Darkside

Seventeen Days

The mobile incident room arrived and it was shit.

Just the way Marvel liked it.

There were soggy Polo mints in the desk, mud up the walls, two black bags filled with junk-food wrappers, and someone had used indelible green ink on the whiteboard and then what looked like some kind of wire brush to try to remove it.

Marvel felt himself relax into the squalor of the unit in a way he just couldn’t into the rusticity of Springer Farm. The rutted driveway, the mossy roofs, the smell of manure repelled him. But this squalor was different. He wanted the stained coffee pot, he liked the muddy lino, and the sour reek of the grubby little fridge was napalm in the morning to him.

Didn’t mean anyone else had to know that. ‘Clean this place up,’ he growled at Reynolds, who made a note in his book.

‘What are you writing?’ said Marvel irritably.

‘Sir?’

‘What are you writing in your little book? I said “Clean this place up.” Doesn’t need a fucking memo, does it?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then clean this place up.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Don’t let Rice do it.’

‘No, sir.’ Before Reynolds could ask why, when Rice was the only member of the team who might make a decent job of it, Marvel had trudged down the steps and slammed the door.

The unit was parked at the edge of the playing field alongside Margaret Priddy’s home. Nonetheless, Marvel drove the four hundred yards to the shop.

He asked for wellington boots but was told he’d have to go to Dulverton or to somewhere the large, docile man behind the counter called ‘the farm shop’ – the directions to which were so complex that Marvel stopped listening after the third dogleg.

‘You’re the chap in charge?’ asked the man, and Marvel nodded. ‘Any progress?’

‘Early days,’ said Marvel. It was all he ever said in response to inquiries by civilians – right up to the point where he stood in his funeral suit and only decent tie to hear the verdict of the jury. Before that, nothing was sure.

‘Poor Margaret,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Although it was a blessing really.’

‘Hmm,’ nodded Marvel, but was not sure he agreed.

Outside, he saw the small brown dog from next door to the Priddy home, and introduced himself to the owner, Mrs Cobb. He asked whether the dog had barked on the night of the murder and she said ‘No’ as if it was the first time it had occurred to her.

Typical, thought Marvel. The dog barks at me but not at the bloody killer.

He went back to the unit, where Reynolds had made a poor enough job of cleaning the unit to satisfy the most ardent slob. He was now standing by for plaudits, but Marvel merely glanced around and grunted, then answered his phone. Jos Reeves told him they had the hair matches. Two from Peter Priddy, two from Dr Mark Dennis, and one each from Gary Liss and Annette Rogers.

‘Nothing from Reynolds? He usually sheds like a fucking Retriever all over the scene.’

‘Nothing from Reynolds.’

‘You said there were seven.’

‘One unidentified,’ said Reeves.

Marvel accepted the news with grudging silence. ‘What about fibres?’

Reeves sighed. ‘Nothing of significance yet.’

‘Let me be the judge of that,’ snapped Marvel.

‘OK,’ said Reeves mildly and started to recite their results so far in a relentless monotone. ‘Carpet, white cotton, black cotton, blue cotton, red wool, blue wool—’

‘Email me,’ said Marvel and hung up.