Darkside

of a morning-after hangover had dissipated surprisingly fast, and wanting to be a better person seemed as silly now as a childhood dream to ride dolphins for a living.

He had options now.

He could walk out. He could just turn around and walk away. He used to walk out on Debbie all the time. Whenever she wanted to talk or fight he would leave the room. Sometimes she would come after him, whining or yelling. Once she had thrown a cushion at him. A retro cushion. But what could Jonas Holly’s much prettier wife do? Down him with a crutch?

But he didn’t walk out. ‘I’m trying to catch a killer. That’s my priority. Not keeping the locals happy.’

‘I think there’s a difference between keeping somebody happy and implying that they are complicit in murder, don’t you?’

So Jonas had told her everything. Complained to her, more like.

Well, fuck them both.

He almost said that to her – Fuck you both! – then he remembered the crutches. And the way she’d come out into the road, no doubt to flag him down, to stop him – if he hadn’t already been on a collision course with a hedge and a ditch and a steering wheel. Marvel touched his forehead and felt a little bump there, but no blood.

So he didn’t want to blow her off; because of the crutches. It wasn’t politically correct. Two years back he’d fumed silently through a compulsory course on political correctness, but something must have stuck, because instead of walking out, Marvel pointed to the easy chair that didn’t match the couch.

‘Can I sit down?’

She hesitated, then nodded briefly.

He sat. By the time he had completed the manoeuvre, he had decided to lay it on the line for her. If her husband had been shielding a killer she was going to find out sooner or later. Her crutches couldn’t protect her from that. And maybe Jonas had told Lucy things he hadn’t told him. If he appeared to be open with her, then maybe she’d be open back and he could glean new information to fatten up his case. God knows, it needed it.

‘What’s your name?’ he started – then watched her struggle briefly not to tell him. He knew she thought it took away some of her strength, and she was right. That was why he’d asked.

‘Lucy,’ she finally said, because giving a civil answer to a civil question was in her nature.

So Marvel told Lucy all the reasons why he liked Jonas Holly. Contamination of scenes, disappearance of vomit, concealment of crucial evidence.

Lucy stared at him unforgivingly as he spoke – Marvel reckoned she probably wore the pants in the Holly household.

‘You’re not telling me anything I don’t know,’ she interrupted, although he could see by her face that that was a lie. ‘I’m hearing a lot of coincidence and circumstantial evidence and no proof at all. You don’t even have proof that Danny was involved, let alone Jonas!’

Marvel wasn’t used to anyone telling him that he was taking a flyer. When he was Senior Investigating Officer on a case he was used to people doing as he told them without questioning his choices. Reynolds tried sometimes, but Reynolds wasn’t really a policeman; he had no feel for the job.

‘Danny Marsh left a written confession,’ he said. ‘You don’t get more involved than that.’

‘Bullshit!’ she said with spirit. ‘Jonas told me what it said. I did it. I’m not sorry? That’s not a confession to murder. He could have run over a neighbour’s cat for all you know!’

Although she was giving him a hard time, Marvel couldn’t help liking Lucy Holly. Her staunch defence and willingness to engage in battle appealed to him. Sitting on the couch with her eyes sparking – and without her crooked legs on such obvious display – Lucy Holly was quite captivating.

‘Jonas says you don’t even have any fingerprints!’

Marvel shrugged. ‘People are wise to prints nowadays. They all wear surgical gloves. The only ones who don’t are drunks and fools. We found a box of surgical gloves in the Marshes’ garage.’

‘And I’m sure you’d also find several boxes at Mark Dennis’s surgery. And the vet’s in Dulverton,’ she came back at him. ‘Either way, you don’t have prints,’ she continued briskly. ‘What about the button?’

Damn. She knew about the button. The weak link in his weak chain of evidence against Jonas Holly.

‘What button?’ he said.

‘Don’t play dumb with me,’ Lucy told him with a hard stare that made Marvel feel like a toddler who’s just hit a playmate with a toy train.

‘It’s one of 500,000 produced every year.’

‘For the uniform trade, Jonas said. Doesn’t that mean people like security guards and bouncers might be suspects? Not people like Danny who wear overalls for a living.’

‘Your husband should not be discussing the details of this case. Even with you. There are certain things which we like to hold back—’

‘So only the police and the killer know about it,’ Lucy finished for him impatiently. ‘Everybody knows that from half an hour in front of the telly! But it bothers me that you don’t seem to be taking the button seriously. Doesn’t it bother you?’

She looked at him expectantly and again he wished he could just tell her to fuck off and walk out. Everything became easier when that was an option.

‘We have no idea if the button is even connected to the murder of Mrs Priddy,’ he said stiffly.

‘That’s not the point,’ she shot back. ‘The point is, why would Jonas be revealing evidence or possible evidence if he’s been trying to hide the truth? Is he finding evidence or is he hiding it, Mr Marvel? You can’t have it both ways. It makes no sense.’

It made no sense to Marvel either, but he’d be damned if he was going to concede that point to Lucy Holly.

‘Mrs Holly—’ he started officiously, but she cut him off.

‘Come on, Mr Marvel. Everyone knows there’s a million bits of forensic evidence that you can use to convict somebody.’

‘True,’ said Marvel. ‘And if that vomit hadn’t disappeared, we might have it.’

‘Or you might have a pile of vomit without a DNA match,’ countered Lucy defiantly. ‘And you have no proof that Danny threw it up or Jonas cleared it away. The point is, you don’t have it at all. Jonas said it was there overnight, which is pretty lax, if you ask me!’

Marvel knew it was too, of course, so he changed tack, hoping to wrong-foot Lucy.

‘Did you know that twenty years ago there was a fire up at Springer Farm?’

‘No.’

‘Well, there was. The owner, Robert Springer, was killed.’

‘So? What does this have to do with you bullying Jonas?’

He ignored her and ploughed on: ‘Mr Springer’s body was found in the only stable that had the door shut. The other doors had been opened – presumably to let the horses out, although they didn’t go.’

He let the fact hang there, hoping for some indication that she knew about it, or had something to hide. She just looked at him neutrally.

‘The coroner ruled misadventure, but I’m not sure that’s the whole story.’

Lucy waited again for him to go on. He collected his thoughts before he continued. He’d only heard of these events hours earlier, and wasn’t sure how they affected his case, so he was even less sure of what – if anything – to tell Lucy Holly.

‘When I told Joy Springer about Danny Marsh’s death last night, she was happy.’

He could read the surprise in Lucy’s eyes, along with the questions she didn’t ask. He answered them anyway.

‘Seems she always suspected Danny of starting the fire.’

‘Why?’

‘Apparently local kids would work up there in exchange for rides, but her husband was always getting at Danny for not pulling his weight, forgetting to put water in the stables, stuff like that. I don’t know what; I don’t know shit about horses. She says he resented it. When the fire happened, the police interviewed all the kids who