phone kept me more or less on track, heading in the right direction and pushing my way slowly uphill through the forest.

What exactly was I doing?

That was a perfectly reasonable question, but one to which I had no immediate answer. The chances of finding anything out here after all this time were remote. But while I knew the woods around the crime scene would have been searched, the crag was far enough away that it would probably have escaped attention. And it was the most likely vantage point from which to take the photograph.

Eventually there was a break in the trees and the land opened up ahead. Pale stone stretched sharply upward, with a rough path in the rock that was dotted with shivery patches of grass and scrub. I started to climb carefully, using roots in the rock as handholds. The rough shingle was loose beneath my feet, and the breeze grew colder and stronger with every cautious step.

Would my father have been able to climb up here?

I thought so. He was old but active—a long way from being infirm. And as I knew very well, he had been nothing if not determined. Assuming he hadn’t gone to the police, I was sure he would have followed the evidence in the photograph at least this far. And on a less rational level, I felt a connection with him as I climbed: the strange sensation of him being right here with me, just at a different time.

I was drenched with sweat as I approached the top, despite the wind, and the woods seemed dizzyingly far below me. I clambered up and round onto a wide ledge of rock that stretched out several meters ahead.

Then I stood still for a few seconds, catching my breath.

My heart was beating hard.

Here you are , I thought.

A short distance ahead, tucked away out of sight of the edge of the outcrop, were the remains of a campsite. There was an old tent, the thin red fabric tattered and ripped and flapping in the wind. It was held in place by tight, spidery ropes attached to nails hammered into the stone.

I dusted my hands against my thighs and made my way across.

Closer to, the sound of the tent’s torn material made a frantic cracking sound, like a bird tethered to something trying to escape. I crouched down and peered into the entrance. It was small inside, and I could see the rock pushing up sharply through the taut canvas. If someone had slept overnight in here, they must have been hardy and used to the elements.

Whoever that was had left something behind.

After a moment’s hesitation, I reached inside and picked up the single item inside the tent. It was a brown leather wallet, worn from being carried for years. It felt light and baggy in my hand, as though it had been full once but had been emptied out before being placed in the tent. And placed was exactly the right word, I thought. Because there was nothing else inside, and I didn’t believe that this had been left behind by accident.

None of this felt like an accident.

I flipped the wallet open. It wasn’t entirely empty. There was a driver’s license inside, and a small photo of a man stared out at me from the left-hand side. On the right, there was a name—Darren Field—and an address.

I stared at it for a moment, committing the details to memory, then put the license back into the wallet and placed it back where I had found it. Assuming my father had come here, he had clearly decided to leave it, and so for the moment—following in his footsteps—I would too.

Then I stood up and walked as close to the edge of the crag as I dared. The fabric of the tent was still cracking desolately behind me, and the woods stretched away below. I took out my phone and turned on the camera, angling it down, trying to keep my aim steady as I zoomed in as far as I could. The foliage on the screen was shaky and blurry. But after a few seconds, I was able to locate the spot in which my father had been standing when the photograph was taken.

The angle was exact .

I lowered my phone.

And then I imagined that silent presence behind me again.

What kind of man are you? I thought.

No answer.

You brought the body of a woman out here to the woods, I thought. You took a photograph of the moment she was found. And then you sent it to the person who did so, knowing full well that it would lead them to the scene you left behind.

Why would you do that?

Once again, the figure behind me said nothing. But then I heard a man’s voice, raised finally from my subconscious, but still so quiet for the moment that it was barely louder than a whisper.

Isn’t it obvious? he said.

And then a sigh, almost lost to the wind.

I did it because I wanted to be seen.