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He glanced back at Lucy and saw her face became quizzical. She must have seen the wariness on his. Jonas didn’t want Lucy seeing anything of Marvel’s attitude towards him, partly for her sake, partly for his own, so he went through the old wooden gate and down the three stone steps and walked round to the driver’s door. Marvel’s window was open.

‘What the fuck are you playing at, Holly?’

Jonas was confused. ‘I’m sweeping my path, sir.’

‘Are you being funny?’

‘No, sir. I don’t think so.’

‘The lab called to say your hair and fibres are all over Margaret Priddy and Yvonne Marsh.’

Jonas looked blank. Why was that a shock to Marvel? He’d have been shocked if his hair and fibres hadn’t been found on both victims.

‘And the button you found in the guttering? Mass produced for the uniform trade. Probably pulled it off your own fucking trousers when you climbed up there!’

‘No, sir. I—’

‘Are you trying to make me look like a fucking fool?’ spat Marvel.

Jonas was caught off-balance by this sudden switch.

‘Excuse me, sir?’

‘Those bastards in the lab are laughing at me because of you, you understand?’

Jonas did understand – that Marvel was an insecure arsehole.

So he said ‘Yes, sir, I understand.’ And then carefully reminded Marvel, ‘But I checked that I hadn’t lost a button, and I was at both scenes …’ He tailed off at the immutable glare Marvel had fixed on him.

Marvel looked up – and up – at Jonas Holly. The expression on the young PC’s face was utterly sincere – even hurt. Marvel pursed his lips. ‘This is your last chance, Holly. Another fuck up like this and—’

‘I didn’t fuck-up,’ Jonas said sharply, then added a considered ‘sir’.

Marvel was surprised by the sudden display of backbone but it cut no ice with him. He was so fucking angry about the lack of progress and then that bastard Reeves giggling like a hippy down the line at him … Yelling at Jonas Holly was like kicking the cat: satisfying even while serving no purpose.

‘Watch your fucking tone, Holly.’

Jonas knew he had to back off now or engage in open warfare with a senior officer who wielded almost complete power over him. So he swallowed some of his pride and said, ‘Sorry, sir.’

Marvel grunted and put the car into gear.

‘You’d better start taking your job more seriously while you still have one.’

He pulled away sharply before Jonas could answer, forcing him to step quickly out of the way.

Jonas watched the car fishtail a little in the snow. He knew it was a hollow threat, but it still made him think.

He’d have to be careful around Marvel.

* * *

A & D MARSH MOTOR REPAIRS read the sign on the trustingly unlocked door of the broken-down tin shack.

It was gloomy inside and Reynolds ran his hands up and down the wall inside the door until he found the light switch, then looked at his fingers covered in black smudge.

‘What are we looking for, sir?’

‘Evidence.’

Reynolds knew he should never have bothered asking. Marvel had no more idea what they might find than he did. Probably less. Back at the Marsh house, poor Elizabeth Rice had instructions to do the same. ‘Just nose around,’ Marvel had told her.

Because apparently ‘nosing around’ did not require a stuffy old search warrant.

Reynolds felt an ever-rising sense that they were all stagnating. They had no fingerprints and – even more curiously – no footprints. Just dirty smears and vague impressions in carpet. They were still pinning their forensic hopes on the single unidentified hair from the Margaret Priddy scene, but if that matched Peter Priddy or someone else who’d been at the scene in an official capacity then they were back to square one anyway.

When Marvel had told him about the Jonas Holly link, Reynolds had tutted in vague empathy and mentally sided with Holly.

It was just like Marvel to shit all over a guy for doing his job.

Here in the garage – for the first time since he’d come to Shipcott – Marvel felt some connection with someone local. They might be suspects, but at least it was something.

As a boy he’d wanted to be a bus driver. Not because he’d wanted to suffer the stop-and-go of Oxford Street or get caught in a six-mile tailback on the Edgware Road. No, when the boy-Marvel imagined his life as a bus driver, he’d always seen himself bent over with his head inside the cavernous engine bay, spanner in hand. Which was probably just as likely, given London’s ageing bus population, he reflected wryly whenever he thought about those times.

He felt an unaccustomed smile curl the corner of his mouth.

‘Something funny, sir?’ asked Reynolds.

‘No,’ said Marvel. A childhood ambition to be a bus driver was the last thing he was prepared to share with an over-educated prick like Reynolds.

The workshop was far neater and cleaner inside than the exterior promised. Tools were hung neatly and surfaces were reasonably tidy. The two men split automatically and walked around the premises in opposite directions.

‘You think it’s the same killer?’ mused Reynolds.

‘In a place this size?’

‘Different M.O.’