He put one foot in front of the other, watching the snow give way under him, hearing the soft, squeaky crunch, and the sound of his own breathing as he climbed the narrow track away from the houses towards the top of Withypool Hill.

Everything disappeared in the mist behind him. The car, the knee-high blackthorn halfway up the hill, the village itself. He could not even make out the matching lump of the high common across the way, it was all so white-on-white.

At the summit, the silence was a cotton-wool-covered heartbeat. Jonas felt nothing as he listened to it fill the void.

He called Peter Priddy on a fractured line.

'Did you do it?' he asked softly.

'... alling?'

'Did you kill them, Pete? Just tell me, please.'

Priddy was the only one who made any real sense now - and Jonas had vouched for him; diverted Marvel from from him. Priddy had asked him for a favour and he had granted it out of a misplaced sense of loyalty. him. Priddy had asked him for a favour and he had granted it out of a misplaced sense of loyalty.

Call yourself a policeman?

'I understand if it was. I really do, Pete. But I have to know. Because it's my job. That's all.' Jonas was in a dream, so there was no harm asking.

'Sorr ... c ... hear ... ou ...' lied Priddy through the static.

Jonas calmly threw his phone off Withypool Hill. It spun lazily through the air like a disobedient boomerang, and landed out of sight and without a sound somewhere in the mist that was rising around him like a sea of bleach. Jonas watched the dead black heather dissolve into white in front of his eyes. No wonder he couldn't see the common.

He turned to go.

And was lost.

Just like that.

He had been here a hundred times, but he had no idea how to get back to the car. The blackthorn and the common were the only landmarks, and both were hidden by a conjurer's cloth of white damp.

He stood and watched the mist swirl around his legs. His own feet were dimmed by it. Soon it would cover him like a tide and he would be gone.

The thought was calming.

He would be gone. He wouldn't have to do his job any more - this job he was failing at so spectacularly.

Jonas closed his eyes.

Now that the adrenaline of the walk up here had worn off, he was bitterly cold. He had left his gloves in the car, along with the scratchy blanket.

No matter.

Jonas sat down.

It was cold and wet but the relief numbed him. The relief of calm acceptance.

He crossed his legs like a schoolboy and put his hands on his knees.

This was the end and it wasn't so bad.

It was the easiest thing he'd ever done.

He wondered whether he would fall over, or remain sitting for hikers to find here like an icy Buddha.

Jonas smiled.

The mist stroked his cheek like a dead lover.

His phone rang.

Somewhere in the white nothingness, it rang its sensible old-fashioned telephone ring - like the phone they'd had when he was a child.

It rang and rang. Maybe it was Lucy. Maybe she needed him. Jonas got up to follow the sound.

He found his phone just as it stopped ringing. He picked it out of a depression in the snow, which his brain only slowly registered as his own footprint.

He followed his prints back to the car, then called Lucy, but there was no answer.

Jonas drove back towards Shipcott and the dream faded to white behind him.

As it did, he forgot all about the ice Buddha and all about Peter Priddy.

Marvel was late again. The cars were gone again. Deja vu again.

He walked from Joy's kitchen across the yard to his stable. His cottage. His cottage that used to be a stable.

He took a p.i.s.s and did his teeth but didn't bother changing his clothes.

They had left him the Honda this time, which was the best of the cars they'd brought with them.

Marvel was still bleary-eyed as he swung the car out of the farm driveway and on to the snowy road. Once again the slush had frozen overnight and the Honda immediately slid sideways a little. He corrected it easily and stayed in second down the hill.

Halfway down he saw someone stepping into the road ahead. Awkwardly. Someone was coming down the stone steps from the cottages into the lane. He started to brake and the car slowed gently.

He could see now that it was a woman on crutches. Not the old-fashioned under-the-armers, but those steel ones with a grip that went around the forearm. The woman was young, but her legs were crippled - he could see that much. And she didn't appear to be wearing a coat, just a thick jumper over a floral skirt. And wellington boots. Everyone had those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds but him!

Marvel expected the woman to turn and walk down the hill, close to the hedge. He thought he'd stop and give her a lift. It was against the rules, but f.u.c.k the rules. A woman on crutches in snow. You'd have to be a freak not to stop for her.

But instead of turning, the woman hobbled slowly into the middle of the narrow lane, then turned so that she was facing him, and just stood there!

