Jonas said he'd be back on the doorstep tomorrow and would drop it by then.

'And you're doing this too too?' she said, waving her arm at the street.

Jonas agreed that he was, and the look she gave him made everything worthwhile - even having to leave Lucy alone. With any luck the news would be all round Shipcott tomorrow that he was making night patrols. If a killer was out there, maybe it would make him think twice.

For the same reason he dropped into the Red Lion and was greeted so warmly that yesterday's impressions did seem to be no more than paranoia. He felt foolish. Everyone in the bar now seemed to know that he had jumped into the freezing stream and tried to revive Yvonne Marsh, and clamoured to buy him a drink. When he told them he was on duty and explained about the night patrols, the atmosphere grew even warmer.

'Good thinking, Jonas,' said Mr Jacoby to general agreement, and Graham Nash brought over a coffee on the house.

The talk in the pub was all about the deaths. Murders, they called them both already, because n.o.body believed that Yvonne Marsh had lived all her life in Shipcott but had chosen this this week to fall into the stream and drown. Jonas couldn't disagree, although he wouldn't speculate out loud for them. They didn't mind; having Jonas be the voice of reason would only have spoiled their theories. week to fall into the stream and drown. Jonas couldn't disagree, although he wouldn't speculate out loud for them. They didn't mind; having Jonas be the voice of reason would only have spoiled their theories.

'I reckon it's some nutter from Tiverton,' said old Jack Biggins of the cow-and-gate incident. His macro-xenophobia meant that everyone beyond Dulverton was a suspect.

'Could be anyone just pa.s.sing through,' suggested Billy Beer, vaguely enough for the others to feel confident in disagreeing with him.

'Now if that were that were it,' said Graham Nash, 'we'd have noticed him.' Which was true, thought Jonas, because a stranger in a village this size in the middle of winter stuck out like a sore thumb. it,' said Graham Nash, 'we'd have noticed him.' Which was true, thought Jonas, because a stranger in a village this size in the middle of winter stuck out like a sore thumb.

'Maybe one of our own turned bad then,' shrugged Stuart Beard.

Beard was the kind of man whose opinion usually attracted sage nods all round, but Jonas noted that this time there were only a few careful grunts of agreement, noticeably half-hearted enough for him to look up and see that Clive Trewell - father of Skew Ronnie - was sat in the window nursing a half.

Jonas went over to him and said h.e.l.lo.

Ronnie Trewell had been a good kid but was growing up all wrong, and Clive Trewell was not used to speaking to Jonas Holly in anything other than an official capacity.

Clive blamed himself; he'd encouraged his son to take driving lessons, and driving lessons had been like lighting a blue touch paper for Ronnie Trewell. Some people had a calling. They were called to be missionaries in Africa; they were called to find delicate art hidden in marble blocks; they were called to open their homes to hedgehogs or stray cats. Ronnie Trewell was called to drive. Very fast. And because he couldn't afford anything faster than a thirteen-year-old Ford Fiesta with the weekly wage he earned at Mr Marsh's car-repair garage, he was called to steal those very fast cars.

Teased away from school because of his lopsided walk, caused by an uncorrected club foot, Skew Ronnie had achieved the wherewithal to steal cars, but not the guile to hide the fact. He would simply drive around in his Fiesta until he saw a car he wanted to drive. Then he would steal it, leaving his Fiesta in its place, keys in the ignition for convenience's sake. It did not take Sherlock Holmes to work out whodunit. But depending on where Ronnie Trewell had stolen the car from, it did sometimes take a little while for the police to come knocking on the door. During that time Ronnie would drive at breakneck speed across the moors, and when he wasn't actually driving the stolen car, he was modifying, tuning and customizing it in his dad's garage. Given that he didn't steal the cars to sell - and that the cars were always recovered eventually - it was this curious aspect of the crimes, coupled with his youth, which had so far kept nineteen-year-old Ronnie Trewell away from hard-core custodial sentences. Owners who had their cars returned in better condition than when they were stolen were disinclined to press charges. The owner of an old but sporty Honda CRX discovered a rusty wheel-arch had been excised, welded and expertly re-sprayed. A woman in Taunton was delighted to have her Toyota MR2 returned with a new, satisfyingly throaty exhaust fitted, and the owner of an Alfa Romeo GTV was so impressed by his reclaimed car's improved performance that he sent Ronnie a thank-you note.

