'I've got good news and bad news,' said Jos Reeves, and from his tone Marvel could tell that he was even happy about the bad news, which immediately got under his skin.

'Don't f.u.c.k about, Reeves.'

'All right,' said Reeves, and then proceeded to f.u.c.k about. 'The good news is there's a forensic link between the two scenes.'

Marvel stayed silent, determined not to give Reeves the satisfaction of asking about the bad news, but his heart jerked anyway, as it always did when science put the seal on a suspect.

'The bad bad news,' said Reeves, in a voice that betrayed suppressed laughter, 'is that it's one of your own men.' news,' said Reeves, in a voice that betrayed suppressed laughter, 'is that it's one of your own men.'

From her bedroom window, Mrs Paddon watched Jonas clear the snow off her path. His father used to do the same thing.

Although Jonas also frequently offered to pick up bread or a newspaper for her, Mrs Paddon preferred to walk into the village, despite her eighty-nine years. She had an umbrella, after all - and a pair of stout waterproof boots.

She didn't speak to Jonas much, but she loved him dearly. Always had - from the day Cath and Des had brought him home from the hospital, all red and screwed up. Although the walls between Rose and Honeysuckle were thick and stone, she'd sometimes been able to hear him bawling, and whenever she did, she'd hold her breath until it stopped and she was sure that Cath had gone to him. Sometimes she lay awake wondering what she would do if little Jonas's crying had ever gone unchecked, and in her sillier meanderings had imagined having to rescue him and bring him back to her bed to snuggle like a little kitten.

She smiled faintly now at the memory - and at the anomalous thought of that tiny baby and the tall man below.

Every now and then Jonas would straighten up and stare across the coombe. She wondered why. Could he see something suspicious? She looked herself, but things were as they always were - the rolling moor and the other side of the village nestling at its foot, all coated in virginal white that made her eyes ache.

Terrible thing, these murders. She'd known Yvonne Marsh by sight, but Margaret Priddy and she had been friends - even though Mrs Paddon disagreed with hunting. Disagreed so strongly, in fact, that sometimes she'd pull on her waterproof boots, walk up to the common with a thermos of tea and a small wooden sign, and join the saboteurs. She'd made the sign herself: Foxes are people too Foxes are people too. The young sabs with their woollen hats and their nose rings always made her welcome, and whenever Margaret rode past she'd wave h.e.l.lo with her sign and they'd chat for a bit. The first time it had happened, a sab had rushed over and called Margaret a 'f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h' and Mrs Paddon had smacked him with her sign. Not too hard - but hard enough to make them all laugh. She hadn't driven an ambulance through the war so people could behave like that that.

Ah yes, sabbing was a good day out.

Poor Margaret.

She had heard all the details in Mr Jacoby's shop. The pillow on the face. The body in the stream, the lack of fingerprints. Gloves, Mr Jacoby said knowingly, and she thought of the films of her youth, where the goodies wore brown-leather gloves for driving, while the baddies wore black ones for killing. Gloves made the whole thing more Hollywood. She supposed she should be frightened by two murders in a week, but couldn't find fear inside herself. She'd been in the East End during the Blitz and had expected to die every day. Being murdered now seemed ridiculously unlikely. She felt safe in her home, and even safer because Jonas and Lucy lived next door.

She tapped on the window and waved her thanks at Jonas, then decided, despite the snow, to make the most of her clear path and go and fetch a few bits from Mr Jacoby's. Maybe pop into the Red Lion for a sherry on the way home.

'It's all go,' she told herself wryly, and went to get her brolly from the airing cupboard.

Every now and then Jonas would stop sc.r.a.ping at the slate and look across the tall hedge in the direction of Ronnie Trewell's house. He couldn't see it at all from the front gardens, but he still felt compelled to keep an eye on the moorland above it in case he saw anyone there. He thought again of Ronnie and Dougie with the dog. Whichever way he came at it, he couldn't see either of them writing the notes. Clive Trewell was the more obvious suspect. But Jonas had a lingering memory of Clive Trewell once picking him off the pavement after a spectacularly ill-judged wheelie had left him flat on his back outside the Red Lion, with a BMX bike on his chest.

The memory absolved Clive Trewell in Jonas's eyes.

There were a dozen homes within a hundred yards of the stile, and the moor was open to all. Anyone could have stood where he'd stood; anyone could have seen him in the bath.

Anyone.

This morning, for the first time in his life, he'd pulled the blind down while showering.

Just after Mrs Paddon waved, Lucy knocked on the front window and mimed a cup of tea at him, but he was already late, so he tapped his watch at her. She blew him a kiss instead and he grinned and blushed - too embarra.s.sed to blow one back in front of Mrs Paddon, even though he knew that was ridiculous. But she'd known him as a child, and that made all the difference.

He turned as a car pulled up with a slushy squeak outside the front gate.

Marvel.

Jonas's heart sank. Something told him Marvel hadn't stopped by to give him a lift to Margaret Priddy's doorstep.

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 att.i.tude 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 f.u.c.k f.u.c.k are you playing at, Holly?' 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 hadn't been found on both victims. been found on both victims.

'And the b.u.t.ton you found in the guttering? Ma.s.s produced for the uniform trade. Probably pulled it off your own f.u.c.king trousers when you climbed up there!'

'No, sir. I--'

'Are you trying to make me look like a f.u.c.king fool?' spat Marvel.

Jonas was caught off-balance by this sudden switch.

'Excuse me, sir?'

'Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in the lab are laughing at me because of you you, you understand?'

