The Marshal's Own Case by Magdalen Nabb

through the drizzly blackness but could make out nothing. Beyond the trees, if he remembered rightly, there was another, narrower road with a cycle path running on the other side of it. Then a grassy bank dropping steeply down to the river. But nothing was visible beyond the trees immediately in front of him. He felt his way forward cautiously, holding one hand up near his face to protect it from invisible branches. At first he could hear only the slowly turning car engines on the avenue behind him, the occasional hoot of a horn. Of the chase no sound reached him. As he left the avenue further behind he began to be conscious of the sound of his own soft footfall in the wet grass and of his slow breathing. The rain drizzled in silence, enveloping him in wetness like a black mist. He started to wonder if he should have stayed where he was in case their quarry turned back to make for the road, but it was too late now since he wasn’t at all sure where he was. He felt about him. He seemed to be in some sort of clearing. Something scurried away from his feet, perhaps a rat or a squirrel, disturbed by his passage. Then he heard a shout. That was surely Bruno’s voice. No answering shout came, only another long silence. He really wished now that he’d stayed where he was—or at least, if he had to go bumbling around in the dark he might have thought to get a torch from the car. It had all happened too quickly for him. He stuffed his big hands in his pockets and stood as still as the trees around him, thankful, as usual, that Ferrini was there. At least he knew who it was they were chasing. Somebody by the name of Peppina, he’d said. One of the ones they’d picked up the other night, but the Marshal couldn’t for the life of him put a face to the name.
    ‘Did you notice their faces?’ Ferrini had said. But he hadn’t noticed anything except that they all looked alike to him. What was he doing in charge of a case like this? Not that that was his fault. Even so, it was all wrong. He was out of his depth and the best thing he could do was to go to the Captain as soon as possible and tell him so. It was hardly even fair to Ferrini that he should have to work with someone so incompetent so that he had to do everything himself. Ferrini had said he was impressed by that business of the sink, but what would he have thought if he knew the truth? That when Teresa had first moved up here from Syracuse and started smartening up his quarters she’d nagged him for months to plaster up the tiny space between the sink and the wall in the bathroom. He’d never got round to it and she’d had to get somebody in to do it in the end. She said the dirty water trickled down behind and bred germs. He couldn’t for shame tell Ferrini that. The whole thing was ridiculous; he wasn’t a detective, he wasn’t trained for it and it wasn’t his job. The Station at Pitti was a quiet spot where he was expected to keep order in his district, settle the odd dispute between neighbours, send in reports from tourists who’d had their bags stolen, organize security for the big exhibitions in the galleries at the Palace. So what the devil was he doing in the park at one in the morning getting his feet wet to no good purpose?
    The pale figure of Peppina crashed into the clearing with such suddenness that he had no time to move. He was so still as to be invisible and the running figure hit him full square, almost knocking the breath out of his body. The Marshal made a hesitant grab and then backed off as his face was attacked. His hesitation was caused by his confusion as to what he was fighting against. Peppina was almost naked, the fur coat having got lost during the chase. A woman’s breasts were pressing against his thick coat, a woman’s nails had gouged the skin near his eyes, but a man’s hand began closing round his throat and a man’s muscles were proving as strong if not stronger than his own. He started fighting the man but he had left it