Paul nodded. ‘I did. Yes. I did. Yes. I did. Evil. Evil. Yes.’
‘Was it here, Paul? Was it here that the bad men came?’
Paul looked round once more, taking counsel from the trees, nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Here. Heaven up here. In the Garden.’
‘The garden? The garden of the hotel?’
‘It’s not a hotel.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘The Garden.’ Said like Phil was stupid for even asking. ‘Always has been. Always will be.’
‘Right.’ The Garden… Something in that name too, though Phil couldn’t quite place it. He took a risk. Abandoned his chosen line of questioning, his training, everything. Asked Paul a direct question.
‘Paul, when I came here last night, and again today, I felt something.’
Paul gave him a sidelong look. Eyes narrowed. He said nothing.
Phil continued. ‘I don’t know what, I can’t really explain it.’
‘I think you can.’ Paul’s voice had changed. He spoke with sudden sanity, clarity. Noticing this, emboldened by it, Phil went on.
‘I felt like… like I’d been here before. Like I knew my way round.’
‘Go on.’
‘But I couldn’t. I’ve never been here in my life. How could that happen?’
‘Perhaps you have been here before. But perhaps you don’t remember it.’
‘How can I not remember it?’
Paul leaned forward. A light danced in his eyes. A charismatic light. Not mad; deeply sane. Phil found it comforting. He was surprised, to say the least. ‘Perhaps you choose not to remember it. Or part of you has chosen not to remember it, and the other part is trying to break through.’ He sat back.
Phil thought about the words. They made sense. Sitting here, he thought, wet through, by a river in a forest with a tramp, the words made sense.
‘You have to listen to yourself,’ Paul went on. ‘Trust yourself. The answer is there.’
‘Where?’
Paul leaned forward. Placed his index finger on Phil’s chest. Pushed slightly. Phil felt the equivalent of a mild electric shock pass through his body. ‘There.’
Paul sat back once more. Said nothing further.
Phil felt like he was on the verge of something. Answers. ‘I’ve been having these dreams… The cage in the cellar… in the dream, I’m in it… ’
Paul’s features clouded. ‘No. No… ’ His voice small, head shaking with it.
Phil pressed on. ‘Are those… those dreams… are they part of it?’
‘No… Don’t… No… I don’t want to talk about that.’
‘But… ’
‘Navaho. They say dreams are a way of keeping in touch. You dream of someone, you’re keeping in touch.’
‘But I’m… ’
‘You’re dreaming of someone. Don’t. You don’t want to meet them. Not now. Not ever. Not since the Garden got replanted.’ Paul stood up. ‘I have to go now.’
Phil stood also. ‘Please. Don’t go. I need to… I have to talk to you. About the murder at the hotel. About yesterday.’
‘I didn’t do it. But I’m not sorry he’s dead.’ More nods. ‘Bad thing. But I’m not.’ He walked along the side of the river, heading upstream. ‘I’m going now. Please don’t follow me.’
Phil tried going after him, but Paul was soon lost in the foliage, and Phil became stuck, entangled in the thorny branches of a low-hanging tree. By the time he had extricated himself, Paul had gone.
Phil looked at the mouth of the cave where Paul had been sitting. Saw the remains of a campfire in the entrance. A few trails of dead smoke rising up from it, scuff marks in the earth at the sides where he had kicked dirt over it to damp it down. The ground here looked flattened, like Paul came here a lot.
Phil looked inside the cave, but saw nothing. Only darkness.
Finding nothing more, and remembering that Glass didn’t think Paul was a suspect, Phil turned. Made his way back to the hotel.
As he walked, he heard Paul’s words zinging round his head.
They should have made things clearer.
But Phil just felt more confused than ever.
56
Don Brennan walked down the corridor at Southway, the years falling away with every stride. It felt good to be back. Very good.
He had dressed for the occasion. Pulled his good suit out of the wardrobe, a deep blue worsted, unbagged it and was surprised to find it still fitted him. The trousers a little tight in the waist, perhaps, pulling the legs up a tiny bit short, the cuffs resting on the tops of his shoes, and skinnier than he would have liked, and the jacket straining to be fastened, but it was nothing too noticeable. He would just have to keep his jacket open, that was all. And, he thought with a smile, from what he’d seen, the drainpipe look was back in again.
When he had left the house that morning, Eileen had given him the kind of smile he hadn’t seen in years. Proud that he was going to work. To be useful. Then the expression on her face had clouded over, as she was reminded of the reality of the situation. Of why he was going back.
‘Are you sure there isn’t another way?’ she had said.
He had told her there wasn’t. And that she knew there wasn’t.
She had nodded. ‘Just be careful. That’s all. I want you to come home safe.’ She had reached out to him, stroked his lapel. ‘I want all of my family safely home.’
‘That’s why I’m doing this,’ he had replied.
She had kissed him then, holding his arm as if not wanting to let him go, but eventually relenting, knowing she had no choice.
And he had walked out of the door. And back on to the job.
It had changed. He couldn’t deny it. But the principle seemed to be the same: catch the villains. Or at least he hoped it was. The team seemed so hidebound by compliance rules and procedures that he was surprised any policing got done. Even on what was fast becoming a high-profile case. It had been going that way when he retired; now a copper could drown under the amount of forms he had to fill in.
The overuse of computers didn’t faze him, though. He had one at home, used it a lot. Eileen was always on at him. Spending more time with the machine than he did with her. Colchester’s premier silver surfer. And he was. Paying bills online, ordering the weekly shop, forwarding email jokes. Even making his own Christmas and birthday cards.
The one thing that really bothered him above all else was the jargon. He knew that all workplaces developed their own ways of speaking, so that to outsiders it could sound like a convention of evangelical Christians. But this was something else. The terminology from his era was still pretty much intact, but it had been allied to a kind of management speak. When Glass had started to talk in the morning briefing about goal orientation and – that most hateful of words – solutions, Don had wanted to stick his fingers down his throat. But he hadn’t. At least not yet.
He gave a grim smile. Glass. I’ve got your number, sunshine, he thought.
He turned another corner, looked round. Should be just about here, he thought, if they hadn’t moved it.
He saw the door ahead of him. Felt a quickening in his heart rate, mirrored it in his step. He reached the door. Tried the handle. Locked.
He had expected as much.
He reached into his pocket, took out his key ring. A quick glance round to see if anyone was coming – no, thankfully not many people ventured into this area of the building – and he slipped the key in.