Jonas did did understand - that Marvel was an insecure a.r.s.ehole. understand - that Marvel was an insecure a.r.s.ehole.

So he said 'Yes, sir, I understand.' And then carefully reminded Marvel, 'But I checked that I hadn't lost a b.u.t.ton, and I was was at both scenes ...' He tailed off at the immutable glare Marvel had fixed on him. 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 f.u.c.k up like this and--'

'I didn't f.u.c.k-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 f.u.c.king angry so f.u.c.king angry about the lack of progress and then that b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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. about the lack of progress and then that b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 f.u.c.king 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 M MOTOR R REPAIRS read the sign on the trustingly unlocked door of the broken-down tin shack. 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 s.h.i.t 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 p.r.i.c.k 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.'

'In a place this size?' repeated Marvel.

'You know Arnold Avery buried all those kids on the moors around here. Lightning can can strike twice.' strike twice.'

Marvel grunted.

Reynolds ran his fingers over the sharp jaws of a bench vice and spun the lever, loving the smooth silence of its travel.

As a boy, Reynolds had wanted to be a bus driver. He had vivid recollections of cycling to school - and later university -through the centre of Bristol. Every time he was in a queue of traffic, he would stop his bicycle beside a bus, just to listen to the engine with its thudding ba.s.s covered by curiously breathy high notes. A sublime metal orchestra inside the grand theatre of what Reynolds had always considered to be the perfect method of ma.s.s transportation. Even while slaving over his criminology degree, a part of him always fantasized about giving it all up and spending the rest of his life behind the wheel, high above the traffic, sitting over the engine of a Routemaster or a Leyland National. It was a fantasy he had never divulged to anyone. No one would understand.

Marvel whistled low behind him and Reynolds turned to see him holding up what looked like a tissue box.

When Reynolds walked over, he could see that it was filled with disposable latex gloves.

Ten Days

Jonas hated the doctor.

Dr Anil Wickramsinghe was his name and Jonas had come to hold him personally responsible for Lucy's decline. Dr Wickramsinghe was middle-aged, balding and utterly inoffensive, but Jonas always felt in his guts that he was holding out on them. That, for some reason he couldn't fathom, Dr Wickramsinghe thought it would be in everyone's best interests to watch Lucy Holly in pain, fear and depression.

Like today.

Today Dr Wickramsinghe had listened to Lucy's halting description of the progress of her disease with his head c.o.c.ked to one side, feigning concern. When she said she had dropped a mug of tea on Wednesday, unable to feel that she wasn't gripping it properly, he nodded and tutted. When she recounted two episodes of MS hug, which had left her writhing on the floor in agony, he nodded and made a little sound like 'mm' in the back of his throat. And when her lip trembled as she told him that her eyesight had faltered in the middle of The Evil Dead The Evil Dead, he sighed as if he shared her pain.

'When?' said Jonas sharply. 'You didn't tell me that!'

Lucy bit her lip.

'Why didn't you tell me, Lu?'

'I'm sure I did did, Jonas.'

When she used his name that way, she was lying. Not lying like criminals lie, just ... being economical with the truth, like a politician.

'If you don't tell me these things, Lu, how can I help?'

She was too kind to say it but he knew the answer. He couldn't couldn't help - so what was the point? help - so what was the point?

Dr Wickramsinghe placed his palms flat on the table as if he was about to make a decision. As if he was about to get up and go to the secret safe behind the ugly sailing ships above his desk and get the real real medicine; the medicine; the actual actual pills that would put an end to Lucy's suffering. Spin the dial and Open Sesame on a cure. Every single time they were here, Jonas expected him to confess that so far they'd been giving her sugar solution and peanut M&Ms, but that now - at last - she was sick enough for them to break out the good stuff. pills that would put an end to Lucy's suffering. Spin the dial and Open Sesame on a cure. Every single time they were here, Jonas expected him to confess that so far they'd been giving her sugar solution and peanut M&Ms, but that now - at last - she was sick enough for them to break out the good stuff.

Instead, Dr Wickramsinghe leaned back slightly in his chair, as if distancing himself from the awkward case before him, and said, 'This is the progression we can expect, I'm afraid.'

Jonas wanted to pounce across the desk, grip him by the throat and bang his skull repeatedly against the ships until the sea ran red.

Can't you SEE? he wanted to shout. he wanted to shout. Can't you SEE that she needs HELP? Can't you SEE that she needs HELP?

Lucy's warm hand on his thigh told him she knew what he was thinking, even as she agreed with Dr Wickramsinghe: 'Of course, I understand. But is there any more we can do for the symptoms?'

So like Lucy. So like her to calm him him down, down, and to and to make the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who was killing her feel less like a s.h.i.t while doing it. What can make the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who was killing her feel less like a s.h.i.t while doing it. What can we we do for the symptoms? As if Dr Wickramsinghe and she were both in this together. Not for the first time, Jonas imagined Lucy breaking up a fight between two five-year-olds, resolving the row, drying the tears, making them shake hands. It made him love her more than ever, even if it meant the man across the desk was getting off lightly. do for the symptoms? As if Dr Wickramsinghe and she were both in this together. Not for the first time, Jonas imagined Lucy breaking up a fight between two five-year-olds, resolving the row, drying the tears, making them shake hands. It made him love her more than ever, even if it meant the man across the desk was getting off lightly.

'We'll try some more M&Ms,' said Dr Wickramsinghe, 'and throw in some Smarties and a big bottle of Lucozade.'

Of course, he didn't say exactly that, but Jonas thought he might as well have.