Clive knew that Ronnie couldn't help himself. He had tried to teach him right from wrong but, when it came to cars, it just hadn't taken. Something in his son needed those needed those cars the way other people needed braces or spectacles. Each car Ronnie stole became part of him; he put his heart, soul and all his meagre spare cash into it. And every time the police sent a tow truck to take away a stolen car, Ronnie stood in the road and cried. cars the way other people needed braces or spectacles. Each car Ronnie stole became part of him; he put his heart, soul and all his meagre spare cash into it. And every time the police sent a tow truck to take away a stolen car, Ronnie stood in the road and cried.

PC Holly had made half a dozen visits to the Trewell home in the past two years, so Clive was prepared.

'Them other police already talked to Ronnie!' he said - and was taken aback when Jonas started to talk not about Ronnie, but about Dougie.

'Did he tell you what happened yesterday?'

Clive's heart sank. Not Dougie too! Not Dougie too! But then he listened in amazement as Jonas told him about the part his younger son had played in the drama down behind the playing field. But then he listened in amazement as Jonas told him about the part his younger son had played in the drama down behind the playing field.

'Didn't say a word!' he said.

When he'd first stood up, Jonas had fully intended to quiz Clive Trewell about Ronnie. Where he was. Where he'd been. What he'd been doing. But when he'd got close to the man and seen the sad, wary look in his eyes as he approached, he'd lost the stomach for it.

Instead he talked up Dougie - told Clive what a good lad he had there - and then brought the surprised man a drink before saying goodnight and heading back out on patrol.

Before he did, he went into the gents' toilets.

There was no message.

The night was clear and bitter and the stars were close overhead. The street had emptied of dog-walkers and was awaiting the early exodus from the Red Lion, after which it would finally rest for the night.

Without thinking why, Jonas walked towards the Trewell home, skidding more than once on the ice that had already formed on the narrow pavement.

He had no great suspicion that Ronnie Trewell was involved in the murders. He knew he was only going to speak to him now because Ronnie was the only person in Shipcott whom anyone could logically accuse of any wrongdoing that went beyond poor parking or leaving the bins out too early. He worked for Alan Marsh, certainly, but Jonas wasn't setting much store by that. Talking to him seemed sensible - that was all. Marvel may have done it already but Marvel wasn't local, so anything anyone told him or his team was necessarily open to improvement.

Jonas turned up Heather View - a name which always made him smile because, unless you stuck your head in a cupboard, there was nowhere in Shipcott that didn't didn't offer a heather view. The short, steep lane ended in a dead end of frozen mud in front of the stile beside the Trewell home, which consisted of a tiny, ugly bungalow and a vast double garage. It seemed that even the buildings of his childhood home had conspired to lure Ronnie into following his calling. offer a heather view. The short, steep lane ended in a dead end of frozen mud in front of the stile beside the Trewell home, which consisted of a tiny, ugly bungalow and a vast double garage. It seemed that even the buildings of his childhood home had conspired to lure Ronnie into following his calling.

Dougie answered the door and looked concerned to see Jonas.

'All right?' he said carefully.

'All right, Dougie. Warm now?' said Jonas and the boy smiled faintly. 'Can I come in for a minute?'

'OK,' said Dougie.

The house smelled old and cold. The front room was devoid of furniture apart from an oversized green vinyl sofa and a large TV with wires pouring from the back like entrails, and connected to various speakers, games consoles, DVD players and satellite receivers strewn about the dirty carpet.

'I haven't done anything wrong,' said Ronnie instantly. He sat on the floor while a white-muzzled greyhound took up the whole length of the sofa behind his head. The dog lifted its nose and looked at Jonas with its solemn, blue-sheened eyes, then lay flat again.

'I know,' said Jonas, standing in the doorway. Dougie hovered a little nervously between the two of them, unsure of whose side he should be on.

'Then why are you here?' Ronnie put down the game control he'd been holding in his lap and turned away from Jonas to pet the dog. The vast, flat animal lifted its front leg off the sofa so Ronnie could tickle its armpit.

'She likes that,' said Jonas.

'Yeah,' said Ronnie. And then - after a long pause - 'You told me that.'

'What?'

Ronnie spoke with his back to Jonas but his voice was softened by the contact with the greyhound, which lay stiff-legged, hypnotized by pleasure.

'You told me dogs like their armpits tickled.'

'Yeah?' Jonas was puzzled. 'When?'

Ronnie shrugged one shoulder. 'Dunno. When I was a kid.'

Jonas had no recollection of it. He only vaguely recalled Ronnie Trewell as a child - marked out by his limp - hanging around on the edges of everything, never excluded but never really involved either.

He watched the teenager's callused, oil-stained fingers gently stroke the most tender skin the dog had to offer.

'How old is she?' he asked.

'Twelve,' said Dougie, relieved at this new non-confrontational turn in the conversation. 'She used to race. She had tattoos in her ears but they cut them out when they dumped her.'

