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  Timms shook his head slightly. ‘So who’s he spoken to; where’s he worked, where’s he shopped? Friends? Relatives?’

  Dana stood; her knee was starting to grind. The cold made it worse. She rubbed it as she spoke. ‘Big fat zero. No employment records at all, no friends we can find, hasn’t spoken to his family since 2004, allegedly. Nothing. Totally off the grid.’

  He glanced to his left, to a triptych along one candlelit wall: Moses. ‘Like a hermit?’

  She followed his gaze and noticed the images. ‘Like a hermit. Yes, exactly like that. But without the whole tablets-of-stone-God’s-word thing.’

  ‘Hmmm. And he’s given no clue about the nature of the camp or the location?’

  ‘No, he’s very reluctant to give any details.’ She thought for a second. ‘Strike that. He actively doesn’t want us to find it, although I haven’t worked out why not. And before you ask, yes, he might have incriminating evidence there, and that might be the reason.’

  ‘No, no, I wasn’t going to say that. It strikes me there would be other reasons. An acute sense of privacy, maybe – that’s been his home, and maybe his protection, for so long he can’t bear the thought of anyone seeing it. As if it’s a part of him, somehow, and you’d be looking inside him by looking at it.’

  ‘That was my idea, too. It chimes with his pathology – or what we know of it.’

  Father Timms shrugged. ‘Well, it’s just a stray thought. But in the olden days hermits used what they could find as shelter. The easiest – no preparation, no building anything – was a cave.’

  Now she stared, open-mouthed. ‘Yes, yes. Good, good thinking, yes.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  She wrapped her scarf around her neck, not quite sure how to end the conversation without simply rushing out. She stood still, caught in the moment. He did it for her.

  ‘Go. Go, Dana. It’s okay.’

  She smiled weakly, half in apology.

  ‘But remember!’ he shouted at her departing frame. ‘I do know what Day it is. And I am here all Day. In church, on the phone, anywhere you want to meet. I am here for you. Deal?’

  Chapter 10

  When she got back to the office Dana riffled through some papers in a lower drawer before coming up trumps. The telephone rang so long she was about to give up, and then someone croaked a greeting.

  ‘Billy Munro? It’s Dana – Dana Russo, from the book club?’

  ‘Oh, hey there. How’s things? Are you ringing to tell me to finish that Ishiguro? Coz I have to tell you, I was losing the will to live.’

  She smiled. ‘No, I’m with you on that one. No, it’s not about the book club, actually. I wanted to pick your brains on something else.’

  ‘Oh.’ He sounded surprised, disappointed and cautious in one word. Quite a feat, she thought. It flitted through her mind that she seemed to evoke that combination in a number of people and had no idea how.

  ‘Billy, I have in my feeble brain some notion that you’re a potholer. Is that right?’

  She could almost hear him nodding that broad, bald head of his. Billy had a near-permanent blush to his skin, making him look either angry, squeezed or hurt most of the time. ‘Well, I used to be, till the arthritis hit me. Can’t get in and out of gaps like I used to. These young guys are like greased otters.’

  ‘But you probably know most of the caves around here, yes?’

  ‘Oh, sure, it’s not like they change from one year to the next, is it? What’s on your mind, Dana?’

  She thought about how to frame it. As far as she was aware, Billy wasn’t a gossip, but you never knew these days. She read with horror about people photographing their junk right, left and centre and posting it for the world to see. Not difficult to imagine a middle-aged guy talking out of turn in a bar.

  ‘Okay, so this is strictly off the record: police business.’

  ‘No problem. Twenty years a rural firefighter, and SES. I know how the cops work.’

  ‘Cool. So let’s say someone’s been hiding out in a cave. For quite a long time. Has to be big enough for them to live in, but far enough out of sight that they aren’t bumping into hikers and rubes. And not interesting enough, or unexplored enough, for potholers to show up. Where would I start looking for that kind of cave?’

