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  Nathan had stacked the used water bottle, tissues, the sandwich wrapper and the Zane Grey into a neat mini-tower. There were no crumbs or smears on the table; not even a watermark where the bottle had stood. This time, he didn’t jump when Dana entered the room.

  Dana winced as she went to sit. She tried to straighten her leg while seated, noticing Nathan stare at her knee.

  ‘Sorry. Cold weather and my kneecap don’t mix. It’s about sixty per cent plastic.’

  ‘Was that from illness?’

  She was startled by his interest in someone who wasn’t him. ‘Uh, no.’

  ‘Really? Was it injured in an accident?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  Even Nathan seemed troubled by the silent pause that followed.

  ‘Then what was it?’

  The question was eminently reasonable. Most people knew, if they ever asked, not to ask again. Her acute discomfort, the formidable effort she made to wave it away; every vestige of her reaction combined to say it was verboten. But Nathan Whittler simply asked the obvious question and waited for the answer.

  But she couldn’t answer it. She was unable to say because it might open up a fissure that would bubble with something she struggled to contain. Especially today, on this Day. She couldn’t say because it might expose her to things she couldn’t fight, couldn’t beat. And, underlying all that, there were legal issues.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Mr Whittler. Everything we say in this room is recorded and, as such, is admissible in court. Not only what you say, but what I say as well. The story behind my knee problems is sub judice: it can’t be discussed. Suffice to say it happened five years ago, it was not accidental and it was not a medical problem.’

  He was perplexed. ‘Everything you say here can be played in court?’

  ‘It can. I expect a law suit from the estate of Zane Grey, at the very least.’

  Nathan gave a watery smile and shook his head.

  ‘Fresh water, Mr Whittler.’ She waggled another bottle and turned it deliberately so the label faced him.

  ‘Very good, Detective Russo.’

  Dana smiled at her notes. He was beginning to consider her a kindred spirit in some way. She needed that but wasn’t altogether comfortable with it.

  She swept the remains of the earlier session into a plastic bag and let him watch while she tied a precise trucker’s hitch with string. He almost certainly knew some woodcraft; maybe he knew knots as well. It would be these little points of connection that she felt would, paradoxically, unravel him.

  Lucy and Bill were behind the mirror. She’d asked them each to focus on different things while watching – Bill on what was said, and any semblance of a way in, or leverage; Lucy on the body language, and what that might imply. Dana planned to be braver this time around. She’d established politeness, grammatical rigour and awareness. This needed to go further, and faster, without letting him come apart.

  Again there was a loud glugging as Nathan poured a cup of water. He took such forensic care: like he was in a lab and pouring acid into a beaker. One stray drop would be some kind of failure. She switched on the tape.

  ‘So, Mr Whittler, if we might return to your address and accommodation?’

  He nodded. She noted that he was no longer focused on his shoe, as he’d been initially. Now his basic responses were directed to the corner of the table.

  ‘I’ve been doing some thinking.’ She set the files to one side and framed a new page in her notes with both hands. ‘As we established, you’ve had the same home for the past fifteen years, but not a permanent address that would appear on any database. I’m thinking, therefore’ – she glanced pointedly at him – ‘that you have been living in some kind of cave.’

  He blanched. She could see emotion swarm across his face, like a storm sweeping over a prairie. He scratched at his nose, then his chin. His hand brushed the back of his neck and he shivered as he tugged at a sleeve. Her mind drifted to what Lucy might have found out about limestone areas, and she had to force her concentration back while she waited for Nathan to laugh nervously then recover his poise.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ His voice was thick and crackly, as if he hadn’t spoken in days.

  She knew he was stalling, that his mind was racing and reaching, flooded with implications. But she also understood that process mattered to Nathan Whittler. It was not all about the result, but also the manner of getting there: one influenced the other. He had an old-fashioned belief in the virtue of doing things in the right way.

