- the directions to which were so complex that Marvel stopped listening after the third dogleg.
'You're the chap in charge?' asked the man, and Marvel nodded. 'Any progress?'
'Early days,' said Marvel. It was all he ever said in response to inquiries by civilians - right up to the point where he stood in his funeral suit and only decent tie to hear the verdict of the jury. Before that, nothing was sure.
'Poor Margaret,' said the shopkeeper. 'Although it was a blessing really.'
'Hmm,' nodded Marvel, but was not sure he agreed.
Outside, he saw the small brown dog from next door to the Priddy home, and introduced himself to the owner, Mrs Cobb. He asked whether the dog had barked on the night of the murder and she said 'No' as if it was the first time it had occurred to her.
Typical, thought Marvel. The dog barks at me but not at the bloody killer.
He went back to the unit, where Reynolds had made a poor enough job of cleaning the unit to satisfy the most ardent slob. He was now standing by for plaudits, but Marvel merely glanced around and grunted, then answered his phone. Jos Reeves told him they had the hair matches. Two from Peter Priddy, two from Dr Mark Dennis, and one each from Gary Liss and Annette Rogers.
'Nothing from Reynolds? He usually sheds like a fucking Retriever all over the scene.'
'Nothing from Reynolds.'
'You said there were seven.'
'One unidentified,' said Reeves.
Marvel accepted the news with grudging silence. 'What about fibres?'
Reeves sighed. 'Nothing of significance yet.'
'Let me be the judge of that,' snapped Marvel.
'OK,' said Reeves mildly and started to recite their results so far in a relentless monotone. 'Carpet, white cotton, black cotton, blue cotton, red wool, blue wool--'
'Email me,' said Marvel and hung up.
Sixteen Days
Mike Foster and his enthusiasm for vomit proved to be the highlight of Jonas's first few days on the doorstep. Linda Cobb brought him increasingly infrequent cups of tea and his novelty quickly wore off with the schoolchildren. None came out of their way to stare at him and whisper at each other now, and the few who passed gave him barely a glance. He had tried to maintain the illusion, even in his own head, that he might at some point spot the killer, but he really wasn't even rooting for himself. He felt it was a pointless exercise and had no wish for Marvel to be proven right through some weird fluke, even if it did mean catching the perpetrator of a horrible crime.
No, that wasn't true, thought Jonas, shamed. Catching the killer of Margaret Priddy would be worth any kind of humiliation. But he'd prefer it if they caught him another way - a way that wouldn't give Marvel the option of an 'I told you so.'
It was a long, cold day.
*
Jonas got home to find Lucy asleep on the couch with the phone in her hand and Rosemary's Baby playing silently on the TV.
'How are you, Lu?' he asked softly as she stirred.
She blinked in confusion for a few seconds and Jonas watched recognition float back into her eyes.
'My legs hurt,' she said grumpily. 'And Margaret Priddy's son called you. He didn't say why.'
She shifted up and he sat down and pulled her bare legs on to his lap, covering them up again with the brown tartan rug.
Jonas started to massage her calves.
'Are you going to call him back?' she said.
'In a minute.' He shrugged.
Onscreen Mia Farrow was over-acting at the sight of the devil-child she'd spawned.
'Let's have a baby,' said Lucy.
He didn't stop massaging her, but he also didn't answer her. Or even turn his eyes from the TV.
'Jonas?'
'Can we talk about it later?' He still caressed her, but she could tell now that it was perfunctory.
'I want to talk about it now.'
Jonas sighed and looked at her. 'We've talked about it, Lu. You're ill ...'
'That's not it.' She drew her legs up and away from him, and curled them under herself. Now it was her turn to look at the TV.
He said nothing. They had last had this conversation almost two years ago.
'You're the chap in charge?' asked the man, and Marvel nodded. 'Any progress?'
'Early days,' said Marvel. It was all he ever said in response to inquiries by civilians - right up to the point where he stood in his funeral suit and only decent tie to hear the verdict of the jury. Before that, nothing was sure.
'Poor Margaret,' said the shopkeeper. 'Although it was a blessing really.'
'Hmm,' nodded Marvel, but was not sure he agreed.
Outside, he saw the small brown dog from next door to the Priddy home, and introduced himself to the owner, Mrs Cobb. He asked whether the dog had barked on the night of the murder and she said 'No' as if it was the first time it had occurred to her.
Typical, thought Marvel. The dog barks at me but not at the bloody killer.
He went back to the unit, where Reynolds had made a poor enough job of cleaning the unit to satisfy the most ardent slob. He was now standing by for plaudits, but Marvel merely glanced around and grunted, then answered his phone. Jos Reeves told him they had the hair matches. Two from Peter Priddy, two from Dr Mark Dennis, and one each from Gary Liss and Annette Rogers.
'Nothing from Reynolds? He usually sheds like a fucking Retriever all over the scene.'
'Nothing from Reynolds.'
'You said there were seven.'
'One unidentified,' said Reeves.
Marvel accepted the news with grudging silence. 'What about fibres?'
Reeves sighed. 'Nothing of significance yet.'
'Let me be the judge of that,' snapped Marvel.
'OK,' said Reeves mildly and started to recite their results so far in a relentless monotone. 'Carpet, white cotton, black cotton, blue cotton, red wool, blue wool--'
'Email me,' said Marvel and hung up.
Sixteen Days
Mike Foster and his enthusiasm for vomit proved to be the highlight of Jonas's first few days on the doorstep. Linda Cobb brought him increasingly infrequent cups of tea and his novelty quickly wore off with the schoolchildren. None came out of their way to stare at him and whisper at each other now, and the few who passed gave him barely a glance. He had tried to maintain the illusion, even in his own head, that he might at some point spot the killer, but he really wasn't even rooting for himself. He felt it was a pointless exercise and had no wish for Marvel to be proven right through some weird fluke, even if it did mean catching the perpetrator of a horrible crime.
No, that wasn't true, thought Jonas, shamed. Catching the killer of Margaret Priddy would be worth any kind of humiliation. But he'd prefer it if they caught him another way - a way that wouldn't give Marvel the option of an 'I told you so.'
It was a long, cold day.
*
Jonas got home to find Lucy asleep on the couch with the phone in her hand and Rosemary's Baby playing silently on the TV.
'How are you, Lu?' he asked softly as she stirred.
She blinked in confusion for a few seconds and Jonas watched recognition float back into her eyes.
'My legs hurt,' she said grumpily. 'And Margaret Priddy's son called you. He didn't say why.'
She shifted up and he sat down and pulled her bare legs on to his lap, covering them up again with the brown tartan rug.
Jonas started to massage her calves.
'Are you going to call him back?' she said.
'In a minute.' He shrugged.
Onscreen Mia Farrow was over-acting at the sight of the devil-child she'd spawned.
'Let's have a baby,' said Lucy.
He didn't stop massaging her, but he also didn't answer her. Or even turn his eyes from the TV.
'Jonas?'
'Can we talk about it later?' He still caressed her, but she could tell now that it was perfunctory.
'I want to talk about it now.'
Jonas sighed and looked at her. 'We've talked about it, Lu. You're ill ...'
'That's not it.' She drew her legs up and away from him, and curled them under herself. Now it was her turn to look at the TV.
He said nothing. They had last had this conversation almost two years ago.
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