It made things easier. He grew more confident.
He told them what he thought they needed to know. Not everything. He told them about the home schooling, his father leaving, his sisters. The way they’d all slowly disappeared.
He left out Smooth Louis Bridge. The newspapers. The vandalism.
Strangely, the memory of photos torn and toys smashed and posters ripped off walls made him feel worse than the theft of thousands of pounds’ worth of jewels and phones. He didn’t want to hear those memories out loud.
But he told them about the burglary.
As he talked, he watched their faces. Marvel was intent, Reynolds sceptical, Rice sympathetic.
When he described finding the murder weapon in Adam While’s hiking boot, Marvel shifted in his seat as if he couldn’t wait to bound out of it.
He interrupted Jack. ‘Where’s the knife now?’
Jack hesitated. ‘I left it there.’
‘In the house? Why?’
‘Because … if I took the knife out of the house, how could I prove it was ever there? And even if you had believed me, I’d have been in the shit for B&E.’
‘True,’ said Marvel. ‘But you’re in the shit now.’
‘I had no choice,’ Jack shrugged ruefully. ‘I left the knife next to Mrs While’s bed. And a note threatening to kill her. I wasn’t going to, you know? I just thought she’d call the police, but she never did.’
The three officers swapped surprised glances.
‘And it made me think, maybe they’re both in on it! And then I started to think, maybe they’ll get rid of the knife and then I’ll never find it and then he’ll get away with killing my mum!’
He stopped for a moment, his heart marking the urgency.
He calmed down.
Carried on.
‘And so I went back to try to get it, but he’d already found it and his wife didn’t have it and then he showed up even though he should have been at work, and he hit me and chased me …’ Unconsciously, he touched his ear. ‘And after that he tried to burn down my house, so—’
‘He tried to burn down your house?’ said Marvel.
‘Two nights ago. He put a petrol bomb through the front door.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘No,’ said Jack. ‘We put it out.’
‘You have any proof it was Adam While?’
‘No,’ said Jack, ‘I can’t prove anything. That’s why you have to get involved.’
He looked at Marvel intently, but the man only shrugged and folded his arms.
‘Maybe I don’t want to get involved. Maybe I don’t have time to get involved with one old murder case while we’ve got a hundred new burglaries to clear off the books.’
He raised a meaningful eyebrow at Jack, who only pursed his lips. Marvel might outweigh him by a fat margin, but he wasn’t about to be provoked into giving up his leverage.
Marvel gave a short laugh.
‘All right then,’ he said. ‘But at least tell me why you left the capture house so quickly the first time you broke in.’
‘Capture house,’ said Jack, tasting the words in his mouth. ‘Is that what it is?’ Then he nodded his cautious approval. ‘It’s not bad.’
Marvel shrugged. ‘Then why weren’t you captured?’
Reynolds interrupted: ‘Sir, shouldn’t we be cautious about leading questions in the Goldilocks case? Particularly with a juvenile …?’
‘Fuck Goldilocks,’ said Marvel, and Jack smiled.
‘The photo on the mantelpiece wasn’t real,’ he said. ‘It was just the picture they sell with the frame. Those two kids with a beach ball, you know?’
Marvel glanced at Reynolds, who reddened furiously.
‘Well,’ said Marvel, ‘I know now …’ He leaned forward. ‘So, what makes you think the knife you found in Adam While’s boot is the murder weapon?’
Jack stuck out his chin defensively. ‘I just know.’
‘That’s not helpful, is it?’
‘I knew the minute I saw it. It was like I felt it too! It’s got a white handle, made of some kind of shell, I think, all blue and white like clouds, and the blade is curved on one side and the other is sort of jagged.’
‘Serrated?’
‘Yes, serrated.’
Marvel shrugged. ‘It sounds like a lot of knives.’
‘It’s not like a lot of knives,’ Jack said angrily. ‘It’s the knife that killed my mother!’
There was a moment of silence.