  ‘Well, I don’t believe you lived in some tarpaulin-and-ferns contraption. It would be too temporary and too uncomfortable. I can see from your skin, your hands, and so on, that you’ve taken care of yourself, that you’ve been relatively comfortable. And I think you were in it for the long haul right from the start. I don’t believe that you would go for something interim: you’d want a shelter that would last a lifetime, first time.’

  Nathan nodded slowly. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Well, as you’ve implied, where you’ve been living must be some sort of weatherproof, or weather-resistant, shelter. It wouldn’t be considered by most as a permanent dwelling, but I can’t see anyone surviving fifteen winters entirely in the open air. To say nothing of the storm season.’

  She resisted the urge to say someone like you. He still looked to her the indoors type, unlikely to relish the rugged and harsh life he was claiming. Instead, she clasped her hands and put some weight on her elbows. Her knee spasmed again.

  ‘So I believe that you’ve been living somewhere that’s sturdy enough to allow you to stay away from other people, but within reach of them. I say that because you must have periodically needed supplies and food. You previously indicated it wasn’t a caravan, or a boat, or part of someone’s dwelling. And we also confirmed that you have the integrity not to use someone’s cabin. It’s really a process of elimination.’

  He continued to stare at the corner of the table. She could see his eyes move slightly, as though tracing the grains in the wood.

  ‘Did you consider a tent?’

  She paused deliberately, slowly writing nothing of consequence on her pad just to see if he leaned slightly towards it. He did.

  ‘Yes, Mr Whittler, it did cross my mind. More specifically, a large and heavy tent, like the army use. I thought that might be hefty enough to see out fifteen seasons and survive the weather. I came down against that because I felt you’d established the camp entirely alone; that kind of tent would be too heavy for you to carry to a fairly isolated location, away from any tracks or roads. Oh.’

  He looked up at the final word but quickly glanced away again by way of the mirror. She tapped her pen against the desk twice then flicked back a page in her notes.

  ‘I apologise, Mr Whittler. I forgot to ask you about your car. In 2004 there was a Toyota Corolla registered in your name. Have you driven that car since 2004?’

  Nathan sat back. She figured he was considering what answer would be in his best interest. If he said he still had the car, and he hadn’t, it might send them off on a wild-goose chase looking for it: that could buy him time. On the other hand, if he wanted time, he could simply lawyer up and not answer anything at all. The clincher, in her mind, was that she believed he was withholding but would not outright lie: not if she gradually brought him to the truth. He might stop talking altogether, but he wouldn’t lie.

  ‘I have not, Detective. I’m pretty sure no one else has either.’

  They’d need to chase it up, all the same. Her finger and thumb were tapping below the table.

  ‘Korea.’ He said it softly.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The US army in South Korea, in the 1950s. They ran a campaign for many years in similar weather. They lived in tents. It is possible.’

  ‘Hmm, that’s true, although they had many other facilities you lacked – medical support, warmish vehicles to travel in, periodic leave which they spent inside buildings or on the bea
ch at Okinawa. I understand your point, but I think the balance of all circumstances leads me to believe a tent is improbable. I may be wrong, of course.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve thought it through, Detective Russo.’

  Dana wasn’t sure what to do with the compliment. Or if it was a compliment. In every interview his tone was neutral and his body language so strange she struggled to nail it down.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Whittler. So as I said, in the absence of a car, or any assistance, I felt it doubtful you could have lugged a large tent to your camp. And a smaller, flimsier tent wouldn’t have worked.’ She paused and underlined a line of her writing slowly, carefully. She was certain he couldn’t read what it was.

  ‘In addition, I thought it possible that any tent would have been seen from the air. Around here we have helicopter joyriders, some forest rangers, leisure flights, crop-spraying and other aircraft. And, latterly, those remote-control drones. However well it was camouflaged, a tent might be spotted. I believe you wouldn’t take such a risk, given the importance of retaining privacy.’ She leaned back, primarily to release the grinding contact in her kneecap. ‘So, as I said, it’s a process of elimination.’

