'Yeah,' said Liss. 'Total junk.'

'I agree,' said Marvel, although he hadn't seen it. It was just to p.i.s.s Reynolds off. 'Give me Will Smith any day.'

'Exactly,' said Liss, turning a sheet over a blanket and tucking it in ruthlessly. 'I, Robot.'

'How about Dune Dune?'

'Yeah. You a fan?'

'No. You left a book at Margaret Priddy's.'

Liss looked blank for a second, then smiled. 'That's 'That's where it is!' where it is!'

'How did you get into this line of work?' Marvel asked Liss as they moved to the next room. The man was starting to interest him.

Liss shrugged. 'I cared for my father while he died. Lost my job because of it, so when I started looking again, it was just something I knew I could do.'

'What did you do before that?'

'Nothing special. Factory work. Glad to lose it, the way things worked out.'

'What did your father die of?' asked Reynolds.

'Lung cancer,' said Liss without emotion. 'And I didn't help him along, if that's what you're thinking.' He winked at Reynolds, who at least had the decency to look embarra.s.sed.

'So how did you get on with Mrs Priddy?' Marvel asked.

Liss looked a little confused by the sudden switch, but that was good - to catch them off balance ...

'Wasn't much to get along with with.' He shrugged. 'She couldn't say anything or even let you know how she was feeling.' He stopped bustling and stood still for the first time since they'd started talking to him. 'It was f.u.c.king awful, 'scuse my French. I mean, the people in here, they're old and lots are sick, but at least they can let you know what they want, but her her ...' He picked a bundle of used sheets off the floor. 'It was like she was already dead. If she hadn't died I'd have left soon. Depressing.' ...' He picked a bundle of used sheets off the floor. 'It was like she was already dead. If she hadn't died I'd have left soon. Depressing.'

They followed him to the next bedroom.

'You think maybe it was a mercy killing then?' said Marvel carefully, but Liss was not fazed by the question.

'Could be,' he said and flapped open a new sheet.

'You could understand something like that?' Marvel asked.

Liss didn't hesitate. 'If she was my mother I'd have done it myself.'

Reynolds and Marvel didn't speak for a long time as they drove back to the farm.

Reynolds broke the silence.

'You think that was a confession? A kind of double bluff?'

'I don't know,' said Marvel. It was not something he often admitted to, but on this occasion he felt it was OK to be a bit confused.

'He had a door key, he hated the job, he obviously has no compunction about euthanasia ...'

'But to say it right out loud like that - to us us!'

'I know,' said Reynolds. 'He'd have to be a psychopath.'

Marvel shrugged. 'Yes, he would.'

Less than an hour after Reynolds and Marvel got back to Springer Farm, Grey and Singh returned from interviewing Skew Ronnie Trewell and everyone crammed into Marvel's room to hear how they'd got on.

'It's not him,' said Grey.

'Yeah, boss, I don't think he's our man,' said Singh more tactfully.

Marvel was unwilling to let the only tentative lead they'd got from their sweep of the village go so easily.

'He got an alibi?'

The two detectives exchanged looks.

'Well, he says he was asleep,' said Grey.

'At home all night,' added Singh.

'Compelling,' said Marvel sarcastically.

'He just doesn't seem the type, sir,' said Grey. Then, when he saw Marvel's face tighten angrily, he added, 'I didn't get a vibe off him. Nor did Armand,' he said, turning to Singh, 'did you?'

'No,' said Singh. 'I didn't get any vibe at all. The guy's a car thief through and through. Obsessed. Couldn't stop talking about them even while we were asking him about a murder!'

'Yeah,' added Grey. 'His only interest in Mrs Priddy seemed to be that she used to own some sporty BMW.'

'A three-litre CSi,' remembered Singh.

'Good car,' said Grey approvingly and Pollard nodded in agreement.

