Now it was her turn to be put on the wrong foot. "What?"

"The card. It's different. Tell me about it."

She shook her head. Thought about shouting at him, but it was about as much good as trying to throw him out.

"It's from the Crowley-Harris Thoth Deck."

"What does that mean?"

"The other cards, they're Rider-Waite. The Crowley-Harris deck differs. Different pictures, full of weird symbolism. Some of the names are different. See, the Fool, the card in..." She took a breath. Settled herself. "The head. The woman's...oh."

"Yes," he said, gentle, low, soothing. Just loud enough so she could hear. She wanted to punch him for it, even though it wouldn't do any good.

She pushed her whiskey away. Maybe she'd had enough. What was she going to do? Bottle him? Bottle him for being kind?

"The horns, for example. I guess it's all part of the symbolism. The Fool on the Rider-Waite deck doesn't have horns, but the card in the woman's mouth, that Fool had horns. Like the devil, you know? The Father of Lies. The Fool's a liar."

"He got that right."

"What do you mean?" she said.

"The woman he killed, her name was Sam Wright."

She looked blankly into his soft face. Shook her head.

"The reporter. The one who wrote the article."

She took a moment to figure out what that meant. What the head had said. What that meant for her and Coleridge. The depths the killer could go to. The fact that he said she was a gift.

What kind of creature could think such a thing?

She laughed out loud.

"What?" he said. She shook her head. She couldn't explain it. It just struck her as funny all of a sudden. Not in a good way.

Why was she even speculating? Coleridge didn't know the half of it. She hadn't told anyone what the head had said. She was keeping a lot of secrets. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she could tell him. He looked like he could be a listener. She didn't just need a listener, though. She needed a believer.

Could he believe? Was he even capable of it?

The fact was, she didn't know. Not yet. And she wasn't quite ready for a long stint in a room with bars and all the starchy food she could eat.

With what he told her, and what the head had said, it made sense. It also meant the killer wouldn't kill her.

But then maybe he was the fool. Maybe he was the liar.

And she'd be a hell of a fool herself to trust the word of a killer, wouldn't she?

"A gift," she said.

Coleridge nodded. "A sick gift," he said. "He's marked you. I just don't know what he's marked you for."

"Aren't you supposed to be comforting me?"

He opened his mouth, like he was going to call her ma'am. Shifted his weight from one chunky leg to the other.

"Beth, this is serious. Honestly, I haven't got a clue what we're up against, but I got you into this. I can't let you..."

"Get killed? Detective, I'm not your responsibility. I can look after myself. It's what I do."

"I'm sure you can. You ever faced up to a killer who cuts off people's heads and sends them as gifts?" he asked, and his voice was suddenly hard. Not comforting at all.

"Don't."

"Okay, I won't. But don't bullshit me, Beth. I'm full of it. I smell it every day, even when I've had a really long fucking shower."

She burst out laughing at that, and he smiled.

"You should get some sleep," he said.

"You can sleep in my boy's bedroom. The bed's made up."

"I'm not sure that'd be appropriate."

"He's...he's not here. I sent him away. It's all right."

"Well..."

"That's settled then."

"I'd be happier on the couch."

She waved at him, swaying slightly in her chair. She was pretty drunk. "You're making headway, detective. Don't fuck it up."

"Yes, ma'am. Coleridge, though," he said with a smile.

"Coleridge, then. Night."

"Shout if you need anything. I'm a light sleeper."

"Okay," she said. She felt like something else was required. She hadn't had a man in the house since Peter. She'd always kissed him goodnight. In bed. Before they rolled over, or after he rolled on top of her.

The thought made her uncomfortable. She got up and walked past Coleridge, being careful not to touch him. He backed up, like he sensed she was uncomfortable. His consideration somehow made things worse.

Flustered, not really knowing why, Beth went straight to her room without bothering to brush her teeth. She laid in bed and watched the ceiling spin around and around. She listened to Coleridge in the toilet. The heavy splashing in the toilet bowl of pent-up piss. The sound of a toothbrush being used hard. A burp, the tap running. He blew his nose, flushed the toilet.