‘Say that’s true,’ said Marvel, pinching his nose. ‘Why would Adam While keep it if it ties him to a murder? The murder weapon’s the first thing a killer gets rid of. Keeping it doesn’t make any sense.’
Jack knew it didn’t make any sense. He battled to keep a lid on his frustration. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but he hid it. Like it was important. Like it was secret. And he lied to his wife about it. Said he’d lost it, but he knew it was missing from his boot, and he went looking for it! I feel like—’
‘Feelings aren’t facts,’ Reynolds interrupted.
‘But sometimes they feel like facts!’ Jack shot back.
Marvel snorted and nearly laughed, and Jack wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans.
‘I want to make a deal.’
Marvel looked at him sharply. ‘What kind of deal?
‘If I’m wrong about the knife, then I’ll plead guilty to the Goldilocks stuff.’
‘And if you’re right?’ said Marvel.
‘You arrest Adam While,’ said Jack. ‘Instead of me.’
Marvel was interested, Jack could see.
‘Instead of?’ said Reynolds, and turned to Marvel. ‘But then what about the Goldilocks case?’
Marvel spoke carefully. ‘I think I need to speak to the senior investigating officer in the Eileen Bright case.’
‘Sir?’ said Reynolds warily, but Marvel just got to his feet.
‘You wait here, all right?’ he told Jack. Then to Rice: ‘Get him some breakfast.’
‘What about the deal?’ said Jack.
‘We’ll talk about that when I get back.’
‘Sir?’ said Reynolds again, but Marvel ignored him again.
‘You promise?’ said Jack.
Marvel snorted again. ‘This isn’t nursery school.’
‘You promise?’
‘I promise,’ said Marvel. ‘Happy now?’
DCI John Marvel left the little room with a scowl on his face, but with a light step and a belly that buzzed with anticipation. It wouldn’t have mattered to him what deal Jack Bright had demanded, he would have said yes.
The boy had had him at murder.
‘CALL ME RALPH,’ said DCI Stourbridge, and shook Marvel’s hand with expansive good cheer.
Marvel scowled. He disliked familiarity, and first names in particular. They made him uncomfortable and he didn’t use them. He also disliked facial hair, and Stourbridge had a ridiculously bushy joke-shop moustache.
So they were off on the wrong foot, but that was the only foot Marvel knew how to put forward.
‘Marvel,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’m looking at the Eileen Bright case.’
Immediately Stourbridge’s big, open face clouded over and his moustache drooped. ‘Ahh,’ he sighed. ‘Very sad case.’
‘Any unsolved murder case is very sad,’ said Marvel, and the moustache looked surprised – then a little offended.
‘Strictly speaking,’ Stourbridge said stiffly, ‘the case was only half ours. Devon and Cornwall had the missing person, and we found the body. It was never established where the murder actually took place.’
Now that Stourbridge looked less cheerful, Marvel felt better about everything.
‘You ever heard the name Adam While?’
‘Adam While?’ Stourbridge looked surprised. ‘Yes. But not for a very long time. He was picked up near the scene a week or so after the body was found.’
It was Marvel’s turn to look surprised.
‘How near the scene?’
/>
‘In the same lay-by. Said he’d stopped for a pee, but we brought him in for questioning. We didn’t have any reason to keep him or charge him, so we let him go. He was only in custody for a few hours.’
Marvel grunted. It was a coincidence, but he was not a man who scoffed at coincidence. He’d never worked a case where coincidence hadn’t played a part, either in the commission of the crime or the solving of it.
‘Was While’s name ever released to the public?’
‘God, no,’ said Stourbridge. ‘Feelings were running very high on this one. No reason to start a witch hunt! We pulled him in, eliminated him and let him go.’
‘Was he ever mentioned to Eileen Bright’s family?’
Stourbridge shook his head. ‘It’s a long time ago, but I don’t think so. There just wasn’t any reason.’
Stourbridge shifted in his seat and frowned. ‘What’s your interest, John?’
Marvel shot him a warning look about first names, but the man misinterpreted it and softened his tone sympathetically.
