Читаем Darkside полностью

‘I don’t know,’ said Marvel. It was not something he often admitted to, but on this occasion he felt it was OK to be a bit confused.

‘He had a door key, he hated the job, he obviously has no compunction about euthanasia …’

‘But to say it right out loud like that – to us!’

‘I know,’ said Reynolds. ‘He’d have to be a psychopath.’

Marvel shrugged. ‘Yes, he would.’

* * *

Less than an hour after Reynolds and Marvel got back to Springer Farm, Grey and Singh returned from interviewing Skew Ronnie Trewell and everyone crammed into Marvel’s room to hear how they’d got on.

‘It’s not him,’ said Grey.

‘Yeah, boss, I don’t think he’s our man,’ said Singh more tactfully.

Marvel was unwilling to let the only tentative lead they’d got from their sweep of the village go so easily.

‘He got an alibi?’

The two detectives exchanged looks.

‘Well, he says he was asleep,’ said Grey.

‘At home all night,’ added Singh.

‘Compelling,’ said Marvel sarcastically.

‘He just doesn’t seem the type, sir,’ said Grey. Then, when he saw Marvel’s face tighten angrily, he added, ‘I didn’t get a vibe off him. Nor did Armand,’ he said, turning to Singh, ‘did you?’

‘No,’ said Singh. ‘I didn’t get any vibe at all. The guy’s a car thief through and through. Obsessed. Couldn’t stop talking about them even while we were asking him about a murder!’

‘Yeah,’ added Grey. ‘His only interest in Mrs Priddy seemed to be that she used to own some sporty BMW.’

‘A three-litre CSi,’ remembered Singh.

‘Good car,’ said Grey approvingly and Pollard nodded in agreement.

Marvel glared at them all. He thought about Margaret Priddy dropping down through the cracks of society from horsewoman and BMW-owner to being bedridden while her savings ran out of her bank account like water from a punctured paddling pool. He thought about Peter Priddy and how he must have felt about that. He thought about Skew Ronnie Trewell and wondered if he should leave it at that or go and intimidate the little thief himself. It irked him that Jonas Holly had dismissed the man as a suspect; part of him wanted Ronnie Trewell to be the killer, for that reason alone. But Grey and Singh were good men. He trusted their judgement. Usually. While these thoughts whizzed through his mind, his eyes never left the two DCs, who became more and more uncomfortable.

Unaware of Marvel’s train of thought, Singh decided to add another helpful observation. ‘He just didn’t seem … quite right, sir.’

‘No,’ said Grey, nodding in enthusiastic agreement. ‘Not quite right.’

Hearing Jonas Holly’s words echoed by Grey was what did it for Marvel. He made an all-purpose sound of disparagement, picked up the keys to the Ford Focus, and stomped out of the room to judge Ronnie Trewell for himself.

* * *

The boy was standing on the front step, squinting into the dim sun as it fell behind the moor. Ronnie Trewell was skinny and so gaunt he looked like an extra from a prison-camp movie. He 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.