‘And then this little shit breaks into our home, and suddenly I’m scared all over again in case the same thing happens. He makes threats and allegations. He lies to you. He says he’s Eileen Bright’s son, but is he really? We have no proof! Maybe he found something with my name on it and recognized it and hatched some kind of plan to blackmail us. Or maybe he’s just crazy. Who knows what’s next? Will he threaten to tell your friends? My boss? Put signs up on lampposts? I’ve been through that shit, Cath, and I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. The looks, the whispers, the conversations that stop when you come into the room … my God! If it started all over again – and to you, as well – who could blame you if you left?
‘So that’s why I didn’t tell you – because I was so scared of losing you and the baby. If it happened again, it would just fucking kill me …’
He stopped, breathless with talk and emotion, squeezing her hand as if it were all that attached him to sanity.
But Catherine didn’t feel sane. Catherine was in turmoil. It was all too much to take in at once. The man she loved was baring his soul to her about a great trauma in his life. A great injustice. But instead of overwhelming love and support for him, she felt only a low, rumbling panic. She remembered earthquake survivors saying that the ground under their feet had turned to liquid and rolled in great waves. That was how she felt. As if she’d built something on solid ground that had suddenly turned to ocean. And now here she was – bracing herself in a doorway, not knowing whether to stay here and ride it out, or leave the only thing that protected her and swim for it across a cold dark sea with no land in sight.
Mum never liked him.
Catherine almost laughed at the random thought. She had always dismissed that dislike as jealousy, thinking that her mother just couldn’t come to terms with no longer being the most important person in her only daughter’s life.
Or did her mother’s prejudice come from another place? A place of experience? Of gut instinct?
Catherine just didn’t know. Couldn’t tell. Had lost all objectivity.
Before the fat policeman had come round, she’d thought she knew most things. Now she didn’t know anything, and felt she might never again.
‘Cath?’ begged Adam. ‘Please say something. Please talk to me.’
But Catherine didn’t know what to say.
Slowly she withdrew her hand from his. She couldn’t think clearly while they were connected.
Then she thought of the baby inside her.
And remembered that she and Adam were connected whether he was touching her or not.
For the rest of their lives.
MARVEL HAD CALLED an eight a.m. meeting in the interview room. Reynolds was there by seven forty-five. While he waited, he picked nervously at the scab of horrible coincidence …
Something going on next door … the boy looks all of twelve … She’ll break my fence and then who’ll pay? Not the scruffy brother, that’s for sure!
The scruffy brother was Goldilocks!
Reynolds felt sick at how he had missed it. Where missed was a euphemism for ‘wilfully overlooked’. Because a modicum of curiosity, a grain of suspicion, a smidgen of effort, would have uncovered the truth. And then he’d have been a hero. A lucky hero, indeed, but a hero nonetheless.
Now he couldn’t be a hero. All he could hope for now was that nobody ever found out. The fact that Marvel had spoken to his mother and yet appeared not to have added two and two together to make four, was an almost miraculous escape. He was suspicious that it might be too good to be true, and was fidgety with dread.
He also wished that he hadn’t been quite so chipper in his notebook about his solo apprehension of the arch criminal, Goldilocks.
Silently I pounced on the suspect …
At the time it had felt like the truth, but now he went hot at the thought of anyone finding out that, in fact, he could have pounced on the suspect over his mother’s garden fence any time he fancied since she’d moved in.
Reynolds sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
He was doing that all the time now, like a tic. Running his fingers through it seemed easier, as if it were just that bit thinner. At night he woke from dreams of baldness and touched his head frantically for reassurance.
Rice and Parrott came in just before eight. Rice was eating the sandwich she’d bought yesterday for Jack Bright. It was cheese and onion and Reynolds could smell it from here.
Marvel came in a few minutes after eight and slapped the Goldilocks file down on the little Formica table.
‘Right. Yesterday was a disaster from beginning to end. The only good bit was that Jack Bright escaped from custody and spared us all the embarrassment of having to release him on a technicality …’ He paused just long enough to make Reynolds brace himself, before going on, ‘Which gives us the opportunity to do it properly next time.’
