Whispers of the Dead

CHAPTER 10

GRADUALLY, A PICTURE emerged of what had happened. Irving lived out near Cades Cove, a beauty spot in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains. Each morning before breakfast he would take his dog, a black Labrador, out walking on the trail in the woods behind his home. It was an established part of Irving’s routine, and one that he’d mentioned more than once in the profile interviews he was so fond of giving.

At around nine o’clock his PA had let herself into his house, as she did most mornings, and started the coffee percolator, so that Irving’s favourite French roast would be ready for him by the time he returned.

Except that this morning he hadn’t. The PA—his third in two years—had tried calling his mobile but received no answer. When there was still no sign of him as lunchtime approached, she’d gone out along the trail herself. Less than a half-mile from his house she’d seen a policeman talking to an elderly couple, whose Jack Russell was yapping excitedly on its lead. As she’d passed she’d overheard them telling him about the dead dog that their terrier had found. A black Labrador.

That was when she realized her employer might not be back for breakfast after all.

A search of the area revealed a bloodstained steel bar lying near the Labrador’s body, and the muddy ground by the dog’s body bore evidence of a struggle. But while there were several sets of footprints, none of them were distinct enough for casts.

Of Irving himself, there was no sign.

‘We don’t know for certain what’s happened to him,’ Gardner admitted. ‘We think all the blood on the bar is from the dog, but until it’s been to the lab we can’t be sure.’

We were in one of the morgue’s offices, down the corridor from the autopsy suites. Windowless and small, it could have belonged to any anonymous business. Gardner had come at Tom’s request. This time Jacobsen was with him, cool and unapproachable as ever in a knee-length charcoal grey skirt and jacket. Except for the colour, it looked identical to the blue one I’d seen her in before. I wondered if she had a wardrobe full of identical suits, running the dark spectrum of neutral shades.

Although no one had broached the actual reason for the meeting, we were all aware what it was. Even unspoken it created a palpable tension in the small office. Gardner had restricted his un-happiness at my presence to a disapproving glance. He looked even more careworn than usual, the creases in his brown suit matching those in his face, as though he were subject to a heavier gravity than the rest of us.

‘You must have some theories,’ Tom said. He sat behind the desk, listening with a brooding expression I knew meant he was biding his time. He was the only one seated. Although there was another chair in front of the desk no one had taken it. The rest of us stayed on our feet, the chair remaining vacant as though awaiting the arrival of a late visitor.

‘It’s possible Irving was the victim of a random attack, but it’s still too soon to say. We’re not ruling out anything at this stage,’ Gardner said.

Tom’s exasperation was beginning to show. ‘In that case where’s his body?’

‘We’re still searching the area. For all we know he could have been injured and wandered off. The dog was found in woodland half a mile from the nearest road. That’s a long way to carry a grown man, but there’s no other way anyone could’ve got Irving out of there. All we’ve found so far are footprints and cycle tracks.’

‘Then maybe he was forced to walk out himself at gun or knifepoint.’

Gardner’s chin jutted stubbornly. ‘In broad daylight? Unlikely. But like I said, we’re considering every possibility.’

Tom considered him. ‘How long have we known each other, Dan?’

The TBI agent looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t know. Ten years?’

‘It’s twelve. And this is the first time you’ve ever tried to bullshit me.’

‘That isn’t fair!’ Gardner shot back, his face darkening. ‘We came here today out of courtesy—’

‘Come on, Dan, you know what happened as well as I do! You can’t seriously believe it’s coincidence that Irving’s gone missing the morning after he bad-mouthed a serial killer on TV?’

‘Until there’s proof I’m not going to jump to conclusions.’

‘And what if someone else on the investigation goes missing? Will that be jumping to conclusions too?’ In all the years I’d known Tom I’d never seen him so angry. ‘Dammit, Dan, one person was injured here yesterday, perhaps seriously, and now this! I have a responsibility to the people working with me. If any of them are at risk then I want to know about it!’

Gardner said nothing. He looked pointedly across at me.

‘I’ll be in the autopsy suite,’ I said, heading for the door.

‘No, David, you’ve got as much right to hear this as I have,’ Tom said.

‘Tom…’ Gardner began.

