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His getaway was slow and electric, but Jonas still felt as if he’d been left eating the milkman’s dust.

* * *

The CSIs had finished with Margaret Priddy’s home and so, in the absence of a local police station – and with the stables too far from the village to make an effective base – Marvel had arranged to meet her son there. Once foul play was confirmed, he’d be able to call in a mobile incident room and work from that.

In any case, Marvel liked to question suspects or would-be suspects at the scene of the crime whenever possible. He had seen too many guilty men crack under the weight of memory to discount it as an investigative tool. So he got Reynolds to tell Priddy to meet them outside, and then Marvel led them into the kitchen.

Peter Priddy was a tall, broad man, but with the unfortunate face of a toddler. His cheeks were too rosy, his chin too pudgy, his eyes too blue and his hair too wispy-yellow to fake adulthood, even when perched atop such a frame. But Marvel noted that the man’s hand engulfed his own when he shook it. He also noted the shiny black work-shoes that spoke of a uniform in another context.

‘Prison officer,’ said Priddy when he enquired. ‘At Longmoor.’

‘Interesting,’ said Marvel, which was what he always said when he had no interest.

Priddy spoke slowly and carefully and in the country twang Marvel hated so much. He made tea – thick and milky – and then searched pointlessly through the cluttered kitchen cupboards for a packet of Jaffa Cakes he claimed to have brought on his last visit, while Marvel and Reynolds sat at the table.

‘Not real ones,’ Priddy added hastily, to allay any soaring expectations. ‘Spar ones. Copies.’

‘Generic,’ supplied Reynolds helpfully and Marvel frowned; Reynolds couldn’t bear to hide his education – even when it came to biscuits.

‘Please don’t trouble yourself,’ said Marvel formally, but Priddy got on his haunches in case someone had hidden them behind the bleach under the kitchen sink.

‘I know they’re by here somewhere. I brought them myself and Mum weren’t a big biscuit person.’

‘Could she eat anything? With her injury?’

‘Only all mushed up.’

Reynolds grimaced at the idea.

‘Was that the last time you saw your mother?’ asked Marvel.

‘Yes.’

‘How long ago was that?’

‘Errrrr … About two weeks.’ He straightened up and stared at the door of the refrigerator. ‘This is daft.’

‘I understand she was unable to speak?’

‘That’s true,’ said Priddy with his head in another cupboard, ‘but she could blink and smile and so forth. I’ll bet them fucking nurses have had them.’ He slammed the door.

Marvel and Reynolds exchanged brief looks. For the first time since they’d arrived, Peter Priddy looked at them properly. He sighed, leaned on the kitchen counter and threw his hands briefly in the air in anger. ‘Have you seen the size of them? Them nurses? I’m amazed there’s a bloody thing left in these cupboards.’ Then his big baby-face screwed up and he let out a single bubbly sob.

‘Sorry,’ he added and blew his nose into a crumpled handkerchief.

Marvel hated shows of emotion and ignored them whenever possible. ‘Is anything missing from the house?’

Priddy looked confused. ‘Not that I’ve noticed. They wouldn’t let me upstairs.’

Reynolds looked sympathetic. ‘We can assign you a family liaison officer, Mr Priddy. They’d keep you informed of the progress of the investigation.’

Priddy shook his big baby-head and stared at the new contents of his handkerchief before stuffing it back into his pocket.

‘Who paid for your mother’s care, Mr Priddy?’

‘She did. She had savings.’

‘What’s that cost nowadays?’ said Marvel, turning to Reynolds as if he would know. ‘Five hundred, six hundred quid a week? Savings don’t last long at that rate.’

‘More like seven hundred,’ supplied Priddy with a grimace. ‘She had my dad’s pension too, but it weren’t going to last for ever.’

‘No. Precisely. And what would have happened then?’

Priddy sighed and shrugged. ‘Would have had to sell up and go into a home, I suppose. On benefits.’

‘Once she’d spent all her savings?’

‘Yes.’

‘All your inheritance.’

‘That’s the way it goes nowadays,’ said Priddy with a long-suffering air. ‘She would have wanted to stay here though. That’s why I got the nurses. I’m glad in a way that she died here and never had to go into some shitty nursing home.’

‘Oh yes. Much better she die in her own bed, hey?’

Marvel watched for his response but the barb was lost; Priddy was staring at curling photos stuck on the fridge. Horses mostly, several with Margaret on them. One of a chubby child in a Batman T-shirt.

‘Did you ever get the feeling that your mother was in danger, Mr Priddy?’

‘No,’ said Priddy, returning his attention to Marvel. ‘Who from?’

‘One of the nurses perhaps?’

Priddy shook his head, surprised. ‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Like who?’

‘You tell me like who,’ Marvel said – and the words hung between them, their slightly harder tone changing the very air in the room.

Peter Priddy’s gaze hardened. ‘Not like me,’ he said very slowly.