Marvel braked more firmly.

Too firmly.

Wheels locked and the Honda slid sideways. He applied opposite lock and he thought he'd caught it, then the car gripped briefly and fishtailed away from him again. It slewed once more and - all in slow motion - started to slide down the lane broadside on. Marvel turned the wheel and braked, to no avail.

He looked out of his side window at the woman standing in the road, leaning on her crutches, watching his unusual approach. Part of him was embarra.s.sed, but an increasingly larger part of him was starting to realize that she didn't understand that he had no control of the car.

She just stood stood there! As if she was somehow expecting him to go around her! there! As if she was somehow expecting him to go around her!

Thirty yards from the woman, the Honda brushed the hedge and wavered, then kept on going at an only slightly different angle.

And still she stood there.

Marvel yelled, 'Out of the way!' through the closed window, then jammed the heel of his hand on to the horn.

She didn't move. The lane was narrow; the car was wide; there was no way he wasn't going to hit her unless she moved. For a surreal moment, Marvel looked into her eyes and realized how beautiful she was. And how calm.

Marvel's entire future flashed before him: the ghastly b.u.mp of the car going over the woman, the horror of the eviscerated corpse, the flashing blue lights - and the red one on the breathalyser, the humiliation of the cell in his own nick, the smug look on Reynolds's forever unpunched face, the collar of his good shirt tight around his neck as the jury foreman stood to condemn him, the slow-drip terror of a cop in prison, the halfway house, the bedsit, the menial office job he'd be lucky to get, the gel-haired teenaged boss who said things like 'Whatever' and 'Facebook' ...

The nightmare that his life would become in a single split second.

Then the rear end hit the opposite bank, the Honda bounced off at a new angle, and - miraculously - slid past the woman in the narrowest of gaps between her and the hedge. The wing mirror actually clipped one of her sticks, and he had time to see her lurch, but not fall, as he pa.s.sed her.

Another teeth-jarring b.u.mp sent the car into a shallow ditch, where it came to a halt sudden enough to throw his forehead against the steering wheel.

Marvel was dazed for a moment and stared stupidly at the unexpected close-up of the slightly retro Honda logo in the centre of the wheel. He thought of Debbie and her lava lamps and that f.u.c.king couch. Of putting his shoes on it even though it drove her nuts. Sometimes because because it drove her nuts. What kind of p.r.i.c.k was he? it drove her nuts. What kind of p.r.i.c.k was he?

Seriously.

What kind of p.r.i.c.k?

He jerked in shock at a loud bang on the window beside his right ear, and squinted up at the woman he'd just narrowly avoided squashing to a pulp. He wanted to throw his arms around her and kiss her for not being dead; to cry with grat.i.tude and become a monk and dedicate his life to others as penance for every wrong he'd ever done to anyone.

But she she didn't look grateful. She looked so angry that he was almost afraid to roll down the window, which was plainly stupid, so he did. didn't look grateful. She looked so angry that he was almost afraid to roll down the window, which was plainly stupid, so he did.

'Are you Marvel?' she said grittily. And when he nodded she said, 'I want to talk to you.'

'Why are you picking on Jonas?'

What a silly thing to say to a grown-up! Marvel would have laughed, except for the fact that the woman he realized must be Jonas Holly's wife had lost none of her anger between the lane and the cosy little room where they stood now.

He had followed her in, impressed by her dexterity and strength despite the crutches. Up the three stone steps, through the wooden gate, across the uneven slate path and through the front door. She did it all with such determined energy that he dared not even offer his a.s.sistance.

She leaned her sticks against the fireplace, where a new fire was made but not lit, and lowered herself on to the couch, from where she eyed him coldly, still apparently expecting an answer.

'I'm not,' he said, trying - but failing - not to feel like a naughty schoolboy.

She said nothing, just sat there and looked up at him. Somehow the fact that she was sitting now, while he was still standing, put him at a disadvantage. His feeling of bonhomie at not having flattened her while in the throes of a morning-after hangover had dissipated surprisingly fast, and wanting to be a better person seemed as silly now as a childhood dream to ride dolphins for a living.

He had options now.