‘I asked him to help, Dan. If he’s going to share the risk he has every right to know what he’s got himself into.’ Tom folded his arms. ‘I’ll only tell him what you say anyway, so he might as well hear it from you.’

The two of them stared at each other. Gardner didn’t strike me as the type to be easily browbeaten, but I knew Tom wasn’t going to budge. I glanced at Jacobsen and saw she looked as uncomfortable as I felt. Then she realized I was watching her, and quickly blanked any hint of emotion from her features.

Gardner gave a resigned sigh. ‘Jesus, Tom. All right, it’s possible there’s a connection. But it isn’t that simple. Some of Alex Irving’s students had complained about his behaviour. Female students. The university’d been turning a blind eye because he was a celebrity professor who could walk into a job anywhere in the state. Then a student accused him of sexual harassment and that opened the floodgates. The police were brought in, and it looked as though the university was going to cut him loose rather than risk being hit with lawsuits themselves.’

I thought about the blatant way Irving had flirted with Summer and even Jacobsen, despite publicly slapping her down. It didn’t surprise me that they weren’t the only ones. Evidently not everyone fell for his charm.

‘So you think he pulled a vanishing act?’ Tom asked doubtfully.

‘Like I said, we’re considering every possibility. But Irving didn’t just have the harassment case hanging over him. The IRS have been investigating him for unpaid tax on all those book deals and TV appearances. He was looking at a bill of over a million dollars, maybe even a jail sentence. He was facing professional and financial ruin no matter what. This might have seemed like an ideal opportunity to get out from under.’

Tom pulled at his lower lip, frowning. ‘Even so, killing his own dog?’

‘People have done worse for less. And you might as well know, we found a clear set of fingerprints on the bar used to kill Irving’s dog. When we ran them we got a match with a petty thief called Noah Harper. He’s a career criminal, with a string of car theft and burglary convictions.’

‘If you’ve got a suspect then why aren’t you looking happier?’ Tom asked.

‘Because for one thing all of Harper’s offences in the past have been minor league. And for another he’s been missing for nearly seven months. He didn’t turn up for his last parole appointment and no one’s seen him since. All his belongings were left in his apartment, and the rent was paid up till the end of the month.’

‘Is he African American?’ I asked. ‘Fifty to sixty, with a bad limp?’

It was hard not to enjoy Gardner’s surprise. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Because I think he’s in the autopsy suite down the corridor.’

I watched realization put even more folds into his already crumpled face. ‘I’m getting slow,’ he said, disgusted with himself.

Jacobsen was looking uncertainly from one to the other of us. ‘You mean the body that was in Willis Dexter’s grave? That’s Noah Harper?’

‘The timing fits,’ Gardner said. ‘Except if Harper’s dead, how did his fingerprints get to be on the weapon that killed Irving’s dog?’

‘Maybe the same way that Willis Dexter’s came to be at the cabin,’ Tom suggested.

There was a silence as we considered that. It had always been possible that Willis Dexter might not have faked his own death after all, that the killer had simply appropriated both his body and his fingerprints. But that couldn’t have happened in this case.

‘Were either of the hands missing from the corpse in Willis Dexter’s casket?’ Jacobsen asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘And all the fingers were there, too.’

‘It’s possible someone could’ve saved the film canister and steel bar with Dexter’s and Harper’s fingerprints already on them,’ Tom suggested.

‘The film canister, maybe. Dexter’s print was smeared with a mineral oil that’s used for most baby oils. There’s no way of knowing how long it had been there,’ Gardner said. ‘But Harper’s prints were left in the blood on the bar. It was only a few hours old.’

‘Then the body from the casket can’t be Noah Harper’s. It’s just not possible,’ Jacobsen insisted.

Nobody said anything. Logic said she was right, not if the fingerprints had been left that morning. But judging from the expressions in the office no one felt very confident.

Tom took off his glasses and began to clean them. He looked more tired and somehow vulnerable without them. ‘You might as well tell them what else you’ve found, David.’

Gardner and Jacobsen listened in silence as I described finding the pupal cases and dragonfly naiad in the casket, and the intact hyoid and pink teeth of the exhumed body.

‘So it looks as though Terry Loomis and whoever was in the casket were killed the same way,’ Gardner said when I’d finished. He turned to Tom. ‘And you think these pink teeth could have been caused by strangulation?’