Jonas saw the dog's cloudy eyes widen and its whole body stiffen as Ronnie lifted its ear to show where the delicate drape of silken flesh had been brutally sliced to prevent identification and responsibility.

'She doesn't like it when you touch it,' said Ronnie, letting the ear drop back into place. 'Even after all this time.'

'She remembers, see?' said Dougie, and he walked over, perched on the edge of the sofa and smoothed the dog's brindle flank. 'Don't you, girl?'

Jonas suddenly felt overwhelmingly sad and disconnected.

The soft thief, the unformed boy, the stale room. The old dog with its long memory of bad things.

He said something to Dougie - something about the help he'd rendered yesterday. He didn't know what what he said or what was said in return - it was just a way to excuse himself and move from inside the house to outside, where he could breathe and be alone. he said or what was said in return - it was just a way to excuse himself and move from inside the house to outside, where he could breathe and be alone.

He turned left out of the front gate instead of right and walked twenty paces across the frozen mud to the stile that led to the moor. He climbed on to it and stood there, raised into the icy night sky, confused by the depth of his own feelings.

So what if the dog was old? So what if it had had its tattoos cut out? Dogs went through bad things all the time and then recovered from them and lived happy lives. Just like people did. The dog was loved and cared for now now, so why did he feel so sad?

Because the dog remembered.

Worse than that, the dog could not forget.

Even when it had an entire green-vinyl sofa to stretch out on, and a boy stroking its armpit, the memory was right there, right underneath underneath, all ready to burst through the skin, tear open old wounds and make them bleed afresh. And it wasn't just the wounds. It was the memory of the trembling, p.i.s.sing terror every time a human approached and a hand reached out, in case it held not t.i.tbits but sudden sharp and selfish pain.

Jonas was dizzy with the fear of the remembering dog. He had no idea why; he just was was.

He swayed atop the icy stile, sucked air into his lungs as if he'd just missed drowning, and squeezed his eyes shut.

He wouldn't cry. He mustn't cry. He was not allowed not allowed to cry. to cry.

For some reason which escaped him, that thought made his eyes burn even harder and his throat felt filled with a balloon with the effort it took to keep from tears.

It was Lucy. He knew it was all about Lucy, this new tearful streak. He tried to tell himself it was understandable - that facing the loss of someone he loved so much was sure to make him weak and vulnerable - but something in him found it merely pathetic and he hated himself because of it.

He opened his eyes and blinked at the monochromatic haloes around the stars above him and the streetlights below him. He made no effort to clear his vision - blurred was nice for now. Even blurred, he knew the shape of the village. He knew the light that was the pub and the light over the bus stop. A hundred feet below him he knew the yellow blob of Linda Cobb's kitchen, and the absence of light that was Margaret Priddy's home.

One light sparkled in isolation across the coombe - separate from the others. Jonas focused on it and breathed steadily. Slowly, slowly, the cobwebs faded around the single light and he saw it was a yellowish, un-curtained window across the way, only just visible above the rough silhouette of a hedge, which cut it off at the sill.

He looked down towards the village and took his bearings, then looked back up at that single pale window.

And felt his heart miss a beat.

From here.

From this place alone.

From atop the stile outside the Trewell home, Jonas Holly could see directly into his own bathroom.

Twelve Days

When it finally made up its mind, the snow came with a vengeance.

The first flakes wandered down from the black velvet sky like little stars that had lost their way, and within minutes the galaxies themselves were raining down on Exmoor. Without a breath of breeze to divert or delay them, a million billion points of fractured light poured from the heavens, to be finally reunited under the moon in a brilliant carpet of silent white.

Marvel woke up with a cat staring into his eyes from a distance of about three inches. He flinched and it dug its claws into his chest, keeping him just where it wanted him.

'Get off,' he suggested, but the enormously fluffy grey ball merely blinked its orange eyes and looked contemptuous. It did withdraw its claws a little, but was certainly not going anywhere soon.

Marvel turned his head with a wince to find he was asleep on Joy Springer's hairy kitchen sofa and couldn't feel his legs. Because of the cat, he couldn't immediately see them either, which only added to the surreal feeling that his legs could be absolutely anywhere. He reached down and touched his thigh. Or what he a.s.sumed was his thigh - he had no sensation in the slab his finger felt through the cloth of his suit trousers.

The light was oddly muted, as if someone had put a pale veil over the windows while he slept. It added to the air of strangeness that waking up without his legs was giving him.

It had been a late night at the mobile unit. Late and smelling of Calor gas. He'd kept his team up past their bedtimes, laying out a strategy for the two inquiries; being the swan while wanting a drink. Luckily Reynolds was on the ball. Him and his f.u.c.king little notebook, thought Marvel sourly.

