David Gilman - The Devil's breath

“Who?” Max asked.

“Those who helped your father. My family.”

When Mike Kapuo took Kallie home, his wife, Elizabeth, hugged her, let her soak in a hot bath, and then fed her the usual scrumptious meal that she always managed to feed to her family. Two sons, a daughter and now grandchildren, not counting waifs and strays like Kallie, all sat around the big kitchen table next to the solid-fuel stove that Elizabeth Kapuo refused to be parted from, even though they sweltered in the summer months. It was as comfortable a family home as anyone could wish for, and Kallie was envious. The pain of her own parents’ divorce had never left her. Her father was like a modern-day buccaneer. He was a free spirit who would die for his family, but getting him to stay at home was impossible. Kallie had grown up quickly, and being stuck out on the farm gave her a stubborn strength, but while she was wrapped in the warmth and friendliness of the Kapuo family, she allowed herself to relax. Finally, unable to swallow another morsel of food, she gratefully fell into bed.

She woke up the next day with dawn still an hour away. Suburban sounds had roused her from fractured dreams. The house still slept and, as she made her way towards the kitchen to make coffee, she walked past a room whose door was slightly ajar. A shaft of light cut into the passageway. There was a gentle scratching sound which she could not identify. She carefully opened the door wider. Mike Kapuo obviously used the room as an office. The desk lamp was still on and papers and files were evident-Mike had probably been working late. A cat was licking itself on the desk, its claws gripping the sheets of paper beneath it. That was the scratching noise Kallie had heard. The cat had obviously spent a comfortable, undisturbed night under the warmth of the lamp. But then Kallie’s movement at the door made it leap from the desk in fright, scattering papers across the floor.

Kallie muttered under her breath. Why hadn’t she just minded her own business? She scooped up the papers and tapped them together into a tidy pile, but as she went to put them back on the desk she saw a name typed on a sheet of paper and the air suddenly became even colder. Tom Gordon: Missing, Presumed Dead . It was a police report, dated a couple of weeks earlier. She scanned the single sheet. It was a cursory read, full of police jargon; a pseudoformality that police forces all over the world adopted, as if the clunky language made it all the more serious. She didn’t care, she kept reading. It had obviously been a search conducted with limited resources, which would have made it virtually impossible to find anyone presumed injured in the thirstland.

She thumbed through the rest of the papers. At least a dozen sheets had something to do with Max’s father. It took her only a few moments to realize that the papers the cat had spilled belonged in a folder that had been left open on the desk. She went to the door, quickly checked that no one was moving in the house, eased the door closed again and got down on her knees. She spread the sheets out on the floor, angling the lamp down.

The folder contained a description of the missing man, reports from search teams, the one-page summary she had just read and a photocopy of the area searched. There was nothing that seemed to offer any new evidence or information about Tom Gordon. She put the papers back together and put the file back on the desk. As she did so, her fingers touched another file, closed this time, but with the edges of photographs showing. She opened the folder. The black-and-white pictures were of a man’s body being pulled out of the harbor. Photo after photo taken by a police photographer. The victim finally ended up on his back, the feet of the policemen, just in frame, turned away from him. They had done their job now. It all had the cold, calculating feel of distant emotions, of routine. Of matter-of-fact death.

A square of official information had been glued to the top left of the picture. Date and time when the photos were taken, the name of the police photographer and finally the name of the deceased.

Leopold. Anton Leopold.

And someone had scribbled a reminder to themselves on a Post-it note, stuck to the inside of the folder. The pictures of the dead man were bad enough, but the message made her feel physically sick: Tell Peterson .

Thousands of kilometers away, the mists of Dartmoor settled, refusing to move until the next weather front shifted them with a hefty gust of wind. Life was going on as normal for Sayid despite his frustration at not being able to get into Mr. Peterson’s room to bug his phone. Having practiced on his own room’s door lock, he had learned how to tease the tumblers and open it, but Peterson’s door had a more efficient lock and he failed in his attempt to pick it. If only everything were electronic, he would have had it hacked and opened in minutes. What was the good of progress if these archaic door-locking devices were still around? He kept the small transmitter tucked in his pocket in case he saw Peterson leave his door open. He would need less than thirty seconds to slip the bug into the telephone’s casing.

After Kallie’s telephone call, Sayid sent an email through to Farentino, using the name Magician, just as Max had instructed him, ensuring his own identity could not be traced or revealed. He told Max’s protector what he knew-which was precious little. There was the information about Eros in Namibia; that someone called Leopold was supposed to meet Max; that someone powerful was going to cause chaos out there and that Max … well, Max was totally alone and could not be contacted. Sayid also told Farentino that a local girl had helped Max move northeast. And that was all he knew. Sayid decided not to mention Mr. Peterson until he found out more for himself-he desperately needed to get that bug into his telephone.

Sayid walked determinedly along the corridor to check once more if Peterson had left his room, giving him another crack at the lock. Thoughts of Max weighed heavily on his mind when suddenly Peterson’s voice echoed along the granite walls. “Sayid! One moment.” Sayid stopped in his tracks, caught completely off guard by Peterson’s stealth. One minute he wasn’t there, the next … “Where are you off to, Sayid?”

“I was … er … I was … I went to see Mr. Simpson about the details for next week’s cross-country run,” he lied quickly, clutching the transmitter in his pocket.

“Mr. Simpson is supervising homework. You know that.”

“Yes, sir. I lost track of time. Anyway-he wasn’t there. Obviously … because he’s … as you say …” It was all getting very lame, but Peterson seemed not to notice.

“I want to talk to you. I think my room might be best.” And he walked the few paces past Sayid and opened the door that Sayid had tried so assiduously to break into.

Given Mr. Peterson’s appearance of being clumsily attired, there was a surprising formality to his room. The books were neatly stacked and, from Sayid’s first glance, seemed to be in order of category: geography, history, biography, caving, mountaineering, English literature. The desk was composed of two doors, balanced at each end by a couple of two-drawer filing cabinets as a base, so there was a great amount of space for the tidily stacked papers and the big map that lay, spread out, across it. Boots (wiped clean of mud), trainers and cross-country sandals sat on a shoe rack. It was a small room, kept under strict control. No television, but a digital radio and CD combination, and a set of wireless headphones hooked on a purpose-made stand. Classical music CDs nudged language discs, which in turn nestled next to a wide variety of contemporary music.

“What?” Peterson asked, as Sayid looked around his room.