‘Seems more likely than drowning,’ Tom agreed mildly, and I tried not to smile. He hadn’t mentioned Gardner’s jibe at me in the cabin, but he obviously hadn’t forgotten it. ‘There wouldn’t be much doubt at all if not for the obvious blood loss and wounds on Loomis’s body.’

Gardner rubbed the back of his neck. ‘The spatter patterns in the cabin looked authentic. But there’s no way of knowing for sure if the blood came from Loomis until we get the DNA results.’

‘That’ll take weeks,’ Tom commented.

‘Tell me about it. It’s times like this I wish we still did blood grouping. That’d at least tell us if the blood was the same type as his. But that’s progress for you.’ His expression made it clear what he thought of that. ‘I’ll get on to the lab. They’re supposed to be fast-tracking this already, but I’ll see if they can’t speed things up a little.’

He didn’t sound hopeful. While DNA provided a much more accurate method of matching and identification than the old technique of blood grouping, the testing process was also frustratingly slow. It was the same on both sides of the Atlantic; I’d heard more than one UK police officer complain that lab work took far longer than was portrayed on film or TV. The fact was that in the real world, fast-tracked or not, such things could take months.

Tom examined the lenses of his glasses, then resumed polishing them. ‘You still haven’t answered my question, Dan. Should we be worried?’

Gardner threw up his hands. ‘What do you want me to say, Tom? I can’t read this guy’s mind; I don’t know what he’s going to do next. I wish I could. But even if he is responsible for Irving’s disappearance it doesn’t mean anyone else working on the case is in danger. I’m sorry as hell about Irving, but let’s face it, the man courted publicity. Going on TV like that could have stirred up any number of psychos, not just this one.’

‘Then we should just carry on like nothing’s happened?’

‘Within reason, yes. If I thought there was any real risk, believe me, I’d slap a twenty-four-hour guard on all of you. As it is, provided you take reasonable precautions, I’m sure there’s no reason to worry.’

‘“Reasonable precautions”?’ Tom repeated impatiently. ‘What’s that mean? Don’t take candy from strangers?’

‘It means don’t go walking dogs in woods by yourself,’ Gardner retorted. ‘Don’t go down dark streets alone at night. C’mon, Tom, I don’t have to spell it out.’

No, you don’t. I thought about the scare the security guard had given me the night before. Perhaps I’d park somewhere less isolated in future.

‘All right. Reasonable precautions it is,’ Tom agreed, though he didn’t sound happy. He put his glasses back on. ‘So what do you think the chances are of finding Irving?’

‘We’re putting our full resources into it,’ Gardner said, his guardedness returning.

Tom didn’t press. We all knew exactly what Irving’s chances were. ‘Will you be bringing in another profiler?’

‘That’s under consideration,’ Gardner said carefully. ‘We haven’t discounted Irving’s profile of the killer altogether, but we’re also looking at alternative viewpoints. And Diane’s come up with an interesting theory.’

Colour bloomed on Jacobsen’s otherwise impassive features. The blush reflex is a hard one to control. For someone who seemed to cultivate such outward composure, I imagined it must be infuriating.

‘With all due respect to Professor Irving, I don’t think the killings are sexual in nature, or that the killer is necessarily homosexual,’ she said. ‘I think Professor Irving might have become distracted by the fact that both victims were male and naked.’

She’d voiced the same views when the profiler had gone to see Terry Loomis’s body in the cabin, and been put in her place for daring to disagree. For Irving’s sake, I found myself hoping she was right.

‘So how would you explain it?’ Tom asked.

‘I wouldn’t, not yet. But the killer’s actions suggest that he’s not following a sexual agenda.’ She was talking to Tom as an equal now, any reticence forgotten. ‘We’ve got two crime scenes, and two sets of fingerprints from individuals who are very probably victims themselves. And then there’re the hypodermic needles embedded in the body in Willis Dexter’s grave, waiting for us to exhume it. The killer’s showing off, running us round in circles to show who’s in charge. It isn’t enough for him to kill, he wants recognition. I’d agree with Professor Irving that the killings show evidence of pathological narcissism, but I’d say it goes further than that. This is more psychiatric territory than mine, but I think the killer bears all the hallmarks of a malignant narcissist.’