‘You seem troubled—’
‘I’m not troubled,’ said Marvel. ‘I’m just doing my job.’
There was an awkward silence, then Stourbridge said, ‘I have the Bright file right here, if you want to see it.’
Without waiting for Marvel to say whether he did or not, Stourbridge opened the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk and pulled out a well-stuffed grey folder. ‘I keep it here,’ he said. ‘So that … you know …’
He didn’t finish the sentence, but Marvel did know. The bottom right-hand drawer of his own desk at Lewisham nick was where he’d kept those very few case files that remained open and unsolved. Every week – sometimes more often than that – he would remove one and pore over it obsessively during his lunch hour, or when everybody else was heading home. Picking at the scabs of his own failure.
The photo taped to the wall inside his front door – of the little girl on the BMX bike – had been taken from a folder just like the one Ralph Stourbridge was holding out to him now. Her name was Edie Evans and Marvel still thought about her every day.
‘Thanks,’ he said, and took the file from Stourbridge. He didn’t ask whether he could take it away – he wouldn’t have allowed anyone to take his files away with them.
‘Can I get you a cuppa?’ said Stourbridge, pointing at the door.
‘Thanks,’ said Marvel. ‘Two sugars, whatever it is.’
Marvel sat down in Stourbridge’s chair and started to go through the file. It was well organized and he could tell immediately that Stourbridge had done a thorough job. There were even photos of Arthur Bright and each of his children. Bright looked cheerful and ignorant of impending disaster. Marvel barely recognized the smiling schoolboy that was Jack. His hair properly cut; his brow unfurrowed.
He easily found the record of the brief detention of Adam While. There was a photo of him, looking tired and a little cross, with his hair sticking up on one side of his forehead, as if he’d been clutching at it in frustration. He was clean-shaven, and wore wire-rimmed glasses and a shirt and tie. He looked like a businessman late for a train.
There was a brief, typed note.
Mr Adam While, a 35-year-old male of Leaburn Road, Tiverton, was detained voluntarily at 11:20 on September 6, 1998 in the lay-by where the body of Mrs Eileen Bright was found on August 29, 1998. Nothing of relevance was found during a search of Mr While’s person and car (see Appendix C). Mr While was questioned on September 6 (see Appendix D) and released at 19:25 the same day without formal arrest, charge or bail. NFA.
NFA.
No Further Action.
And there hadn’t been.
Before Marvel could look at the Appendices, Stourbridge came back in and put a cup of tea beside him.
‘Thanks,’ said Marvel. ‘Was the victim sexually assaulted?’
‘No.’
‘And she died from a single stab wound?’
‘To the stomach,’ said Stourbridge. ‘She bled to death.’
There was another silence, but this time it wasn’t awkward at all. This time Marvel knew they were just two coppers thinking about the same thing: the horror of stabbing a pregnant woman in the stomach.
At least, that’s what he was thinking about.
‘This While been in trouble before or since?’
‘Nothing. Not even as a kid. Nice house, good job, married man. We had no hook to hang him on. And believe me, if we could have, we would have.’
Marvel grimaced. It sounded like While was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there was that coincidence. Jack Bright and Adam While. Connected across the years.
Somehow …
So John Marvel did something he rarely did.
He shared.
‘Eileen Bright’s son says he broke into Adam While’s house and found the murder weapon there.’
Stourbridge’s moustache fairly bristled.
‘Her son? He can’t be more than …’
‘Fourteen,’ supplied Marvel.
‘Fourteen?’ said Stourbridge. ‘Time flies.’
‘Says he found the knife in the toe of a boot in While’s wardrobe.’
‘Impossible,’ said Stourbridge.
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s downstairs in the evidence room.’
Marvel felt sucker-punched. He’d almost believed the boy. Almost bought the story. Now he felt stupid and cheated.
‘Shit,’ he said, and glared at Stourbridge as if it were all his fault.