Marvel glared at them all. He thought about Margaret Priddy dropping down through the cracks of society from horsewoman and BMW-owner to being bedridden while her savings ran out of her bank account like water from a punctured paddling pool. He thought about Peter Priddy and how he must have felt about that. He thought about Skew Ronnie Trewell and wondered if he should leave it at that or go and intimidate the little thief himself. It irked him that Jonas Holly had dismissed the man as a suspect; part of him wanted wanted Ronnie Trewell to be the killer, for that reason alone. But Grey and Singh were good men. He trusted their judgement. Usually. While these thoughts whizzed through his mind, his eyes never left the two DCs, who became more and more uncomfortable. Ronnie Trewell to be the killer, for that reason alone. But Grey and Singh were good men. He trusted their judgement. Usually. While these thoughts whizzed through his mind, his eyes never left the two DCs, who became more and more uncomfortable.

Unaware of Marvel's train of thought, Singh decided to add another helpful observation. 'He just didn't seem ... quite right right, sir.'

'No,' said Grey, nodding in enthusiastic agreement. 'Not quite right.'

Hearing Jonas Holly's words echoed by Grey was what did it for Marvel. He made an all-purpose sound of disparagement, picked up the keys to the Ford Focus, and stomped out of the room to judge Ronnie Trewell for himself.

The boy was standing on the front step, squinting into the dim sun as it fell behind the moor. Ronnie Trewell was skinny and so gaunt he looked like an extra from a prison-camp movie. He had a shock of home-cut black hair, and a brow permanently creased by the confusion that was his life.

He saw Marvel pull up, threw down the roll-up he'd been smoking and backed towards the door.

'I want to talk with you!' Marvel yelled at him through the pa.s.senger window, and the boy stopped and waited.

Marvel liked a meek thief. He got out and went up the weed-strewn front path.

'DCI Marvel,' he said. 'You Ronnie Trewell?'

'Yeah,' he said. 'I haven't done a thing. I spoke to your lot already. I haven't done a thing. Is that a Zetec?'

Marvel was caught a little off-balance by the sudden change in direction. He glanced towards the Focus. 'I haven't come here to talk about cars, mate. Come about a murder.'

'Yeah I know,' shrugged Ronnie. 'But I told the others about that already. Can I have a drive?'

As he spoke, he stepped off the porch and headed for the car. Marvel found himself in undignified pursuit.

'No. Tell me where you were Sat.u.r.day night.'

'Here. Asleep. I said already. Just a quick one. You can come too. I'm not gonna nick a police car, am I? Not with you in in it, anyway.' it, anyway.'

'Shut up about the f.u.c.king car, all right?' Marvel was already starting to feel that he was wasting his time here. 'You got any witnesses?'

'Nope. Not an ST though, is it?' said Ronnie with a little sneer in his voice as he peered through the window. Marvel didn't give a s.h.i.t what the Focus was or wasn't, but that little sneer made him feel suddenly protective towards the pool car.

'Goes well though,' he said, feeling foolishly like he was seventeen again with his first learner motorbike - a 125cc Honda Benley with a hand-painted tank - trying to talk it up to the older, richer boys with their RD250s ...

'Yeah?' said Ronnie. 'Believe it when I see it.'

It nearly worked. For a second Marvel was all ready to jump behind the wheel and do a donut in the mud at the end of the lane beside the dirty little bungalow. Floor the accelerator and spray the kid with gravel. Maybe even let him feel the kick for himself ...

'Nice try, Ronnie,' he said, not without a little respect.

Marvel opened the door of the Ford and thought he'd better go out on an authoritarian note. 'Don't go anywhere, all right?'

'Where am I going to go?' said Ronnie Trewell, with a shrug at the darkening moor around them. He seemed genuinely at a loss.

Marvel ignored the question and drove away.

Ronnie Trewell wasn't the killer. He wasn't ... quite right quite right.

Seventeen Days

The mobile incident room arrived and it was s.h.i.t.

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 wanted the stained coffee pot, he the stained coffee pot, he liked liked the muddy lino, and the sour reek of the grubby little fridge was napalm in the morning to him. 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 f.u.c.king 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 me but not at the b.l.o.o.d.y killer. but not at the b.l.o.o.d.y 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 f.u.c.king Retriever all over the scene.'

'Nothing from Reynolds.'

'You said there were seven.'

'One unidentified,' said Reeves.