Tom looked blank. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, but I haven’t a clue what that means.’

Jacobsen was too involved by now to be embarrassed. ‘All narcissists are self-obsessed, but malignant narcissists are at the top of the scale. They have a pathological self-belief—a sense of grandiosity, even—which demands attention and admiration. They’re convinced they’re special in some way and want other people to acknowledge it as well. Crucially, they’re also sadists who lack any conscience. They don’t necessarily get fulfilment from inflicting pain, but they enjoy the sense of power it gives them. And they’re indifferent to any suffering they might cause.’

‘That sounds like a psychopath,’ I said.

Jacobsen’s grey eyes turned to me. ‘Not quite, although there are shared characteristics. While a malignant narcissist is capable of extreme cruelty, he or she can still feel admiration and even respect for other people, provided the object of their respect displays what they consider “suitable” characteristics—generally a degree of success or power. According to Kernberg—’

‘I don’t think we need the footnotes, Diane,’ Gardner told her.

Jacobsen looked chastened, but went on. ‘The bottom line is I think we’re dealing with someone who needs to demonstrate his superiority, maybe to himself as much as to us. He’s got a chip on his shoulder and feels his talents and true worth aren’t appreciated. That’d explain the lengths he’s gone to, and also why he reacted as he did to what Professor Irving said on TV. He wouldn’t only be infuriated at being publicly belittled, he’d hate to see someone else stealing his limelight.’

‘Assuming this guy is also responsible for what happened to Irving,’ Gardner put in, giving her a warning look.

‘You sound like a damn lawyer, Dan,’ Tom told him, but without heat. He gazed into space, absently tapping his chin with a finger. ‘What about the employees from the funeral home? Do they all have alibis for when Irving went missing?’

‘We’re checking now, but to be frank I can’t see any of them being behind this. The only two we’ve found so far who worked there around the time of Willis Dexter’s funeral are both in their seventies.’

‘What about York himself?’

‘He claims to have been at work since five o’clock this morning. And before you ask, no there isn’t anyone who can corroborate that,’ Gardner said, with the air of someone backed into a corner.

‘There’s a surprise,’ Tom muttered. ‘Any sign of this mystery employee he claims he hired?’

‘Dwight Chambers? We’re still looking into it.’

‘Meaning no.’

Gardner sighed. ‘York’s still a suspect. But whoever’s behind this is too smart to bring all this attention down on himself. We’re carrying out a full-scale search of Steeple Hill, and this time tomorrow the press are going to be all over the place. York’s business is as good as dead no matter what happens.’ He grimaced as he realized what he’d said. ‘And the pun was unintentional.’

‘From what I saw, it couldn’t have carried on much longer anyway.’ Light glinted on Tom’s glasses as he stood up from behind the desk. ‘Maybe York would rather go out with a bang.’

Or perhaps he’s just another victim. But I kept that thought to myself.

It was growing dark as I pulled on to the quiet, tree-lined road where Tom and Mary lived. I would have worked late again if not for the dinner invitation, and after the day’s interruptions I’d felt frustrated at having to break off. But not for long; as soon as I stepped out of the morgue into the sunny evening, I felt the iron fingers of tension release their hold on the back of my neck. I’d not really been aware of them until then, but Irving’s disappearance, coming after what had happened to Kyle the day before, had shaken me more than I’d thought. Now the prospect of a few drinks and food with friends seemed like the perfect tonic.

The Liebermans’ home was a lovely timber-framed house, white-painted and set well back from the road. It didn’t seem to have changed from the first time I’d seen it, except for the majestic old oak that dominated the front lawn. On my last visit it had been in its prime; now it was in decline, and half of the sweeping branches were dead and bare.

Mary greeted me at the door, standing on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. ‘David! Good of you to come.’

She had aged better than her husband. Her sandy hair had paled but retained its natural colour, and though her face was lined it still shone with health. Not many women in their sixties can wear jeans and get away with it, but Mary was one of them.

‘Thank you, how lovely,’ she said, taking the bottle of wine I’d brought. ‘Come on through to the den. Sam and Paul aren’t here yet, and Tom’s on the phone with Robert.’

