REYNOLDS.
‘See?’ he said.
And, very slowly, DCI Marvel smiled.
‘Mr Bright,’ he said, ‘we’re coming into your home to search the premises under the Theft Act of nineteen sixty-eight due to stolen goods being in plain view in the house, and in the reasonable expectation of finding further stolen goods therein, and/or the perpetrator of the crime of burglary, during the commission of which said goods may have been stolen. Do you understand?’
‘No,’ said Bright, with a confused look. ‘Does anybody?’
Jack sat on the grass and watched Joy dance around the fire. Now and then she threw another stack of papers on the pyre, or poked it with an old rake, laughing at the sparks that exploded into the pale evening sky.
Soft grey petals of ash fell all around them like gentle snow.
Merry came out of the house and put Donald in his run, well away from the flames.
‘Why are the police looking for you?’
‘What?’ he said. ‘Where?’
Merry pointed. ‘They’re at the front door.’
Jack scrambled to his feet. Through the flames he saw dark shapes moving in the house, and his throat pulsed with fear.
Those bar stewards always get you for something …
For a single, heart-tingling moment he stood there, blank with panic.
Then he hugged Merry hard. ‘Don’t say anything,’ he said.
And he vaulted over the fence into Mrs Reynolds’ garden.
JACK RAN TO the door and knocked hard.
Mrs Reynolds didn’t answer.
He knocked again, looking desperately at the fence, and up at his own bedroom window, where the little photo frame still stood empty on the sill. If anybody looked out of that window now, they would see him cringing here by the door, and there was nothing he could do about it.
He knocked again. Come on! he screamed in his head. Come on!
And then Mrs Reynolds was coming. He could see her through the glass. She didn’t look pleased to see him, and for a dreadful moment Jack thought she was going to wave him away and refuse to open the door.
He tried not to look worried. Tried not to look like he was on the run from the police. He calmed his breathing. Straightened up. Mustered a smile.
With a frown, the old lady unlocked the door and opened it.
‘What do you want?’ she said.
‘Hi,’ said Jack. ‘I’ve come to fix your lawnmower.’
Jack Bright wasn’t in the house.
It wasn’t an easy house to search and it had taken them longer than expected. Every room was a maze of newspaper walls and tunnels and dead ends. Just when they thought they’d exhausted the search, they’d realize a pile was a bed they had to look under, or that a wall hid a wardrobe they couldn’t open.
Parrott had seen a mouse and the whole house stunk of mould – and something Marvel didn’t want to put his finger on. No wonder Jack Bright kept the lawn mown and the windows washed to stay under the radar of the authorities – inside, the house wasn’t fit for dogs, let alone children.
In the back bedroom Marvel found an empty photo frame and – on the floor – the crumpled picture of two children and a beach ball.
Despite everything, he’d given a short, bitter laugh.
Now he stood in the twilight with ash falling around him and glared angrily into the crackling fire.
The little shit had given them the slip. He had no doubt that Jack had been here recently. So recently that Arthur Bright’s stalling at the door had probably made all the difference.
The two sisters stood and watched him silently.
‘Where’s your brother?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know,’ said the older girl.
‘I don’t know either,’ said the kid with the tortoise.
Marvel pursed his lips.
‘You want ten pounds?’ he said. ‘Each?’
‘No,’ said the older girl, just as the little one said, ‘Yes please!’ so Marvel looked only at the little one. He bent down with his hands on his knees to get closer to her level.
‘You tell me where your brother is, and I’ll give you ten quid.’
‘Mmmmm …’ The child screwed up her face as if she were thinking.
‘I’ll tell you about vampires for five quid,’ she said, holding up five little fingers in case Marvel couldn’t count. ‘Or worms for three.’
Marvel straightened up. He brushed ashes off his shoulders and headed back indoors, shouting, ‘Search the house again!’
Like many things in life, there wasn’t much wrong with Mrs Reynolds’ lawnmower that couldn’t be fixed by a good clean and some WD40.
