‘No.’
Marvel squinted at him as if he hadn’t heard Jonas correctly. ‘What?’
‘I said no. I don’t like horses.’
‘You don’t have to
Jonas didn’t move; Marvel dropped the leg and the hoof hit the road with a clunk. ‘We can’t just leave it here.’
Jonas shrugged.
Marvel nodded at the Land Rover. ‘You got a winch on that thing?’
While Jonas prepared the winch, Marvel had a cigarette. He didn’t smoke often – it was all so bloody awkward nowadays – but out here in the middle of the moor in the middle of the night, he puffed furiously, loving the way the end of the cigarette fired up in the darkness every time he sucked on it.
He thought about touching the pony’s living skin through its thick fur, and remembered Margaret Priddy. How warm she once was, and how cold she was now.
And
Jonas drove slowly and bumpily into the heather, then got out and walked around to free the pony, hardly noticing the deep, wet vegetation forcing water through his trousers, socks and work shoes. His only thought, drubbing in time to the jackhammer in his brain, was to get it over with before his head exploded. He wound out some slack and nudged the cable loose enough with his toe so he could lift it back over the muddy fetlock.
The pony lay stretched out as if bounding easily across the moor, looking strangely fleet of foot in death. Jonas knew that within hours foxes would have found it, and at first light the crows would take its eyes, which were already fading to dull grey pebbles in its skull.
He got back in the car and turned towards Shipcott.
‘What about the pub?’ Marvel said a little petulantly.
Jonas said nothing.
They drove in silence to the stables and the Land Rover swung round in the yard and gravelled to a halt.
Marvel snorted when he saw that Reynolds was back with the car. He could have waited an hour, avoided getting kicked by a dying horse, and still have had a couple of pints.
He got out of the Land Rover and peered back in at Jonas. He hoped he wasn’t going to start up about Peter Priddy again, but the man looked distant and tightly wound. Probably thinking about the paperwork he’d have to do tomorrow on the police Land Rover.
‘Thanks for the drink.’ Marvel was half joking, but because Jonas said nothing in ironic response, the words hung there and then soured into something far more sarcastic – even bullying.
What the fuck. The night had been a disaster from start to finish. He should have stuck with Tracy Barlow.
Marvel swung the door shut and watched the young policeman drive away.
It felt like four in the morning but it was only 10.30pm. Through a chink in Reynolds’s curtain he could see his DS was watching
‘We hit a horse up on the moor,’ he said.
‘So?’ she said, while ash drooped dangerously off the end of her cigarette.
Marvel wasn’t in the mood to beat about the bush.
‘I’m a bit shaken up. You got anything to drink?’
She poked her head outside so she could make sure he wasn’t about to bring in a whole legion of freeloaders, then opened the door.
The kitchen was stiflingly hot – just the way Marvel liked it. Joy Springer got two odd mugs off the dresser and poured from a bottle.
‘Sit down if you want,’ she said.
Underfoot were flagstones covered in a virtual rug of cat hair. There was a cat on the kitchen table and, with only a brief glance, Marvel noticed another four dotted about on various mismatched armchairs and a sofa. He chose one end of the sofa and almost fell through its sagging bottom. She handed him a drink and he took a sip and grimaced.
‘What the hell is that?’
‘Dubonnet,’ she said spikily. ‘If you don’t want it, you can pour it back in the bottle.’
He shrugged and took another sip. ‘I’ve got some Jameson’s in my room.’
‘We’ll have that tomorrow then,’ she declared.
The bathroom at Rose Cottage was quick to steam up and slow to clear, so that the moisture hung in the air for ages, like an extension of the moor itself. It was so thick that the windows were curtained with steam, and they never bothered with the blinds, even at night. Jonas stood utterly still and let the shower cleanse him of the night’s activities, just as he let the sound of the water drown out his memory, leaving him pristine and empty. He stood like that until he felt the chill of death leave every part of him, then turned the water off, grabbed a towel and stepped over his clothes, which lay in a damp pile on the bathroom floor.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and did his teeth. Habit made him stare into the mirror while he brushed, but the glass was opaque and he didn’t bother wiping it. Instead he watched the diffuse half-shape that was also him moving in time to his own ablutions. It was hypnotic and comforting, like a distant twin who was living another life behind the steam, similar but different to his, where all the edges were comfortingly fuzzy and nothing had to be faced in harsh focus. Jonas brushed for longer than normal, until his mouth burned with minty freshness. He stuffed his clothes into the laundry basket and – despite the hour – cleaned the bath and the basin. It was one thing to tick off his list of chores.
Lucy was asleep in bed. She liked to make the effort to get upstairs even if he wasn’t there to help her. Sometimes she could crawl up quite fast; sometimes it took her half an hour. She’d taken to leaving a book halfway up the stairs so she could stop and rest without getting bored. The book there at the moment was a novel called
He towelled his short, dark hair hard and fast and slid into bed beside Lucy before he could lose the wonderful warmth of the shower.
As he did, she stirred and rolled towards him.
‘Where were you?’ she murmured sleepily.
‘Wet and cold and not with you,’ he whispered, stroking her hair.
‘I’m glad you’re home.’ He could hear the lazy little smile in her voice and felt her hand sneak on to his hip. He smiled in the darkness at the way it made the night’s events disappear behind him as if they’d never been.
She lifted his hand and placed it over her small round breast.
‘I’m glad you’re home too,’ he said, and kissed her with intent for the first time in months. At the same time, he whispered into her mouth: ‘I’m sorry.’
Fifteen Days
Jonas walked down into the village at eight o’clock the next day feeling truly happy for the first time in many weeks.
The morning was so bright it hurt his eyes. The sky was already a pale Mediterranean blue, while the moor