  ‘Well now,’ Billy replied. There was a short grunt as – she presumed – he sat down and gave it serious consideration. ‘Let’s see. There’s plenty north of the tri-lakes, but there’s people in and out of there all the time. Tourist central, there, in summer. Those caves are on the ridge above Miller’s Point campground, and there’s that outdoor sports place next to it. You know, with the zip-line and all? So they’re big enough, but you’d probably be noticed. Some people are just plain curious, you know? See caves up on the hill: take a look. Plus, it’s also popular for, uh, how to frame it for a lady . . . courting couples? So I doubt your man picked those. Hmm.’

  Dana liked the old-world courtesy. Made her feel she had been born in the wrong era – something that infused her thoughts whenever she saw a black-and-white film. She waited patiently. Billy needed to go through his thought process, whittling down the options. He was an engineer by trade, she remembered. So maybe he had to be methodical no matter what he was doing.

  ‘So, then there are some west of that pine plantation, over by Wilmslow Creek. That would be pretty off the grid. But as far as I know, those are really small. I mean, you have to shuffle in through some little gaps and you can’t stand up in ’em. At least, not unless you shimmy some more and get into the next chambers. I’m guessing your guy didn’t do shimmying?’

  Did he? Was Nathan Whittler the kind of man to do that? She didn’t think he was. It would be difficult to keep doing so without getting covered in dirt, and he seemed to her too nervous to start exploring caves which needed skill to navigate. She had the impression that his would be a cave he could stand up in. Assuming she wasn’t off down a rabbit hole of her own, she reminded herself.

  ‘I don’t think so, Billy. We haven’t got a sense that he’s the adventurous type, not like that. I’m thinking somewhere hidden but big enough to walk around when you’re in it. And way off any trail, I would imagine.’

  ‘Ah, well. In that case, you probably need areas that are mainly limestone. They have caves that form naturally – the ones near the tri-lakes are small natural holes that the old indigenous tribes hollowed out into something bigger. They’re big enough to fit tourists, so they’re the right size but the wrong type, if you get my drift. Nah, you need limestone areas. There might be plenty of caves that we don’t have on any map, of course.’

  ‘Really? Oh, I was hoping there would only be a handful. Or one, would be even better.’

  He chuckled. ‘I know what you mean. Yeah, the more I think about it, the more it sounds like some natural limestone formation. Let me have a discreet little chat with some people, see if I come up with anything.’

  ‘That would be great, Billy. Caves aren’t really my thing.’

  ‘You and my Tina both. She can’t have a closet door shut without panicking. It’s not for everyone. Teaches you about yourself, though.’

  Yes, thought Dana. I don’t want to know any more about myself. Kinda know way too much already.

  ‘Okay, let me know if anyone has any winning ideas. Appreciate it, Billy. See you next week.’

  ‘Adios, amigo.’

  ‘Adios.’ Before she realised it she’d mimicked his farewell. People pleaser, she cursed herself.

  ‘Adios?’ Lucy had arrived while she was speaking; a packet of soggy-looking sandwiches had also appeared on her desk. ‘You calling Mexico or something?’

  ‘Yes indeedy, one of those tiny little wrestlers they have. With the masks that apparently mean something culturally important.’

  ‘Oh, simultaneously cute and a little weird? Yeah, understandable. They’ll probably bust the case wide open, I would think.’

  They both grinned then descended into silence. It felt
uncomfortable for Dana, even though Lucy didn’t seem to mind.

  Dana pointed doubtfully at the sandwiches and deadpanned, ‘These look so nice.’

  ‘Don’t they?’ Lucy gave it the full mock-enthusiasm. ‘I like the way the description’s in bold on the label – you wouldn’t have a clue if you had to work it out.’ She shrugged. ‘That’s what you get buying food from somewhere that mainly sells petrol.’

  ‘Next time I’ll send you to a cute pop-up gastro experience.’ Dana sat and prodded the sandwiches with the end of a pen – the closest she wished to get. ‘Maybe an old Streamline trailer – buy something organic, single origin, fair trade, gluten free and paleo from a guy with a perfectly trimmed beard and a flat cap.’