Miles' bed groaned as he settled into it.

She listened to the sea in the distance and the occasional grunt as he rolled, the unhappy springs of her son's old bed.

He fell asleep. The windows rattled a little in their frames. She couldn't tell if it was because the wind was picking up or because of his snoring.

She found she didn't mind. It was soothing, but in a way she couldn't figure out.

Beth drifted off to the sound of Coleridge sleeping, and she slept like a log. She woke up with a bastard of a hangover, but she woke up, and that was always a pretty good start to a day. It was a shame really, because things had a tendency to go downhill fast after that.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Saturday 15th November Miles sat on the beach, sifting sand through his hands. Beth watched him with a motherly smile and felt like a fraud, but it was nice to see him happy. She thought she knew why he was happy. But she couldn't quite figure out what it was about Coleridge that had settled Miles. He hadn't been like this for so long. Surly, yes, uncommunicative, which is somehow worse when the child in question can't even speak, and harder work than a bloody teenager.

Now he was playing in the sand like he was a normal eight-year-old kida"aside from the ribs sticking through his T-shirt and the gaping wound in his neck.

"Morning," said Coleridge, making her jump. For such a fat man, he made surprisingly little noise.

"Morning."

"I've got to go."

"One night stand?"

He gave her a sad smile. "I've got a lot to follow up. You know. Be a detective. Some days it don't feel like it, but it's what I do."

"You coming back?"

"They're sending a car over, but I'll be back. You're a key witness."

"An asset?"

"Sorry. That's not what I meant. I mean you're the closest thing we've got to a witness, so from the point of view of my bosses, they're not taking their eyes of you."

"And you?"

"Me either. It ain't the way it should be, but you're all right. I don't make a habit of leaving a job half-done. Shit. I'm not very eloquent in the morning. I mean I'm going to try my hardest. It ain't your fault all of this happened. It's mine. I'm sorry, too. But I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

"Well, Coleridge, you got there in the end."

He blushed, right down to his chins. It made her smile. Made him human. Sober, he wasn't as bad as she thought.

"You know, I know it's not your fault. The article."

"Partly. I spoke to her. I didn't give her nothing about you, but she got to you because of me."

"It was her, but it doesn't matter. She paid enough, I think."

"You're right, it don't matter. And yes she did. She did."

"Didn't deserve that," she said. Stupid thing to say, but she wasn't so hot first thing in the morning, either.

"Not many people do."

Like, maybe some do. She liked that. He wasn't all black and white, but he didn't lie, either. At least, it seemed so, but her days of being a good judge of character had been drowned a long time ago.

But then there was Miles. He was rapt. Looking at the policeman, his game with the sand forgotten.

There was something, alright.

It might be that she could trust him, but she was basing it on her shaky reasoning and a happy little dead boy. It wasn't the soundest way to go about making decisions.

She heard a car pull up in front.

"That'll be my relief."

"I bet it is, too."

"No. I meant it. You're all right, Beth. Some people in this job...well. They ain't the best. But you didn't do anything to bring this on. I'll do right by you, if I can. I promise you that."

That nearly brought a tear to her eye, but she didn't usually cry unless she was drunk, and she was stone-cold sober this morning.

"Thanks. I mean, seriously. Thank you."

He nodded. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

She heard him close the front door. She lit a cigarette and watched the tide come in. Miles, down by the water, feet in the surf. Running.

She could almost hear him giggling, as the breakers chased up the sand and wet his feet. It might only be her imagination, but it was sweet. She let it be, and smoked, and smiled.

Part Three.

The Hermit.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Sunday 16th November.

Coleridge ate a cold bacon roll for breakfast while he watched the pathologist, Donald Freeman, work on Sam Wright's corpse. He couldn't help thinking she looked pretty good for a chain-smoking hack. He didn't reckon she'd been one for exercising, but everything seemed to be in the right place.