Robert was their only son. He worked in insurance and lived in New York. I’d never met him and Tom didn’t talk about him much, but I had the impression that it wasn’t an easy relationship.

‘You’re looking well,’ Mary told me, leading me down the hall. ‘Much better than you did last week.’

I’d had dinner with them on my first night. It already seemed a long time ago. ‘Must be the sunshine,’ I said.

‘Well, whatever it is, it agrees with you.’

She opened the door into the den. It was actually an old conservatory, filled with healthy plants and cushioned rattan chairs. She settled me down in one with a beer, and then excused herself while she saw to dinner.

The panelled conservatory windows looked out over the back garden. I could just make out the tall shapes of trees in the darkness, outlined against the yellow lights of the next house. It was a nice neighbourhood. Tom had told me once that he and Mary had almost bankrupted themselves to buy the semi-derelict property back in the seventies, and never once regretted it.

I sipped the cold beer, feeling a little more tension slip away. Putting my head back, I thought about what had happened. It had been another broken day, with first the news about Irving and then Gardner and Jacobsen’s visit taking me away from actual work. Another distraction had come late that afternoon, with the arrival of the amino and volatile fatty acids analysis of Terry Loomis’s tissue samples. Tom had come into the autopsy suite where I’d been processing the casket victim’s remains.

‘Well, we were wrong,’ he’d declared without preamble. ‘According to my calculations the time since death confirms the cabin manager’s story. Loomis had only been dead for five days, not nearer seven like we thought. Here, see what you think.’

He handed me a sheet of figures. A quick look told me he was right, but Tom didn’t make mistakes about things like that.

‘Looks fine to me,’ I said, returning them. ‘But I still can’t see how it can be.’

‘Me neither.’ He frowned down at the calculations as though offended by them. ‘Even allowing for the heater being left on, I’ve never seen a body decompose to that extent after five days. There were pupating larvae on it, for God’s sake!’

Blowfly larvae took six or seven days to pupate. Even if both Tom and I had been out in our time since death estimate, they shouldn’t have reached that stage of their development for another day at least.

‘Only one way they could have got there,’ I said.

Tom smiled. ‘You’ve been thinking it through as well. Go on.’

‘Someone must have deliberately seeded the corpse with maggots.’ It was the only thing that explained the condition of Terry Loomis’s body. Fully grown larvae would have been able to get to work straight away, with no time lost waiting for the eggs to hatch. ‘It wouldn’t accelerate things by much, perhaps twelve to twenty-four hours at most. Still, with all the open wounds on the body it’d probably be enough.’

He nodded. ‘Especially with the heater left on to raise the temperature. And there were way too many larvae on the body given that the cabin’s doors and windows were all closed. Somebody obviously decided to give nature a boost. Clever, but it’s hard to see what they hoped to gain, apart from muddying the water for a day or two.’

I’d been thinking about that as well. ‘Perhaps that was enough. Remember what Diane Jacobsen said? Whoever’s behind this is trying to prove something. Perhaps this was just another chance to show how clever he is.’

‘Could be.’ Tom gave me a thoughtful smile. ‘Makes you wonder how he knows so much about it, though, doesn’t it?’ he said.

It had been a troubling thought.

I was still mulling that over when Tom came into the conservatory. He was freshly shaved and changed, with the deceptively healthy ruddiness that comes from a hot shower.

‘Sorry about that. Our monthly duty call,’ he said. The bitterness in his voice surprised me. He smiled, as though to acknowledge it, and lowered himself into a chair with a sigh. ‘Has Mary fixed you up with a drink?’

I held up the beer. ‘Yes, thanks.’

He nodded, but he still seemed distracted.

‘Everything all right?’ I asked.

‘Sure.’ He plucked irritably at the chair arm. ‘It’s just Robert.

He was supposed to be visiting in a couple of weeks. Now it appears he won’t have the time. I don’t mind for myself so much, but Mary was looking forward to seeing him, and now… Ah, well. That’s kids for you.’

The attempt to sound breezy faltered as he remembered my own circumstances. It was an innocent enough slip, but he looked relieved when the doorbell announced the arrival of Sam and Paul.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ Paul said, as Mary ushered them into the conservatory. ‘Got a flat tyre on my way home, and it took me ages to clean the damn oil off my hands.’