‘We found it within hours of finding the body,’ said Stourbridge apologetically. ‘It’ll be in the file.’ He held out his hand. ‘May I?’
Marvel handed the file over, and Stourbridge found the information quickly. ‘Seventeen forty-five on the twenty-ninth. It was only twenty yards away from the body.’
‘And While was picked up on September sixth.’
‘That’s right.’
‘How did you know he was there?’
‘We had cameras and surveillance on the lay-by for the duration of the search and for a month after we reopened it.’
‘Nothing before that?’
‘If we’d had cameras on it before that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,’ said Stourbridge flatly. ‘Afterwards, a few cars stopped, a couple of people got out and threw away litter or walked the dog. Lorry drivers slept there overnight. A few of them peed. While was the only one who went over the barrier and stayed there for any length of time.’
‘What’s the terrain like?’
‘Long grass, scrubby trees. It slopes down away from the road. Those motorway lay-bys are longer than you think. All in all, we’re talking an area about the size of a football pitch.’
‘You were lucky with the knife!’
‘It was our only break, to be honest. The killer could have thrown it anywhere between here and John o’Groats.’
Marvel pursed his lips, then asked, ‘Who found the body?’
‘A lorry driver named Royston Ash. Another one who stopped for a pee.’
‘Was he eliminated as a suspect?’
Stourbridge nodded. ‘He said he only went down to check it out because he’d picked up loads of stuff in lay-bys over the years. I remember he even came clean about a couple of bags of cannabis leaf he’d found up near Cambridge. Admitted he’d filled a shopping bag and sold it to his mates. Anyway, he only went a few yards before the smell tipped him off. He was traumatized by finding the body, and wanted to help. He seemed straight to me.’
Marvel nodded. He liked a good hunch himself, and was open to the instincts of others.
‘How long had she been there?’
‘A while.’
‘So she was probably killed shortly after being taken?’
‘We assume. There was no sign that she was kept anywhere else.’
‘So an impulsive act,’ said Marvel.
Stourbridge nodded. ‘Poor woman was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘Did you show the knife to While?’
‘Yes. No response. I don’t think he’d ever seen it before. But you know how it is – we were clutching at straws.’
Stourbridge sighed, and Marvel felt his pain. He could see that the murder of Eileen Bright had been a tough case. Two police forces, two crime scenes more than a week apart, no witnesses. No wonder they’d picked up While and given him a hard time.
No wonder they’d had no reason to hold him.
Chumming the river.
‘When did you reopen the lay-by?’
Stourbridge consulted the file briefly. ‘The evening of the fifth.’
Marvel tingled. Not a big tingle, just a little one, but a tingle nonetheless. ‘So While was detained in the lay-by on the first possible day he could legally be there?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Had you released the description of the knife to the press by then?’
‘No. We held it back.’
‘So the killer wouldn’t have known it had been found.’
‘That’s right. In fact, we’ve never released it to the public. It’s all we’ve got to tie the killer to the crime.’
‘Then how the hell would Jack Bright know what it looks like?’
Stourbridge shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’
Marvel frowned. ‘Can I see the knife?’
The evidence room at Taunton was a bright and airy place – completely unlike the dingy cavern in the basement at the old Lewisham station.
DCI Stourbridge chatted as he led Marvel through the neatly marked shelves.
‘You say the boy broke into While’s house?’
‘Yeah,’ said Marvel. ‘Seems he’s been supporting the family through burglary for over a year.’
‘Jesus,’ frowned Stourbridge, ‘I remember him. Poor kid. What happened to the father?’
‘He left.’
Stourbridge sucked air through his teeth. ‘What a shit.’
Marvel made no comment about a father leaving his children, but he liked Stourbridge better now that he’d said ‘shit’.
Stourbridge knew exactly where he was going. Marvel could tell he came here often. They stopped in front of a rack of boxes and Stourbridge opened one without hesitation and handed an evidence bag to Marvel.
For the second time today, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
Snap_‘The best crime novel I’ve read in a very long time’ Val McDermid Page 17