  Nathan pursed his lips as he thought, re-consulted the lines on his palm. She was just as fascinated with his hands. If he’d lived in the wilds for fifteen years, how could they be lily-white and pristine? Judging from his soft skin alone, he looked about ten years younger than his chronological age. It was one of the markers that jarred with his claims: he insisted he’d lived wild, but he didn’t look that way. Mikey, for one, was unconvinced, and she sensed Lucy wasn’t wholly on board yet either.

  ‘That’s very good, Detective Russo. I suppose that’s what you do, you detectives. Deductive reasoning, and all that.’

  Dana breathed an inward sigh of relief. It had started to feel as if they were getting nowhere, but this was genuine progress. It seemed to grate on Nathan, however.

  ‘May I ask you some hypotheticals, Mr Whittler?’

  He twitched his mouth, as though swallowing a smart answer that he had suddenly decided might be counter-productive. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘So, let’s say that my forensics report here’ – she tapped a file with her index finger – ‘shows that you have sand in the soles of your boots, in addition to the soil from near Jensen’s Store.’ She paused, to ensure she framed it correctly. Nathan was making her think about her phrasing. ‘Where would that sand have come from, Mr Whittler?’

  He picked at a hangnail and spoke to the corner of the table. ‘Lots of places have sand, Detective Russo. Is this one of those things where you find an exact chemical balance in the sand which occurs only in one place in the entire country?’

  She pondered for a second whether he’d recently seen television crime dramas, where that kind of story was more likely than in books. She wondered again about his claim to have been out of sight – possibly in a cave and away from people – for fifteen years.

  ‘No, it’s not. Unfortunately. But there aren’t, as far as I’m aware, areas of sandy soil in this region generally. We’re boggy marshes and mosquitos, for the most part. It would be quite a specific location. In fact, it would probably be next to a river or a lake.’

  This one was a reach. Five minutes before they started she’d been planning her strategy. This was a byway she could shut down quickly if it was leading nowhere, but pursue if something opened up. Her level of geological knowledge made it a total guess.

  It hit home. Nathan blanched once more, took an unsteady sip from the cup. His delayed touch on the bottle cap seemed almost an afterthought. She felt she’d shaken him out of a deep-rooted compulsion, and that counted as a win.

  His tone was sharper. ‘Well, it’s possible I’ve walked near a river or a lake lately. Isn’t this called “the land of a hundred lakes”, Detective?’

  ‘It is, Mr Whittler. Well, a few lakes and a hundred swamps would be more accurate. But the fact that the sand is underneath the soil on the boot suggests that you were walking on sand just before you approached the store. And there’s no sandy ground near the store. The closest lake is a few clicks from there.’

  Even with his mouth closed she could now hear his breathing. It seemed impatient, almost belligerent. He raised his voice.

  ‘I thought you were asking hypotheticals? This seems very . . . precise, Detective Russo.’

  Dana took the shot across the bows with a slight incline of the head, which he would have observed as a vaguely moving shadow across the table top. She gave a slight pause, to indicate the separation from the next question: he seemed to appreciate that kind of etiquette.

  ‘My apologies, Mr Whittler. You’ll no doubt understand that not every question I ask is of my own choosing. I operate within a structure, a command structure.’

  There was a pause while Nathan considered and Dana held her breath.

  ‘Of course, Detective Russo.’ His voice had lowered again. ‘But if you wish to discuss hypotheticals, they should be hypothetical and not rooted in current situations.’

  Apparently, failing to stick rigidly to the definition of a word was the problem. ‘I understand. Perhaps I could, instead, ask some more general questions about your survival in such unusual circumstances?’

  Silence. She took nothing as being consent. She sought a question that would pique his indignation.

  ‘Many of my colleagues would find it difficult to imagine being so isolated, so lacking in human contact. They would ask how you managed to bear that.’

  ‘Hmmm. Yes. I’m a little familiar with people’s habit of always taking their telephone with them. I ask myself how they bear that, Detective Russo. To be at everyone’s beck and call at all times, even at home, or at night. To be constantly a second away from someone intruding into your time, your thoughts, your privacy, your intentions. It’s difficult to imagine why people would put themselves into that situation – often willingly.’