Then he had come back to the farm to find that although he'd given Joy Springer money for a bottle of whiskey, she'd instead bought two bottles of Cinzano, which he hadn't even known they made made any more. any more.

'Get off off!' he shouted into the cat's face and - after a rebellious beat - it rose slowly, dug in its claws in farewell, and sauntered down his body with its tail in the air, so that Marvel could see from its puckered a.r.s.e exactly what it thought of him.

Marvel struggled to his elbows and looked down at his legs, which - in their paralysis - seemed to be completely separate from his hips. He actually had to lean down and pull his own feet to the floor so that he could sit up. He noticed he'd removed his shoes, even though Joy Springer's couch looked as if it had been retrieved from a tip. So did his shoes; they had been wet and dried so often in the past fortnight that the leather was going stiff. How hard could it be to buy wellington f.u.c.king boots?

He looked at his watch. Eight thirty-five am.

b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.

The empty bottles on the table told their own story and as a prequel to that he had a hazy recollection of Joy Springer cackling while he told her an anecdote. He had several that he rolled out again and again and again in company - each time starting with 'Reminds me of ...' As if he'd ever forgotten.

There was the story of Jason Harman, the Butcher of Bermondsey, who'd sliced up his wife and his mother-in-law and boiled their remains to soup on a two-ring hob; of Nance Locke, who'd murdered her three children by tying their hands and forcing their heads into a bucket of water one after the other; or of Ang Nu, who'd run as if guilty and then, when cornered, jumped from a bridge - not into the expected river, but on to the unfortunate spikes of the railings below. 'One in his a.r.s.e, one in his heart and one right through the eye socket,' Marvel always finished with ghoulish glee. 'The eyeball was sat on top of the spike like a c.o.c.ktail onion on a stick.'

Of course, the older Marvel got, the fewer people had ever seen a c.o.c.ktail onion on a stick and the less punch the image packed. Still, he enjoyed saying it, even if the denouement was always accompanied by the guilty nudge of the untold aftermath. That Ang Nu had been beaten up twice because of his immigrant status, spoke no English, and had probably been wholly unaware that the four burly men chasing him this time were police.

That would have spoiled the story.

Which would have been a shame, because Joy Springer had seemed to enjoy that one. Old enough to remember c.o.c.ktail onions, for sure. No doubt if he'd had a story about a fondue-related crime, she'd have liked that too.

Joy had a few stories of her own, Marvel remembered dimly now with a grimace. A few too many and all against the same backdrop of Springer Farm: buying the place as newly-weds, individual horses and all their little horsey quirks, the seemingly endless years of trekking and local shows and children falling off and grockles getting trampled and the stables burning down and the cottages being built in their place ... mercifully Marvel had been able to tune much of it out entirely. Until she'd got tearful. Then he'd had to re-focus and at least look look as if he'd been listening all along. Really, the things you had to do to get a companionable drink around here. as if he'd been listening all along. Really, the things you had to do to get a companionable drink around here.

She'd shown him a photo of her husband. Marvel turned his head now and could still see it on the table, propped up as if it had been watching him all night. Creepy. Her husband had been called Roy. Or Ralph. Something with an R.

Debbie used to say, 'People get the face they deserve.' Another of her hippy-dippy Sting-clinging homilies that made him want to smack her with her Amazonian rainstick. Annoyingly, though, Marvel had come to the grudging conclusion that she was generally right on this one. He'd banged up enough pinch-lipped, low-browed, boss-eyed criminals in his time to become receptive to the idea. Now he thought that if Something with an R had got the face he deserved then he probably should have been banged up too.

Not according to Joy Springer, he recalled vaguely. Apparently Something with an R had been descended from angels and had returned there 'to sleep' with them once his tortured life was at an end. Marvel tried to remember what had tortured him so badly - ill health or no money or just being so b.l.o.o.d.y ugly and married to Joy Springer - but he wasn't sure she had told him. He did remember being surprised that the resilient old bird had got emotional about anything anything other than the fact that the Cinzano was finished. She didn't seem the type. other than the fact that the Cinzano was finished. She didn't seem the type.

Ah well, it was all a bit of a haze now.

Marvel rubbed his eyes and face. Reynolds would muster the troops; it wouldn't be the first time. He got to his unsteady feet and saw the white outside. Snow making everything seem black and white, deep enough that he could not see the gravel of the courtyard, even through the footprints and the tyre tracks that indicated that Reynolds had had mustered the troops, and that they had already left. mustered the troops, and that they had already left.

His phone rang and he found it under another cat on the corner of the table.