Jack sat on an old can of paint and used a chisel he found in a toolbox to scrape many seasons’ worth of stiff, dry grass from inside the skirt of the mower.
He’d shut the shed door. He’d told Mrs Reynolds it was to stop the ashes floating in. At first when he did, he’d just stood there, with his ear pressed against the wood, trying to hear what was going on next door.
But he couldn’t hear anything much with the door shut, so he turned on the light and tipped the mower on to its good side to avoid the oil fouling the air filter, and got to work.
Once he’d cleared the underside of the skirt, he could see that more long pieces of grass had wrapped themselves around the shaft of the blade, slowing it up and making it stick. He sliced through them and peeled each one carefully away.
He realized he was enjoying himself. More than that, he felt like himself for the first time in ages. Like a boy helping a neighbour. It felt good …
He jumped as Mrs Reynolds opened the door. She didn’t say anything. Just stood and watched him spray the cleared shaft so that the blade would turn easily.
‘How’s your sister?’
‘Which one?’ said Jack.
‘The vampire hunter.’
Jack smiled. ‘She’s into scary clowns now. She does that. Gets a new thing and wants to know all about it. She reads everything. I have to bring her books all the time because she reads them so fast.’
He cleaned the plug and topped up the oil.
‘Been asking my son to do this for weeks,’ she said. ‘He never does.’
Jack stood up, primed the mower and pulled the starter. It roared easily into life, but only for a moment because he cut the engine so the shed didn’t fill with fumes.
‘It’s a good mower,’ said Jack. ‘It should last for years. But you need to keep it clean underneath or the dead grass will clog it up.’
‘Hello!’
Jack froze and looked at the door. Marvel!
Mrs Reynolds went outside, leaving the shed door halfway open, and Jack caught a fleeting glimpse of Marvel peering over the fence. He quickly ducked out of his line of sight. But it was almost dark outside now, and the light was on in the shed. If Marvel came much closer, or the door swung open any further, there would be nowhere to hide …
He could see the detective through the crack in the door, leaning heavily on the fence with one hand, holding up his ID with the other. He must be standing on the cold frame. Jack pursed his lips. He’d better not break it!
‘We’re looking for your neighbour,’ said Marvel. ‘Jack Bright. You know him?’
Jack held his breath.
‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Reynolds, peering at the ID. Then she said, ‘My son’s in the police as well, you know.’
Marvel ignored her. ‘Have you seen Jack tonight?’
‘Why?’ she said suspiciously. ‘What’s he done?’
‘He’s wanted for burglary.’
‘Burglary!’ she said, sounding shocked, and looked at the shed.
Jack flinched and willed her to look away – mentally begged her – but instead the old woman walked straight towards him. Through the crack, Jack watched her getting closer and closer, his teeth gritted so hard that his jaw ached, hope draining from him like bathwater.
Mrs Reynolds reached for the shed door.
&n
bsp; And shut it.
Jack blinked in shock. He heard the key squeak in the lock, then the little scrape of a flowerpot being moved.
‘I think you must be mistaken,’ he heard her say. ‘Nobody steals stuff around here.’
JACK WAITED FOR Mrs Reynolds to come back.
He put the paint can close to the wall of the shed so he could lean back and close his eyes. The petrol fumes had dissipated and he could smell the wood. As he drifted, he thought of the timber yard.
Don’t come here again.
Jack grimaced at the memory, then relaxed again. His head nodded on to his chest. He was so tired. He could sleep for England.
He was almost asleep – almost on that wonderful cusp between two cruel worlds – when there was a metal scrape and Mrs Reynolds opened the door.
Jack scrambled to his feet and they stared at each other.
‘Come with me,’ she finally said.
He followed her across the patio to the back door.
‘Take your shoes off, please.’
He did, and they went through the sparkling kitchen to a lounge so light and flowery that it was like summer indoors.