  ‘We don’t have those kinds of places in this town, thank God. Too relentlessly old-fashioned here.’ Lucy nodded at a new clutch of papers as she placed them on the desk. ‘More forensics.’

  Dana picked them up and shook her head ruefully. ‘What did detectives do before forensics? And why don’t forensics solve everything?’

  Lucy reflexively touched the glasses that hung from a chain on her neck. ‘Before forensics, we just guessed. Or executed a poor person. Or both. And forensics don’t solve everything because science doesn’t. Medicine, clean energy, engineering – all flawed and limited.’

  ‘You’re wasted in admin, Luce. You should be a philosopher.’

  ‘I’m both. I’m multitasking.’

  Dana had suggested Lucy consider joining the police. She’d be great at it. But it always quickly foundered on ‘unruly working hours’, an objection that Dana never bottomed out because Lucy studiously avoided letting her.

  ‘So what am I looking at here, Luce?’

  ‘They’re still searching for the weapon. They’ve done a metal-detector search of the surrounding woods; they’re on to a finger-search of the store perimeter. Working outside–in, Stu said. It’ll take a while. The missing knife from that packet is still favourite.’

  Dana frowned. ‘Perhaps the killer didn’t use the weapon they already had. Maybe they had a gun but didn’t get to use it?’ She corrected herself as Lucy looked doubtful. ‘Okay, unlikely – if they had time to open a packet and take a knife, they had enough time to draw a gun. Maybe they had a cosh or a Taser or something: then they decided they needed something lethal and not temporary.’

  ‘Or maybe,’ countered Lucy, ‘whoever it was had to improvise a weapon. You’re looking for reasons Whittler didn’t do it, when he’s the obvious suspect. That guy with the razor – the obvious answer is usually right.’

  Dana dropped the papers on to the desk and leaned back, tapping finger and thumb. ‘Occam. William of Ockham, in fact: he had the razor. Yes, fair comment, but it’s nagging me that Whittler isn’t the type.’ She rocked forward and pointed to the third paragraph. ‘I mean, look here: no hesitation marks and just one stab. And the trajectory, straight between the ribs and into the heart.’ She looked up. ‘That sounds a little slick for an apparent hermit who didn’t take a weapon along, don’t you think?’

  It made Dana think, too. About the point Bill had raised earlier – that since they had no radar on Nathan Whittler for over a decade, he could have done anything. Been anything. Someone that capable of survival was smart, resourceful and might become desperate. The forensics suggested that, in a dark store, Nathan could have wielded a knife with fatal accuracy, at the first time of asking. As if . . . he’d done it before.

  Lucy shrugged. ‘Yeah, you might have me on that one. I’ll have a cogitation, get back to you. I think Bill wants you to go at Whittler again.’ She made to leave, but at the doorframe she turned again. ‘Oh, who was that you were talking to, if not a luchador?’

  Dana couldn’t help smiling. ‘Ooh, label me impressed. I was talking to someone who might know about caves.’

  Lucy wagged a finger. ‘No, Dana, you weren’t talking to someone. Remember your management module. You were “reaching out” to part of a “wider network”.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right.’ Dana air-quoted: ‘ “I was facilitating some stakeholder engagement to in-source some alternative skill sets.” Mmm, guy from my book club knows a bit about caving. By which I mean potholing – not about giving up. Speaking of which, can you find me something about limestone areas in this region? He thinks a suitable cave might be within a limestone area, so some kind of geological run-down would be good.’

  Lucy nodded. ‘You think Whittler’s been hiding out in a cave?’

  ‘I’m going to ask him, but yes, I think so.’ Dana stood and glanced down the corridor to find Bill. ‘We need to find where he’s been: if he clams up, we get no motive. There’s a chance – if it was him – that he’ll walk on a lesser charge, simply because we can’t compete with his version of why he killed Cassavette. We only get a wrapped-up murder charge if he talks; and we only get him talking if we know enough about him to open him up.’

  Chapter 11

  Nathan was smart. Dana had accepted that from the beginning. Now she had to rise to the challenge he was creating.

