Ritual

40

18 May

It was ten o'clock in the morning, very sunny, and Jack Caffery was thinking about redemption. Last night, after the Walking Man, he'd gone home and lain awake thinking about Craig Evans — crucified, strapped to an ironing-board — and about Penderecki, about the ache he still got knowing that the overweight old Polish guy had cheated justice twice — once by getting away with Ewan's murder and then by taking his own life. Caffery had found him hanging from a ceiling surrounded by flies, barbiturates and his own shit. The guy who'd killed Ewan had never been brought to the same balance Craig Evans had been. And now it was morning something else that the Walking Man had said came back to Caffery as he stood in the sun-blistered car park of the Mangotsfield community hall. Don't try to make me believe about redemption, he'd said. You must not try to make me believe in redemption.

He'd come back to those words today because he'd spent the morning finishing off interviews with the trustees of the remaining drugs charities and now he found himself at one of the last on the list of Mabuza's beneficiaries: Tommy Baines, the chief trustee of the User Friendly charity. He looked up at the church hall, the mullions and ornate cornicing work casting sharp shadows. The analysis of Mabuza's bank account linked with the list the Bag Man had given them showed that every one of the eighteen drugs groups BM had mentioned as a place Mossy might have gone was a beneficiary of Mabuza. Some got more money per annum, some less, but the South African had contact with all of them. But for some reason Caffery's head was twitching more about Baines's charity than any of the others.

He pushed open the front door and went into the cool, his footsteps muffled on the navy industrial cord carpet. 'Tig', Baines called himself. Caffery remembered that as well because it had irritated him, the nickname, and he found that when he thought about 'Tig' he got a feeling he couldn't put a finger on. He wondered if it was a kind of residual anger, a pissed-offness that Penderecki had got away with it, that people like him and Tig always seemed to get a second chance. And then he thought, as he rounded the corner to the office, even though it was petty, the one small thing he could do was to make life uncomfortable for 'Tig'.

'You again?' Baines said, looking up from the photocopier as Caffery entered the room. There were two older women in the office, in nondescript sludgy-coloured dresses, pottering around holding sheets of paper. Next to them Tig was a total contrast, standing in his vaguely aggressive way, wearing a Duke Nukem vest, camouflage trousers and Dr Martens. 'I've got a session at eleven and they start arriving before that so whatever it is make it quick.'

Caffery gave a small laugh. This was exactly the way he'd expected Tommy Baines to react. 'I'd like to talk to you,' he said, 'somewhere quiet.'

Tig looked over his shoulder at the two women. 'We can use the hall,' he said, jamming a palm on to the photocopier stop button. 'No one in there yet.'

They stood in front of a board covered with notices about Pilates, children's cooking courses and hall-hire tarif charts. Tig's arms were crossed tightly, like a bouncer's, a vein in one of his arms standing blue and hard-edged as if he'd been pumping just before Caffery had arrived. But Caffery was taller and he took advantage of that. He stood with his hands in his trouser pockets, his head forward a little, making sure Tig was aware that he had to bend a little to look into his face.

'Mabuza,' he said. No preamble. Better this way — just give him the name, and check out the response. 'Gift Mabuza.'

'Mabuza?' Tig frowned, trying to act surprised, but Caffery could see he wasn't. Not at all surprised to hear that name. 'Yeah, of course I know him. What about him?'

'How do you know him?'

'He's a benefactor of the charity.'

'He gave you money.'

Tig didn't answer at first. He didn't back away but took his time eyeing Caffery, making sure he knew it was happening. Classic aggressive behaviour, Caffery thought, but go ahead, take your time, if it makes you feel better.

'He gave me a one-off donation for the charity. That's all.'

'Why do you think he did that?'

'He's done it to all of us.' He turned away and began to study the board, pulling notices off and reordering others. Another classic tactic, Caffery thought. Just show me how disinterested you are. 'If this is something to do with that photo you gave me, you're making connections where there aren't any.'

'Am I?'

'Yeah.' Tig screwed up a couple of out-of-date notices and chucked them into a bin, moving casually so that Caffery would know he wasn't intimidated. 'Mabuza's son was an addict — did you know that? He's recovering now, thanks to someone a bit like me. Where I come from that makes the money straightforward. He has a thank-you to say.'

'But not to you. It wasn't you helped get his boy off the gear, was it?'

'No. But he knows how to spread it around.'

'So he's got other thank-yous to say? Do you know to who else?'

Tig shook his head. 'Nah. Nah — see, this is where I can't help. I really can't. I can't be talking to the police about him behind his back.'

'Why not?'

'There's nothing to tell. Even if I wanted to, there would be FA to say.' He turned from the noticeboard and held Caffery's eyes. 'Fuck All.'

'And what happens if I move the goalposts? What happens if I tell you he might be involved in a killing? The mutilation we were talking about? Ian Mallows — not even out of his teens. What do you say then?'

The word 'killing' got Tig. He blinked once or twice and swallowed. 'You know, it's just occurred to me this conversation is over.'

'I don't think so. You've got more to tell me.'