Mrs Reynolds pointed at the little cream velvet sofa and he sat down carefully with his dirty trainers on his knees. Mrs Reynolds herself wore white leather loafers with immaculate soles.
‘I like to keep the carpet nice,’ she explained, and Jack thought of all the coffee he’d splashed and the red wine he’d thrown and the food he’d trodden into countless carpets during the past year. Carpets that he now imagined had belonged to people like Mrs Reynolds, who had not ratted on him to Marvel, even though her son was a policeman.
He felt shame warm his cheeks. None of it had brought back what he’d lost.
‘Are you a burglar?’ said Mrs Reynolds, surprising Jack with her bluntness.
He took in a breath to lie about it. Then said, ‘I was.’
‘But not any more,’ said Mrs Reynolds, and dusted her hands briskly together, as if her decision was made and so his was just a formality. Then she got up and went to the mantelpiece, which held an eclectic collection of small china figurines. There were posh ladies and shepherds with flutes and harlequins and bullfighters and …
Jack thought of his hammer. Of the powder they’d make.
Mrs Reynolds picked up one of the figurines and handed it to him. ‘This is for your sister,’ she said.
It was a clown. Four inches tall and sad-faced, wearing a big yellow flower and baggy checked trousers, and with a bunch of balloons on thick china string.
Jack looked up but Mrs Reynolds was already walking to the front door. He followed her, slipping the clown into his pocket in the hallway so he could put his shoes back on.
‘I think you should go out the front in case someone’s waiting for you in your house, don’t you?’
He hadn’t thought of that. But she was right. ‘Yes,’ he nodded.
‘How many newspapers will your father be burning?’
Jack widened his eyes at Mrs Reynolds’ and said, ‘A lot.’
She pursed her lips and said, ‘Hmff.’
Then she opened the door, peered outside to make sure the coast was clear, and showed Jack out on to the street.
He turned to say thank you – but Mrs Reynolds had already shut the door in his face.
‘WHY DIDN’T YOU tell me you’d been married before?’
Adam had brought home a toy horse on wheels. He’d knocked and Catherine had opened the door to find it there, by itself. Then he’d neighed from round the corner and come out laughing, and kissed her as if he’d been gone for a year, and kissed the baby via the top of her tummy, and then wheeled the horse through to the kitchen, doubled over it like an enormous hunchbacked child, talking nineteen to the dozen.
‘Got it from a Blue Circle rep. Last year’s marketing, apparently. Isn’t it great? He’ll be galloping about on it for years. Or she will. We should get riding lessons, too. But later, of course. But this will be a great way to start, won’t it? And it was free! I couldn’t turn it down, could I?’
Catherine had followed him.
Cold.
Silent.
She’d practised the line so she wouldn’t falter, and took a deep breath so she’d get to the end of it without wobbling.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d been married before?’
‘What?’ He didn’t look at her; he spoke to the horse.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d been married before?’
Slowly Adam straightened up and met her eyes.
If he said To protect you – or if he tried to deny it – she’d kill him.
But he said, ‘I don’t know.’
Then he looked at the garden through the window and shook his head and said, ‘I really don’t know.’
Catherine did falter then – but not for the reason she’d thought she might. Suddenly she was sad, rather than angry, and had to resist the urge to throw her arms around him and tell him she loved him and it didn’t matter.
But she had to go on, because it did matter and she needed to know.
‘Angela,’ she said, hating the name.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘How did you find out?’
‘A policeman was here.’
He blinked in surprise. ‘About the burglary?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘About Eileen Bright.’
Adam shrunk. Before her very eyes, everything about him seemed to grow smaller and weaker. Paler. Everything … diminished.
He bent and leaned his elbows on the kitchen counter and rubbed his face as if he were very, very tired.
‘I was too scared to tell you,’ he finally sighed.
‘Scared of what?’ said Catherine.
‘That you’d leave me.’
‘I’d leave you?’
