Darkside

Gary Liss stripped beds, bundled dirty sheets, shook out fresh ones and then wound mattresses in them as neat and as tight as if he was working in the gift-wrap department of the Great Pyramid at Giza. Marvel wondered how the hell the old folk managed to fight their way between the top and bottom sheets every night, and had a mental image of residents spending years shivering above the covers, too frail to gain entry to their own beds.

Despite the efficiency of recall that his phenomenal work-rate promised, Gary Liss was almost as useless as Lynne Twitchett when it came to the details leading up to Margaret Priddy’s death. He had been on the early shift before she was killed – seven in the morning until three in the afternoon – and had gone to the pictures that night.

‘Alone?’ said Marvel.

‘No,’ said Liss, then volunteered, ‘with my girlfriend.’

‘What did you see?’

‘Some old French crap at the art-house place.’

‘Not a film buff?’ asked Reynolds.

‘Not all that foreign bollocks.’

‘Can you remember the title?’ persisted Marvel – it was a fact that could be checked.

‘Mister Somebody’s Vacation, I think.’

‘National Lampoon?’ suggested Marvel.

‘Nah, something French.’

‘Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday?’

Trust Reynolds.

‘Yeah,’ said Liss. ‘Total junk.’

‘I agree,’ said Marvel, although he hadn’t seen it. It was just to piss Reynolds off. ‘Give me Will Smith any day.’

‘Exactly,’ said Liss, turning a sheet over a blanket and tucking it in ruthlessly. ‘I, Robot.’

‘How about Dune?’

‘Yeah. You a fan?’

‘No. You left a book at Margaret Priddy’s.’

Liss looked blank for a second, then smiled. ‘That’s where it is!’

‘How did you get into this line of work?’ Marvel asked Liss as they moved to the next room. The man was starting to interest him.

Liss shrugged. ‘I cared for my father while he died. Lost my job because of it, so when I started looking again, it was just something I knew I could do.’

‘What did you do before that?’

‘Nothing special. Factory work. Glad to lose it, the way things worked out.’

‘What did your father die of?’ asked Reynolds.

‘Lung cancer,’ said Liss without emotion. ‘And I didn’t help him along, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ He winked at Reynolds, who at least had the decency to look embarrassed.

‘So how did you get on with Mrs Priddy?’ Marvel asked.

Liss looked a little confused by the sudden switch, but that was good – to catch them off balance …

‘Wasn’t much to get along with.’ He shrugged. ‘She couldn’t say anything or even let you know how she was feeling.’ He stopped bustling and stood still for the first time since they’d started talking to him. ‘It was fucking awful, ’scuse my French. I mean, the people in here, they’re old and lots are sick, but at least they can let you know what they want, but her …’ He picked a bundle of used sheets off the floor. ‘It was like she was already dead. If she hadn’t died I’d have left soon. Depressing.’

They followed him to the next bedroom.

‘You think maybe it was a mercy killing then?’ said Marvel carefully, but Liss was not fazed by the question.

‘Could be,’ he said and flapped open a new sheet.

‘You could understand something like that?’ Marvel asked.

Liss didn’t hesitate. ‘If she was my mother I’d have done it myself.’

Reynolds and Marvel didn’t speak for a long time as they drove back to the farm.

Reynolds broke the silence.

‘You think that was a confession? A kind of double bluff?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Marvel. It was not something he often admitted to, but on this occasion he felt it was OK to be a bit confused.

‘He had a door key, he hated the job, he obviously has no compunction about euthanasia …’

‘But to say it right out loud like that – to us!’

‘I know,’ said Reynolds. ‘He’d have to be a psychopath.’

Marvel shrugged. ‘Yes, he would.’

* * *

Less than an hour after Reynolds and Marvel got back to Springer Farm, Grey and Singh returned from interviewing Skew Ronnie Trewell and everyone crammed into Marvel’s room to hear how they’d got on.

‘It’s not him,’ said Grey.

‘Yeah, boss, I don’t think he’s our man,’ said Singh more tactfully.

Marvel was unwilling to let the only tentative lead they’d got from their sweep of the village go so easily.

‘He got an alibi?’

The two detectives exchanged looks.

‘Well, he says he was asleep,’ said Grey.

‘At home all night,’ added Singh.

‘Compelling,’ said Marvel sarcastically.

‘He just doesn’t seem the type, sir,’ said Grey. Then, when he saw Marvel’s face tighten angrily, he added, ‘I didn’t get a vibe off him. Nor did Armand,’ he said, turning to Singh, ‘did you?’

‘No,’ said Singh. ‘I didn’t get any vibe at all. The guy’s a car thief through and through. Obsessed. Couldn’t stop talking about them even while we were asking him about a murder!’

‘Yeah,’ added Grey. ‘His only interest in Mrs Priddy seemed to be that she used to own some sporty BMW.’

‘A three-litre CSi,’ remembered Singh.

‘Good car,’ said Grey approvingly and Pollard nodded in agreement.

Marvel glared at them all. He thought about Margaret Priddy dropping down through the cracks of society from horsewoman and BMW-owner to being bedridden while her savings ran out of her bank account like water from a punctured paddling pool. He thought about Peter Priddy and how he must have felt about that. He thought about Skew Ronnie Trewell and wondered if he should leave it at that or go and intimidate the little thief himself. It irked him that Jonas Holly had dismissed the man as a suspect; part of him wanted Ronnie Trewell to be the killer, for that reason alone. But Grey and Singh were good men. He trusted their judgement. Usually. While these thoughts whizzed through his mind, his eyes never left the two DCs, who became more and more uncomfortable.

Unaware of Marvel’s train of thought, Singh decided to add another helpful observation. ‘He just didn’t seem … quite right, sir.’

‘No,’ said Grey, nodding in enthusiastic agreement. ‘Not quite right.’

Hearing Jonas Holly’s words echoed by Grey was what did it for Marvel. He made an all-purpose sound of disparagement, picked up the keys to the Ford Focus, and stomped out of the room to judge Ronnie Trewell for himself.

* * *

The boy was standing on the front step, squinting into the dim sun as it fell behind the moor. Ronnie Trewell was skinny and so gaunt he looked like an extra from a prison-camp movie. He had a shock of home-cut black hair, and a brow permanently creased by the confusion that was his life.

He saw Marvel pull up, threw down the roll-up he’d been smoking and backed towards the door.