‘You’re here now. Samantha, you look positively radiant,’ Tom said, going to kiss her. ‘How are you?’

Sam lowered herself into a high-backed chair, made awkward by her swollen belly. With her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, she looked fresh-faced and healthy. ‘Impatient. If Junior doesn’t hurry himself up we’re going to have words before much longer.’

Tom laughed. ‘You’ll be doing the school run before you know it.’

His mood had lightened with their arrival, and by the time we sat down for dinner the atmosphere was easy and relaxed. Dinner was plain and unfussy—baked salmon with jacket potatoes and salad—but Mary was a good enough cook to make it seem special. As she served dessert, a hot peach pie with melting ice cream, Sam leaned across to me.

‘How’re you? You don’t seem so tightly wound as last time I saw you,’ she said, her voice low enough not to be overheard.

That had been in the restaurant where I thought I’d smelled Grace Strachan’s perfume. It seemed like weeks ago, although it was only a few days. But a lot had happened since then.

‘No, I don’t suppose I am.’ I smiled. ‘I’m feeling pretty good, to be honest.’

She studied me for a moment or two. ‘Yes, you look it.’ Giving my arm a squeeze, she turned back to the main conversation.

After the meal, Mary and Sam disappeared into the kitchen to make coffee, rejecting our offers of help. ‘You know as well as I do that you want to talk shop, and Sam and I have better things to discuss.’

‘Anyone want to lay odds on it being babies?’ Tom said after they’d gone out. He rubbed his hands. ‘Well, I for one am going to have a bourbon. Care to join me? I have a bottle of Blanton’s I need an excuse to open.’

‘Just a small one,’ Paul said.

‘David? Or there’s Scotch if you’d rather?’

‘Bourbon’s fine, thanks.’

Tom busied himself at a cabinet, taking out glasses and a distinctive bottle with a miniature horse and jockey perched on top. ‘There’s ice, but if I go into the kitchen Mary’s going to read the riot act to me for drinking. And I’ll take your disapproval as read, David.’

I hadn’t been going to say anything. Sometimes abstinence can do more harm than good. Tom handed us each a glass, then raised his own.

‘Your health, gentlemen.’

The bourbon was smooth with an aftertaste of burnt caramel. We sipped it, savouring it in silence. Tom cleared his throat.

‘While you’re both here there’s something I wanted to tell you. It doesn’t really concern you, David, but you might as well hear it as well.’

Paul and I glanced at each other. Tom stared pensively into his bourbon. ‘You both know I was planning to bring my retirement forward to the end of summer. Well, I’ve decided not to wait that long.’

Paul set down his glass. ‘You’re joking.’

‘It’s time,’ Tom said simply. ‘I’m sorry to spring it on you like this, but… Well, it’s no secret my health hasn’t been good lately. And I have to think of what’s fair to Mary. I thought the end of next month would be a good time. That’s only a few weeks early, and it isn’t as if the center will grind to a halt without me. I’ve got a feeling the next director should be a good one.’

That was aimed at Paul, but he didn’t seem to notice. ‘Have you told anyone else?’

‘Only Mary. There’s a faculty meeting next week. I thought I’d announce it then. But I wanted you to know first.’

Paul still looked stunned. ‘Jesus, Tom. I don’t know what to say.’

‘How about “Happy retirement”?’ Tom gave a smile. ‘It isn’t the end of the world. I’ll still do some consultancy work, I dare say. Hell, I might even take up golf. So come on, no long faces. Let’s have another toast.’

He reached for the bottle of Blanton’s and topped up our drinks. There was a lump in my throat but I knew Tom didn’t want us to be maudlin. I raised my glass.

‘To fresh starts.’

He chinked his glass against mine. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

His announcement gave a bittersweet flavour to the rest of the evening. Mary beamed when she and Sam returned, but her eyes glittered with tears. Sam didn’t try to hide hers, hugging Tom so hard he had to stoop over her pregnant stomach.

‘Good for you,’ she’d declared, wiping her eyes.

Tom himself had smiled broadly, and talked out his and Mary’s plans, squeezing his wife’s hand as he did so. But underlying it all was a sadness that no amount of celebration could disguise. This wasn’t just a job Tom was retiring from.