Reynolds’ phone vibrated on the table and he glanced at the screen.
Mr Passmore.
Jesus. As if he needed to be reminded of something else he’d screwed up!
‘Take it if you want,’ shrugged Marvel. ‘We’ll wait.’
Reynolds got up and stepped into the corridor – acutely aware that they were waiting in silence, listening. He walked further down the corridor into reception and sat on one of the three plastic chairs as he answered the phone.
Mr Passmore’s insurance company had refused to pay out on his claim and the man was apoplectic. He demanded that Reynolds intervene. He demanded he come and reinvestigate the scene. He demanded justice, goddammit! And a replacement TV.
Reynolds opened his mouth to tell him they’d caught Goldilocks and it wasn’t him who had trashed his house, but Passmore was so illogically angry that he chickened out. Instead he fobbed the man off, then hung up and sat for a moment with his elbows on his knees, staring at his very shiny shoes. He hardly noticed the door opening and two people walking in with a pushchair. It was only when one of them stopped on his way to the desk and stood right in front of him and said, ‘Hi,’ that Reynolds looked up at Jack Bright.
‘Hur!’ Reynolds shouted in incoherent surprise. He leapt to his feet and grabbed the boy’s arm in an iron grip, although Jack didn’t try to pull away from him.
‘Jack Bright!’ he cried loudly, looking around for back-up – or an audience – but the desk officer was nowhere to be seen. ‘Jack Bright, I’m arresting you on suspicion of burglary! You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court!’
He stopped and took a breath, his heart pounding. Bright waited politely for him to finish. ‘Anything you do say may be used in evidence. Do you understand these rights?’
‘Yes,’ said the boy.
Then the other person spoke. The one pushing the buggy. Reynolds looked at him for the first time. He was a young man wearing cargo shorts, with hairless legs and no eyebrows.
He looked at Jack and said, ‘Are you sure you understand, mate? Whatever they try to tell you, you’re going inside.’
Reynolds immediately bristled. ‘Who are you?’
‘This is my friend,’ said Jack. ‘He knows all about knives.’
‘Good for him,’ said Reynolds. Then he saw that the policewoman with the cider nose had reappeared behind the desk. ‘Get the duty solicitor down here for a juvenile. Urgently!’
Then he turned to Jack Bright and said, ‘Come with me,’ and led him down the corridor to the interview room with a new spring in his step.
Screw Marvel! he thought. He had caught Goldilocks twice – and was getting better at it each time.
SMOOTH LOUIS BRIDGE picked up the evidence bag containing the murder weapon.
‘Can I take it out?’
‘No,’ said Marvel.
Louis sighed and hunched more closely over it, pressing the plastic against the knife, the better to examine it.
Unconsciously, they all leaned forward. Baz stood on Jack’s knees wi
th his chubby hands splayed on the Formica, watching as intently as anyone.
The only sound in the room was the photocopier sucking electricity out of the wall to keep its little green light running.
Finally Louis put down the bag.
‘That’s a VC knife.’
‘What’s that?’ said Marvel.
Louis picked the bag up again quickly, as if he’d made a mistake in letting it go. He turned it slowly over and over in his hands as he spoke, barely looking up.
‘VC is one of the top three or four makers in the whole world. I mean, there’s him and Jay Fisher and Gil Hibben. Maybe Buster Warenski, although he mostly does art knives nowadays. Gold and jewels. Stuff like that.’
He glanced up to meet blank stares all round.
‘Never heard of ’em,’ said Marvel.
Louis went on enthusiastically, still talking to the knife. ‘They’re knife rock stars. These are all handmade, custom knives, with no limit on time, materials or money. And VC is top of the top. You’re talking James Bond stuff. The stealth bomber of knives.’
There was an impressed silence. Then Reynolds cleared his throat. ‘What are your credentials?’
‘My credentials?’
‘Yes. What makes you an expert?’
‘I know what credentials are,’ said Louis coolly. ‘My credentials are that I know about this shit and you don’t.’
There was a spiky silence. Baz looked around the room, wide-eyed, then whispered, ‘Daddy said shit.’