  Her finger and thumb reflexed beneath the table. ‘I’m with you on that, Mr Whittler. Personally, mine is switched off to a degree my colleagues find baffling. I suppose they would answer that, firstly, they don’t find it intrusive. For many, it’s a positive decision and they like, uh, “being in touch”, as it were. Secondly, they accept the trade-off: limited privacy in return for the convenience. Being able to book or cancel appointments, let a friend know that they’re running late, find a recipe or contact details, manage without diaries and pieces of paper and all that paraphernalia. They regard it as progress.’

  Nathan pulled a face – the first time he’d shown outright displeasure. She was surprised how easy it was to spot. Many of his previous expressions had been impassive, or contrary; she’d regarded them as opaque, or detached from their cause. It was almost as if, when strong disgust came through, he was transparent. He became more like . . . any other person. She found herself a little disappointed by that.

  ‘Hmmph. Progress? I see it a little differently, Detective Russo. What do their messages to each other say? What important subjects are they discussing? All I’ve heard of it is shallow and empty. How are they informing each other, adding to debate, enlightening? Your colleagues find it hard to imagine how I would do without a bunch of wittering nothing in my life. I think it’s self-evident how “hard” I find it.’

  ‘As I say, I’m with you on the mobile phones and the banality it often brings. But I think their amazement runs deeper than that. In those fifteen years, how many people did you speak to, Mr Whittler?’

  The question struck him as fully as if she had leaned over and slapped his face. He physically shook, and recoiled. Part of her regretted asking because of the wash of emotion across his features; part of her relished the impact she’d made.

  ‘No one, Detective Russo.’

  His reply took her down. The euphoria flushed away instantly. She’d expected a small number, but not that. It couldn’t be so.

  ‘No one, Mr Whittler? Surely some people, intermittent contact? Ac
cidentally bumping into people, coming across them? Someone?’

  ‘As I said, Detective Russo. No one.’ His voice wavered between a whisper and defiance.

  She reconsidered. Could she pursue this? And why? She could tell herself she was establishing the absence of alibis, building another necessary brick in the wall. But perhaps it was simply the prurience of incredulity. Even she couldn’t imagine such a thing.

  ‘That must have taken enormous . . . discipline. Willpower.’

  ‘How so?’ He shook his head a little. ‘Oh, no, it doesn’t. There’s nothing heroic about it, Detective Russo. Don’t imagine me as something unique, someone who discovered some special truth about humanity. No, don’t think that.’

  He was fuming now; his fists balled up, his breathing strong and furious. His voice rose and he directed it at the wall below the mirror, as though he couldn’t bear to throw this at Dana herself.

  ‘It’s no more virtuous than any other preference. You wouldn’t think it took strength of character to continually surround yourself with people, to be constantly in their orbit, never alone. It wouldn’t be remarkable discipline to be afraid of being by yourself, even for an hour. You’d simply view that as the person’s preference, their personality in action. So why think the reverse has any hint of heroism to it?’

  He was getting close to her heart now: she could practically feel him brush past it. Soon he would want – or need – a quid pro quo, and it was too personal to give. She was supposed to empathise to some degree, but this felt too close. He was drifting on to land she’d struggled to understand her whole life, which had made her do things she couldn’t undo. And he’d clumsily run aground while a tape was running – a recording with an audience.

  She wanted out of this conversation. Wanted out right now. It was starting to slice her to the bone. But it wasn’t possible to simply cut and run, not without a departure that would reduce her status in his eyes. She had to stay with it.

  ‘I can see, Mr Whittler, for a deeply introverted person – in the true sense of the word – a relative lack of direct contact might be preferable, or desirable. But truly, your experience seems to go way beyond that. In that sense, it’s so beyond mainstream that it could only be reached by an unusually strong personal choice and an unusually strong willingness to see that choice through, regardless of consequence.’