  As she’d said to Father Timms, it felt as if she was pushing against something she couldn’t break through; a fence that wouldn’t yield. Nathan was used to withdrawal and Dana could hear Bill’s concern in her head: what might Nathan have done in those fifteen years? What might he get away with, if she doesn’t get the truth from him?

  It was partly also because she was afraid of pushing, fearful of Nathan’s disintegration. She didn’t handle outpourings of deep, gut-sourced emotion well. They pushed her off balance, spun her backwards. She went blank, stared and gawped and lacked the words; wanted to run. Sometimes, it was easier with the criminals who accepted the outcome as the cost of doing business. Harder with the newbies who were forced to experience the full magnitude of their failure and its consequences. Dana had been grateful that Megan had been stoic enough, for long enough, that she could escape unscathed.

  The Day still slid a blade through her defences. The problem never got easier: sometimes her mood lifted a little and sometimes it darkened further, but the burden remained permanent and inviolate. The Day was an attempt to rupture the rhythm, throw a spike into the wheel of her struggle and try to force a change. That was why it needed time and space away from everyone. That was why this particular Day was hurting even more: she was trying to cheat.

  Many suspects – especially first-timers such as Nathan – thought detectives simply walked into the room and started asking questions. They didn’t. She didn’t. The best detectives might seem like they are firing scattergun bullets, hoping one will hit home. But their questions were nearly always carefully planned. It was a key advantage the detective held over the suspect: only a fool would discard it because of ego, complacency or contempt for the person sitting across from them.

  Dana’s strategy was carefully calibrated. For each of her early questions she would have a number of possible pathways to pursue, or escape routes. Ask A, and if the suspect says X, ask B. If the suspect says Y, ask C. If the suspect says Z, leave that aside and go elsewhere: return to it when the suspect’s feeling more off-guard. Maybe ask A twice; probe for weakness. Or A is a one-shot deal; take whatever comes and move on. Perhaps hold back the forensics until the alibi is weakened. Or dive in with the existence of a witness. Or hang back. Dana always pondered the options before striking.

  She was sure Nathan didn’t have a clue she was doing it. But he would, with each passing dialogue. He’d sit in the room, or in his cell, and think back over their ‘conversations’. Gradually he’d come to understand the way she was playing it: at which point she’d have to bring different tactics and a fresh approach.

  So far, she’d concentrated on winning his trust. She had to be someone he could speak to, given that he’d refused any discussion with anyone else. It was a major bargaining chip. His communication in the last fifteen years seemed to have been severely limited. No matter how much he was at peace with that, she was certain there was a lin
gering need to talk and, more importantly, to be heard. To be listened to, and reacted to, was an element of feeling human. Surely Nathan wasn’t immune to that?

  She’d focused on showing herself to be a polite, well-spoken, grammatically aware, book-loving, civilised person. The kind of individual Nathan might like to know, and the type of human being he thought he was. That had worked up to a point, but he would start noticing it. The more he considered it, the more he would see that she was, in an arms’-length and subtle way, befriending him. He was close to that point now.

  Before long, he would kick against her approach. He would do so, she believed, not only because he would see it as a subterfuge and therefore lacking authenticity, but because he defined himself as an outlier, an individual with few or no friends. Accepting her would undo the core belief that must have sustained him these past fifteen years. So he’d rebel against it, even as he welcomed it, to affirm what he’d been most of his adult life. She should expect that.

  She closed the office door and drew down the blind. Everyone in the station knew this meant she was not to be disturbed for anything short of an earthquake. She sat quietly in the dark, slowing her breathing and consciously feeling the air fill and leave her lungs. After physically counting each finger in turn, in her mind she moved around her body, labelling each part. It was a way of ensuring she had her mind focused on what was now, what was her and what she could control. She’d been taught it at the age of eighteen and had never stopped using it. All her life there were wolves circling the campfire of her mind; this was a way to keep the flames high.

  After a few minutes she snapped on the desk lamp, winced at the sudden light and began writing her next interview plan.