He straightened up. ‘She did. Angela left me afterwards.’
‘After what?’
‘After I was questioned.’
‘But you hadn’t done anything wrong!’
He shrugged. ‘She left me anyway.’
Then he told her about it. About stopping in a lay-by one parched day. About being put into the back of a police car – embarrassed and apologetic. About the six worst, longest hours of his life, where he’d gone from confused to affronted to angry to scared, to scared, and scared again.
‘I can’t tell you how frightening it was, Cath,’ Adam said softly, looking away and swallowing a lump in his throat. He picked up an orange from the bowl on the counter and squeezed it like a stress toy.
‘I mean, I’d stopped for a pee in a lay-by and suddenly I’m a suspect in a murder case! At first it was like a joke, then a stupid mistake, and then I realized they weren’t kidding, and they really thought I might have had something to do with killing a person. A woman. A pregnant woman. I mean, for fuck’s sake!’
He looked at Catherine and she saw on his face the same shock and outrage that he must have felt then – it had been right there just under the surface, ready to relive at a moment’s notice, despite the years that had passed. And now tears threatened to spill from his eyes.
‘Adam …’ she murmured.
He wiped his sleeve across his face.
‘I wanted to die. I swear to you, Cath – at that moment, I would rather have died than sit there and have those people try to make me say I’d done that thing. That sick, vicious thing!’
Catherine nodded. Her own vague memory of the murder made her shiver even now.
‘And then, when it’s finally over, I come home and she’s left me. Just gone! Just packed her stuff and gone, and my marriage is over, just like that, and I lost everything I’d ever had. If it weren’t for my dad bailing me out, I’d have lost the house, too. As it was, I had to borrow money from him to pay Angie off. That’s why I had all that debt when we first met. Why it’s been so hard to—’
Catherine interrupted, ‘But I don’t understand. You mean your marriage was fine up until then?’
�
��Absolutely!’
‘Then why would she leave you over that?’
‘Ask her!’ he said angrily. ‘I guess she was stupid enough to believe it. After all, the police are questioning me, so I must be guilty, right? Even though I’ve never committed a crime in my life. You know me, Cath! You know I could never do anything like that!’
Catherine said nothing. She wanted to be on Adam’s side. But he’d lied to her. He’d been married. He’d been questioned about a murder. He’d lied to her …
‘Cath,’ he said urgently. ‘It’s just like you said about the burglary. You made one bad choice – not to tell me. And after that it all got much harder.’
She nodded slowly. She’d lied to him, too.
‘If I’d told you I’d been married, you’d have wanted to know more. Wanted to know what happened, and if I’d told you the truth then maybe you’d have left me too! Why wouldn’t you? That bitch did! Because there’s no smoke without fire, right? And fuck that innocent until proven guilty shit, because – trust me – nobody believes that. Specially not the HR bastards at the place where I used to earn three times what I’m bringing in now. Shit! I have a degree in Geography, Cath! You think I want to drive a van and sell horse feed to farmers? I used to be a surveyor. Managed a whole office in Weston. But suddenly HR think it’s a bad idea to employ a man who’s been questioned about a murder. Not arrested, not charged, not tried and fucking convicted! Just questioned and then released.
‘It was a mistake!’ he shouted. ‘Not my mistake – their mistake. But they’re not the ones who suffered for it. That was all me.’
Adam’s jaw worked angrily at the memories.
‘So I lost my wife and my job, and I was in debt and I thought my life was over …’
He took her hand and spoke calmly. ‘Until I met you, Cath. You saved me, you really did. You gave me the strength to pick myself up. You gave me the chance to start all over again, and now we’re creating a whole new life together and all I want is to love you and the baby and to work so hard to give you everything you both deserve, because I’m so lucky to have you and to have another chance to get this right …’
Adam shook his head in wonder. Then his voice became bitter again.
Snap_‘The best crime novel I’ve read in a very long time’ Val McDermid Page 21