Tig turned back to the board and began fiercely jamming in drawing-pins, turning them with his thumb as if they'd fall out without his help. But Caffery could see the effect on him. He could see colour starting in a band on the top of the man's shaved head and spreading down the back of his scalp, finding a spidery network of veins on his neck and going down under his T-shirt. Sometimes it got people like that, when they heard words like 'killing'. It was then that some realized, for the first time, how serious things were.

'Like I said, I think you've got more to tell me.' He waited, but Tig didn't answer. He went on with the drawing-pins, working furiously as if his life depended on it. 'What? Nothing else? Even when I remind you of the way they cut off his hands? When he was still alive?' But still Tig didn't answer. Caffery got his card out of his pocket and stepped forward, used a pin to fasten it to the board. 'There.' He tapped it. 'That's for if you remember anything.' He considered the side of Tig's face, then walked away, swinging his keys on his forefinger.

He was at the door when Tig spoke, so low that at first Caffery thought he'd imagined it. He turned. Tig still had his back to him, but he'd stopped the furious jamming in of pins, and was standing with one hand resting at the top of the board, the other pressed into his side, his head down like a runner recovering from a stitch. As if he'd surrendered.

'What did you say?' Caffery walked back across the hall, his feet squeaking on the laminate floor.

'TIDARA.' Tig said it quickly, as if that would excuse him spilling the beans. 'The name of the clinic.'

'Clinic? What clinic?'

'The place he gives money to. It's the only place he won't talk about and I don't know why.'

'TIDARA? Where is it?'

'I don't know anything about it, just the name. TIDARA. But you didn't hear that from me.' He raised his head cautiously. 'Not from me — OK?'

In spite of the bad state this guy was in, in spite of the way he was trying to help even though he didn't want to, it was difficult to summon up any liking for him, Caffery thought. He nodded, then came back and unpinned his business card from the board and put it into his pocket, patting it to show it was safe.

'You never even spoke to me. I was never here. Never set foot in here. And…' He tipped back on his heels and looked at the door, at the empty hall. No one was watching them.

'And?'

'And I never said thank you. OK. That bit never happened either.'

He found TIDARA through a directory search and drove the ten miles out of Bristol to a tree-surrounded complex near Glastonbury, with laminated-glass walls and water flowing discreetly across flat white pebbles. Specialists of every description had clinics here — aromatherapists, acupuncturists, chiropractors. TIDARA occupied a light-filled building, surrounded by green bamboo and reached along wooden walkways that spanned the running water. The reception area resembled the entrance to a swanky spa, with two girls in matching cream waffle yukatas smiling up at him from the desk.

TIDARA had been open for ten months and its director — Tay Peters, a coolly attractive Malaysian in her forties, dressed in cream linen and expensive sandals — was relaxed and courteous as she showed him into her office. She poured two tall glasses of juice and pushed one towards him.

'Acai,' she said. 'From Brazil. Twice the antioxidants of blueberries.'

Caffery put his finger into the lip of the glass and tipped it towards him, inspecting the liquid. 'Thank you,' he said, pushing the glass to the side. He picked up his folder and pulled out a file. 'And thank you for seeing me so quickly.'

She held up her glass to him and smiled. 'You're very welcome.'

He took out his notebook, loosening his tie and getting comfortable. He didn't really need the notebook — used it as a prop, a way of giving himself room to think. 'I wanted to know about your funding.'

She raised her eyebrows and lowered the glass. 'Our funding?'

'It sounds like I'm going round the houses, doesn't it? But bear with me because I am heading somewhere. You've been open — what? Ten months? And you started from scratch?'

'I did. I had some seed money from my husband, but the rest of it was my own work — you know, business plans, executive summaries, a mail-shot, then interviews, presentations, et cetera, et cetera. It was all me — on my own.'

'And your investors?'

'All private, no public money. Some are venture capitalists, but I've got my angels, you know, my private investors, and even some philanthropists giving me donations. Philanthropists because of what we do here.'

'You get people off drugs?'

'Yes, but not in the usual way.' Tay opened a drawer in her desk and pulled out a leaflet. On rough, unbleached paper, the word 'TIDARA' was embossed in pale grey. 'We use all natural products. This,' she opened the first page, 'is the Tabernanthe iboga root.' Her manicured finger rested on an illustration of a gnarled root, coiled like a basket. Above it were two or three leaves. 'We create an alkaloid from it we call ibogaine. It's a psychoactive drug, used ritually by the Bwiti tribe in Cameroon. It reduces the craving for heroin and crack cocaine, helps the user understand his or her motives for taking the drugs and, more importantly, reduces the symptoms of withdrawal.'

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…

He pulled the TIDARA pamphlet out of his pocket. Clenching the cigarette in his teeth, he fished inside his breast pocket for a pen. With the pamphlet folded on his knee he drew a hard, deep outline round the picture of the plant root. Tabernanthe iboga root. Ibogaine. He'd never heard of it until today. But somehow it was connected to what had happened to Mossy. And maybe that connection was witchcraft.

He put away the pen and tucked the pamphlet into his pocket. He was bending to crush the cigarette against the bench — not in the bark underfoot because he could picture the reaction from Tay Peters — when something above the front door arrested his eye. A small circle of glass above the front door. He smiled. An ironic, relieved smile.

Thank God, he thought, shredding the cigarette with his nails and sprinkling it in the bark mulch. Thank God for the humble CCTV camera.