Belinda Bauer - Darkside

Then the rear end hit the opposite bank, the Honda bounced off at a new angle, and – miraculously – slid past the woman in the narrowest of gaps between her and the hedge. The wing mirror actually clipped one of her sticks, and he had time to see her lurch, but not fall, as he passed her.

Another teeth-jarring bump sent the car into a shallow ditch, where it came to a halt sudden enough to throw his forehead against the steering wheel.

Marvel was dazed for a moment and stared stupidly at the unexpected close-up of the slightly retro Honda logo in the centre of the wheel. He thought of Debbie and her lava lamps and that fucking couch. Of putting his shoes on it even though it drove her nuts. Sometimes because it drove her nuts. What kind of prick was he?

Seriously.

What kind of prick?

He jerked in shock at a loud bang on the window beside his right ear, and squinted up at the woman he’d just narrowly avoided squashing to a pulp. He wanted to throw his arms around her and kiss her for not being dead; to cry with gratitude and become a monk and dedicate his life to others as penance for every wrong he’d ever done to anyone.

But she didn’t look grateful. She looked so angry that he was almost afraid to roll down the window, which was plainly stupid, so he did.

‘Are you Marvel?’ she said grittily. And when he nodded she said, ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Why are you picking on Jonas?’

What a silly thing to say to a grown-up! Marvel would have laughed, except for the fact that the woman he realized must be Jonas Holly’s wife had lost none of her anger between the lane and the cosy little room where they stood now.

He had followed her in, impressed by her dexterity and strength despite the crutches. Up the three stone steps, through the wooden gate, across the uneven slate path and through the front door. She did it all with such determined energy that he dared not even offer his assistance.

She leaned her sticks against the fireplace, where a new fire was made but not lit, and lowered herself on to the couch, from where she eyed him coldly, still apparently expecting an answer.

‘I’m not,’ he said, trying – but failing – not to feel like a naughty schoolboy.

She said nothing, just sat there and looked up at him. Somehow the fact that she was sitting now, while he was still standing, put him at a disadvantage. His feeling of bonhomie at not having flattened her while in the throes 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 fr o m 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.