He could walk out. He could just turn around and walk away. He used to walk out on Debbie all the time. Whenever she wanted to talk or fight he would leave the room. Sometimes she would come after him, whining or yelling. Once she had thrown a cushion at him. A retro retro cushion. But what could Jonas Holly's much prettier wife do? Down him with a crutch? cushion. But what could Jonas Holly's much prettier wife do? Down him with a crutch?

But he didn't walk out. 'I'm trying to catch a killer. That's my priority. Not keeping the locals happy.'

'I think there's a difference between keeping somebody happy and implying that they are complicit in murder, don't you?'

So Jonas had told her everything. Complained Complained to her, more like. to her, more like.

Well, f.u.c.k them both.

He almost said that to her - f.u.c.k you both! - f.u.c.k you both! - then he remembered the crutches. And the way she'd come out into the road, no doubt to flag him down, to stop him - if he hadn't already been on a collision course with a hedge and a ditch and a steering wheel. Marvel touched his forehead and felt a little b.u.mp there, but no blood. then he remembered the crutches. And the way she'd come out into the road, no doubt to flag him down, to stop him - if he hadn't already been on a collision course with a hedge and a ditch and a steering wheel. Marvel touched his forehead and felt a little b.u.mp there, but no blood.

So he didn't want to blow her off; because of the crutches. It wasn't politically correct. Two years back he'd fumed silently through a compulsory course on political correctness, but something must have stuck, because instead of walking out, Marvel pointed to the easy chair that didn't match the couch.

'Can I sit down?'

She hesitated, then nodded briefly.

He sat. By the time he had completed the manoeuvre, he had decided to lay it on the line for her. If her husband had been shielding a killer she was going to find out sooner or later. Her crutches couldn't protect her from that. And maybe Jonas had told Lucy things he hadn't told him him. If he appeared to be open with her, then maybe she'd be open back and he could glean new information to fatten up his case. G.o.d knows, it needed it.

'What's your name?' he started - then watched her struggle briefly not to tell him. He knew she thought it took away some of her strength, and she was right. That was why he'd asked.

'Lucy,' she finally said, because giving a civil answer to a civil question was in her nature.

So Marvel told Lucy all the reasons why he liked Jonas Holly. Contamination of scenes, disappearance of vomit, concealment of crucial evidence.

Lucy stared at him unforgivingly as he spoke - Marvel reckoned she probably wore the pants in the Holly household.

'You're not telling me anything I don't know,' she interrupted, although he could see by her face that that was a lie. 'I'm hearing a lot of coincidence and circ.u.mstantial evidence and no proof at all. You don't even have proof that Danny Danny was involved, let alone Jonas!' was involved, let alone Jonas!'

Marvel wasn't used to anyone telling him that he was taking a flyer. When he was Senior Investigating Officer on a case he was used to people doing as he told them without questioning his choices. Reynolds tried sometimes, but Reynolds wasn't really a policeman; he had no feel for no feel for the job. the job.

'Danny Marsh left a written confession,' he said. 'You don't get more involved involved than that.' than that.'

'Bulls.h.i.t!' she said with spirit. 'Jonas told me what it said. I did it. I'm not sorry? I did it. I'm not sorry? That's not a confession to murder. He could have run over a neighbour's cat for all you know!' That's not a confession to murder. He could have run over a neighbour's cat for all you know!'

Although she was giving him a hard time, Marvel couldn't help liking Lucy Holly. Her staunch defence and willingness to engage in battle appealed to him. Sitting on the couch with her eyes sparking - and without her crooked legs on such obvious display - Lucy Holly was quite captivating.

'Jonas says you don't even have any fingerprints!'

Marvel shrugged. 'People are wise to prints nowadays. They all wear surgical gloves. The only ones who don't are drunks and fools. We found a box of surgical gloves in the Marshes' garage.'

'And I'm sure you'd also find several boxes at Mark Dennis's surgery. And the vet's in Dulverton,' she came back at him. 'Either way, you don't have prints,' she continued briskly. 'What about the b.u.t.ton?'

d.a.m.n. She knew about the b.u.t.ton. The weak link in his weak chain of evidence against Jonas Holly.

'What b.u.t.ton?' he said.

'Don't play dumb with me,' Lucy told him with a hard stare that made Marvel feel like a toddler who's just hit a playmate with a toy train.

'It's one of 500,000 produced every year.'

'For the uniform trade, Jonas said. Doesn't that mean people like security guards and bouncers might be suspects? Not people like Danny who wear overalls for a living.'