Poppet

A Distant Fire

THE WOODS ARE thick – still dripping with the earlier rain, soaking Caffery’s shoes and throwing mud and leaf litter over the hems of his trousers. Flea doesn’t check he’s following, she only stops every so often, to check her GPS unit. They go up and up and up, until they are on the edge of a hill – the land dropping away on their right. The density of the forest gives way to glimpses of sky between the branches. He can see snatches of surrounding farmland. But no hamlets or houses or electricity pylons. No sign of civilization at all.

She steps off the track, crashes through an impossible tangle of brambles and branches. His trousers are going to be shredded, but he follows. Ten metres in, she stops and turns to him. She drops the holdall and stoops, unzipping the side pocket. Pulls out two pairs of nitrile gloves and two pairs of bootees – the type the forensics team dole out to anyone visiting a crime scene.

‘Do you know where we are?’

‘You’re kidding,’ Caffery laughs sourly. ‘This is pin the tail on the donkey – you’ve been spinning me round blindfold for the last hour.’ He’d like to add she’s been doing it for months and months. Instead he says, ‘A clue?’

‘Farleigh Park Lake.’ She points to the north. ‘See?’

Sure enough, between the trees in the direction she’s indicating, there is a mirrored, grey coin of water nestling in the green. And suddenly he understands where they are. Hands on the trunks of two trees, he leans himself out over the drop, so he can survey the land. Familiar hills and sweeps of land are emerging out of the anonymous landscape.

‘Shit,’ he murmurs. He points his finger to the west. ‘The clinic must be over there … somewhere …’

‘The RV point is just beyond that clump of trees. This hillside is the last part of the search. We start here at eight tomorrow morning. Here.’ She holds out a pair of gloves. ‘You’re going to need them.’

Slowly, slowly, Caffery lowers his eyes to the holdall.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It is what you think it is.’

He stares at the holdall, not moving for a long, long time.

‘And by the way, Jack, the security at your house is shite – you need a dog. I walked in there this morning and spent an hour digging up your garden. No one stopped me. The clothes are in the bag too.’

He raises his eyes to her. If he ever suspected himself of being in love with this woman now he is one hundred per cent sure.

She shrugs. ‘Boxes,’ she says, although he hasn’t asked the question. ‘Keeping things in boxes. Being scared that if you open them to take one thing out everything else will come tumbling out too.’

‘Everything else?’

‘Yes. All the things that it’s easier not to think about. Like brothers and dead parents, and like …’

She trails off. Bites her lip, her eyes going over his face. Behind her the countryside stretches away – the winter landscape of Somerset. A line of smoke from a distant fire rises into the sky. Her face is lit by the dying sun.

‘And?’

She gives a tiny smile. As if something has made her shy and sad and hopeful all at once. ‘Oh nothing. Just “and”.’