It was the end of an era.

I was more glad than ever that I’d taken up his offer to help him on the investigation. He’d said it would be our last chance to work together, but I’d had no idea it was going to be the last time for him as well. I wondered if even he had, then.

As I drove back to my hotel just after midnight, I berated myself for not appreciating the opportunity I’d been given. Resolving to put any remaining doubts behind me, I told myself to make the most of working with Tom while it lasted. Another day or two and it would be all over.

At least, that’s what I thought. I should have known better.

The next day they found another body.

The images form slowly, emerging like ghosts on the blank sheet of paper. The lamp casts a blood-red glow in the small chamber as you wait for the right moment, then lift the contact sheet from the tray of developing fluid and dip it into the stop bath before placing it in the fixer.

There. Perfect. Although you’re not really aware of it, you whistle softly to yourself, a breathy, almost silent exhalation that holds no particular tune. Cramped as it is, you love being in the darkroom. It puts you in mind of a monk’s cell: peaceful and meditative, a self-contained world in itself. Bathed in the room’s transforming, carmine light, you feel cut off from everything, able to focus on coaxing to life the images implanted into the glossy photographic sheets.

Which is as it should be. The game you’re playing, making the TBI and their so-called experts chase their own tails, might be a welcome relief and flattering to your ego. God knows, you deserve to indulge yourself after all the sacrifices you’ve made. But you shouldn’t lose sight of the fact that it’s only a diversion. The main thing, the real work, takes place in this small room.

There’s nothing more important than this.

Getting to this stage has taken years, learning through trial and error. Your first camera was from a pawn shop, an old Kodak Instamatic that you’d been too inexperienced to know was poorly suited for your needs. It could capture the instant, but not in anything like enough detail. Too slow, too blurred, too unreliable. Not nearly enough precision, enough control, for what you wanted.

You’ve tried others since then. For a while you got excited about digital cameras, but for all their convenience the images lack—and here you smile to yourself—they lack the soul of film. Pixels don’t have the depth, the resonance you’re looking for. No matter how high the resolution, how true the colours, they’re still only an impressionist approximation of their subject. Whereas film captures something of its essence, a transferral that goes beyond the chemical process. A real photograph is created by light, pure and simple: a paintbrush of photons that leaves its mark on the canvas of the film. There’s a physical link between photographer and subject that calls for fine judgement, for skill. Too long in the chemical mix and the image is a dark ruin. Not long enough and it’s a pallid might-have-been, culled before its time. Yes, film is undoubtedly more trouble, more demanding.

But nobody said a quest was supposed to be easy.

And that’s what this is, a quest. Your own Holy Grail, except that you know for sure what you’re searching for exists. You’ve seen it. And what you’ve seen once, you can see again.

You feel the usual nervousness as you lift the dripping contact sheet from the tray of fixer—carefully, having splashed fluid in your eyes once before—and rinse it in cold water. This is the moment of truth. The man had been primed and ready by the time you got back, the fear and waiting bringing him to a hair-trigger alertness, as it always did. Though you try not to build up your hopes too much, you feel the inevitable anticipation as you scan the glossy sheet to see what you’ve got. But your excitement withers as you examine each of the miniature images, dismissing them one by one.

Blurred. No. No.

Useless!

In a sudden frenzy you rip the contact sheet in half and fling it aside. Lashing out at the developing trays, you knock them to the floor in a splash of chemicals. You raise your hand to swipe at the shelves full of bottles before you catch yourself. Fists knotted, you stand in the centre of the darkroom, chest heaving with the effort of restraint.

The stink of spilt developing fluids fills the small chamber. The sudden anger fades as you stare at the mess. Listlessly, you start to pick up some of the torn scraps, then abandon the effort. It can wait. The chemical fumes are overpowering, and some liquid splashed on to your bare arm. It’s stinging already, and you know from past experience that it’ll burn if you don’t wash it off.

You’re calmer as you leave the darkroom, the disappointment already shrinking. You’re used to it by now, and there’s no time to dwell on it. You have too much to do, too much to prepare. Thinking about that puts a spring back in your step. Failure’s always frustrating, but you need to keep things in perspective.

There’s always next time.