Reynolds insisted on driving him home. He talked all the way. About that night.
He told Jonas how fortunate he’d been that Mrs Paddon knew the basics, and that the air ambulance already on its way for Marvel had been diverted to save his life.
‘You came this close,’ Reynolds told him. ‘You were unbelievably lucky.’
Lucky. Yes. Jonas nodded.
Marvel was dead. Joy Springer was dead. The farm was destroyed. The blood in Jonas’s bathroom was Joy Springer’s. Herringbone footprints found outside the back door had been lost in the snow beyond the shelter of the eaves. They had the knife, but no prints on it except Lucy’s.
‘She must have fought, Jonas,’ he said, in that sick pseudo-sympathetic way that was really just prurience. ‘She must have grabbed the knife at one stage. She was very brave.’
Yes, Jonas nodded. Very brave.
The snow had melted on Exmoor and the day was bright with spring.
They reached Rose Cottage and Reynolds followed Jonas in, even though he was desperate to be alone.
Mrs Paddon was just inside the door and hugged him right on the spot where Lucy had died.
‘You’re a bag of bones,’ she said. ‘There’s a pie in the oven. Vegetarian.’
He nodded and thanked her and wished she hadn’t bothered. Not with the pie and not with saving his life.
They both hovered but he had no more to say to them, and Mrs Paddon had the decency to leave. Reynolds kept talking mindlessly from the hallway as Jonas walked slowly upstairs, one arm protectively across his abdomen where the stitches were itchy and tender.
There was a new stair carpet.
No blood anywhere.
In the back bedroom the ladder was up and the trapdoor shut. He wondered who had cleaned the house and whether they had done the attic.
This is the job you were meant to do, Jonas.
He closed his eyes and swayed.
Marvel was to receive a posthumous Queen’s Commendation for bravery.
‘He was drunk, of course,’ added Reynolds from the hallway. ‘But they’re hushing that up.’
Here was the bed where he would sleep alone for ever.
Here was the bathroom, all nice and shiny.
Here was the laundry basket. Empty.
Here was the mirror.
Jonas stopped his slow inspection and stared at himself.
Lucy had said there was somebody inside him who wanted her dead.
He couldn’t see it in his eyes. He turned his head towards the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the intruder while he wasn’t looking directly at himself.
Nothing.
He went downstairs.
‘Thanks,’ he told Reynolds.
‘Will you be OK?’
Never, thought Jonas, and said that he would.
Jonas remembered how to say goodbye and held out his hand. Reynolds shook it, looking suddenly tearful. He leaned forward and pulled Jonas into a clumsy embrace, slapping his back awkwardly.
‘We’ll get him, Jonas,’ he said vehemently. ‘Don’t you worry. We’ll get him.’
No, thought Jonas. You won’t.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Gill Bauer and Simon Cryer for being my first and best readers.
Also to Sarah Adams, Marysue Rucci and Stephanie Glencross for their invaluable editorial input, and my agent, Jane Gregory, for her support and boundless enthusiasm.
If you would like to know more about the strange world explored by Darkside, please visit my website,
www.belindabauer.co.uk
Belinda Bauer grew up in England and South Africa. She has worked as a journalist and screenwriter and her script The Locker Room earned her the Carl Foreman/Bafta Award for Young British Screenwriters. Darkside follows Belinda’s critically acclaimed debut, Blacklands, winner of the CWA Gold Dagger for Crime Novel of the Year. She lives in Wales and is currently working on her third novel.
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