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.
'I want to talk with you!' Marvel yelled at him through the passenger window, and the boy stopped and waited.
Marvel liked a meek thief. He got out and went up the weed-strewn front path.
'DCI Marvel,' he said. 'You Ronnie Trewell?'
'Yeah,' he said. 'I haven't done a thing. I spoke to your lot already. I haven't done a thing. Is that a Zetec?'
Marvel was caught a little off-balance by the sudden change in direction. He glanced towards the Focus. 'I haven't come here to talk about cars, mate. Come about a murder.'
'Yeah I know,' shrugged Ronnie. 'But I told the others about that already. Can I have a drive?'
As he spoke, he stepped off the porch and headed for the car. Marvel found himself in undignified pursuit.
'No. Tell me where you were Saturday night.'
'Here. Asleep. I said already. Just a quick one. You can come too. I'm not gonna nick a police car, am I? Not with you in it, anyway.'
'Shut up about the fucking car, all right?' Marvel was already starting to feel that he was wasting his time here. 'You got any witnesses?'
'Nope. Not an ST though, is it?' said Ronnie with a little sneer in his voice as he peered through the window. Marvel didn't give a shit what the Focus was or wasn't, but that little sneer made him feel suddenly protective towards the pool car.
'Goes well though,' he said, feeling foolishly like he was seventeen again with his first learner motorbike - a 125cc Honda Benley with a hand-painted tank - trying to talk it up to the older, richer boys with their RD250s ...
'Yeah?' said Ronnie. 'Believe it when I see it.'
It nearly worked. For a second Marvel was all ready to jump behind the wheel and do a donut in the mud at the end of the lane beside the dirty little bungalow. Floor the accelerator and spray the kid with gravel. Maybe even let him feel the kick for himself ...
'Nice try, Ronnie,' he said, not without a little respect.
Marvel opened the door of the Ford and thought he'd better go out on an authoritarian note. 'Don't go anywhere, all right?'
'Where am I going to go?' said Ronnie Trewell, with a shrug at the darkening moor around them. He seemed genuinely at a loss.
Marvel ignored the question and drove away.
Ronnie Trewell wasn't the killer. He wasn't ... quite right .
Seventeen Days
The mobile incident room arrived and it was shit.
Just the way Marvel liked it.
There were soggy Polo mints in the desk, mud up the walls, two black bags filled with junk-food wrappers, and someone had used indelible green ink on the whiteboard and then what looked like some kind of wire brush to try to remove it.
Marvel felt himself relax into the squalor of the unit in a way he just couldn't into the rusticity of Springer Farm. The rutted driveway, the mossy roofs, the smell of manure repelled him. But this squalor was different. He wanted the stained coffee pot, he liked the muddy lino, and the sour reek of the grubby little fridge was napalm in the morning to him.
Didn't mean anyone else had to know that. 'Clean this place up,' he growled at Reynolds, who made a note in his book.
'What are you writing?' said Marvel irritably.
'Sir?'
'What are you writing in your little book? I said "Clean this place up." Doesn't need a fucking memo, does it?'
'No, sir.'
'Then clean this place up.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Don't let Rice do it.'
'No, sir.' Before Reynolds could ask why, when Rice was the only member of the team who might make a decent job of it, Marvel had trudged down the steps and slammed the door.
The unit was parked at the edge of the playing field alongside Margaret Priddy's home. Nonetheless, Marvel drove the four hundred yards to the shop.
He asked for wellington boots but was told he'd have to go to Dulverton or to somewhere the large, docile man behind the counter called 'the farm shop'
He saw Marvel pull up, threw down the roll-up he'd been smoking and backed towards the door.
'I want to talk with you!' Marvel yelled at him through the passenger window, and the boy stopped and waited.
Marvel liked a meek thief. He got out and went up the weed-strewn front path.
'DCI Marvel,' he said. 'You Ronnie Trewell?'
'Yeah,' he said. 'I haven't done a thing. I spoke to your lot already. I haven't done a thing. Is that a Zetec?'
Marvel was caught a little off-balance by the sudden change in direction. He glanced towards the Focus. 'I haven't come here to talk about cars, mate. Come about a murder.'
'Yeah I know,' shrugged Ronnie. 'But I told the others about that already. Can I have a drive?'
As he spoke, he stepped off the porch and headed for the car. Marvel found himself in undignified pursuit.
'No. Tell me where you were Saturday night.'
'Here. Asleep. I said already. Just a quick one. You can come too. I'm not gonna nick a police car, am I? Not with you in it, anyway.'
'Shut up about the fucking car, all right?' Marvel was already starting to feel that he was wasting his time here. 'You got any witnesses?'
'Nope. Not an ST though, is it?' said Ronnie with a little sneer in his voice as he peered through the window. Marvel didn't give a shit what the Focus was or wasn't, but that little sneer made him feel suddenly protective towards the pool car.
'Goes well though,' he said, feeling foolishly like he was seventeen again with his first learner motorbike - a 125cc Honda Benley with a hand-painted tank - trying to talk it up to the older, richer boys with their RD250s ...
'Yeah?' said Ronnie. 'Believe it when I see it.'
It nearly worked. For a second Marvel was all ready to jump behind the wheel and do a donut in the mud at the end of the lane beside the dirty little bungalow. Floor the accelerator and spray the kid with gravel. Maybe even let him feel the kick for himself ...
'Nice try, Ronnie,' he said, not without a little respect.
Marvel opened the door of the Ford and thought he'd better go out on an authoritarian note. 'Don't go anywhere, all right?'
'Where am I going to go?' said Ronnie Trewell, with a shrug at the darkening moor around them. He seemed genuinely at a loss.
Marvel ignored the question and drove away.
Ronnie Trewell wasn't the killer. He wasn't ... quite right .
Seventeen Days
The mobile incident room arrived and it was shit.
Just the way Marvel liked it.
There were soggy Polo mints in the desk, mud up the walls, two black bags filled with junk-food wrappers, and someone had used indelible green ink on the whiteboard and then what looked like some kind of wire brush to try to remove it.
Marvel felt himself relax into the squalor of the unit in a way he just couldn't into the rusticity of Springer Farm. The rutted driveway, the mossy roofs, the smell of manure repelled him. But this squalor was different. He wanted the stained coffee pot, he liked the muddy lino, and the sour reek of the grubby little fridge was napalm in the morning to him.
Didn't mean anyone else had to know that. 'Clean this place up,' he growled at Reynolds, who made a note in his book.
'What are you writing?' said Marvel irritably.
'Sir?'
'What are you writing in your little book? I said "Clean this place up." Doesn't need a fucking memo, does it?'
'No, sir.'
'Then clean this place up.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Don't let Rice do it.'
'No, sir.' Before Reynolds could ask why, when Rice was the only member of the team who might make a decent job of it, Marvel had trudged down the steps and slammed the door.
The unit was parked at the edge of the playing field alongside Margaret Priddy's home. Nonetheless, Marvel drove the four hundred yards to the shop.
He asked for wellington boots but was told he'd have to go to Dulverton or to somewhere the large, docile man behind the counter called 'the farm shop'
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