Marvel laughed and Louis said, ‘Yeah. Sorry, mate. Daddy’s naughty.’
From a new position of moral superiority, Baz said, ‘Porridge!’
‘In a minute, mate.’
‘So where do we find VC?’ said Marvel.
Louis grinned at his naivety. ‘You don’t,’ he said. ‘Nobody even knows who he is. He’s totally off the radar. Never goes to conventions; never does interviews. Just stays home and makes knives. Serious knives, for serious people with serious money.’
‘Where’s home? In this country?’
‘Who knows?’ shrugged Louis.
‘What kind of money are we talking about?’ said Reynolds.
‘Well … I knew a bloke once who had a VC. He used it to pay off a four-grand debt.’
‘Four grand?’ said Marvel.
Baz copied his astonished face and said, ‘Four grand?’ and Louis laughed.
‘That’s right, Baz. Four grand. And that’s not new or personalized. I’ve never even seen a VC knife for real, only pictures, so this is amazing.’ He shook his head at the knife in the bag as if he hardly believed he was seeing it.
‘Me see,’ said Baz, but Louis held it beyond him, turning the bag this way and that, peering and squinting to get the best view, stroking the knife through the plastic, trying to grip the handle.
‘That blade’s titanium. That’s why it’s so light, see? And it won’t corrode. And the handle is most likely abalone.’
‘What’s that?’ said Marvel.
‘It’s a kind of mother of pearl, but incredibly strong. Mother of pearl isn’t expensive, you know, so VC would use abalone for strength, not value. This knife was built to last.’
‘You know a lot about knives,’ said Marvel suspiciously.
Louis shrugged. ‘Everybody knows a lot about something,’ he said. ‘My something is knives.’
He placed the knife reverently on the table, and a wistful note crept into his voice. ‘You know, they say that actually holding a VC is like …’ He shook his head. ‘I dunno. Magical.’
He laughed self-consciously, and ran a thumb along his jaw, as if daring a bit of stubble to show its head.
The stubble knew better.
Baz sighed and shook his head. ‘Four grand,’ he said again – then he made a sneaky grab for the knife and Louis made a grab for him, laughing and lifting him off Jack’s knees and on to his own lap for a cuddle.
Marvel sat back in his flimsy chair and appraised Louis carefully. ‘You sure about all this?’
‘As I can be,’ said Louis. ‘The diamond on the thumb stop is the VC trademark. Not to say someone else might not have copied it. It’s a bit hard to tell through the plastic, but the quality is what confirms it. The materials used are top notch, and the clearances look … just mad.’
He paused, then added, ‘But I’d have to hold it to know for sure …’
Marvel smiled and shook his head. ‘Sorry.’
Louis shrugged and smiled back, but his eyes kept returning to the knife.
‘What does VC stand for?’ said Marvel.
‘Initials, I’m assuming.’
‘Would he be working out of a commercial premises? Like a factory?’
Louis shook his head. ‘Nope. This is small-scale, big-margin stuff. I mean, Buster Warenski’s been working on one single knife for five years! The tools you need are bulky and heavy but none of it takes up a lot of space. This bloke could be working out of his garden shed.’
Marvel nodded, readjusting, reimagining … He picked up the bag with noticeably more care than he’d previously shown. ‘So this knife isn’t one of thousands?’
Louis laughed and shook his head vehemently. ‘One of one, mate. One of effing one.’
‘Porridge!’ whined Baz.
‘All right, piggy. Give Dad a kiss and let’s go home for brekkie, yeah?’
Baz obliged and Louis got up and popped him back in his buggy to go.
‘Thanks for coming, mate,’ said Jack quietly.
Louis turned and smiled at Jack as if it were just the two of them in the room. Like they were on the bench by the canal with the kingfisher flashing and Baz feeding the ducks.
‘I’m sorry about before, mate. Good luck.’ He held out his hand and Jack shook it. ‘You tell your old man he can have a job at the yard any time he wants. It’s all above board with tax and that, so it’s long hours and the pay’s rubbish, but he’s welcome to it.’
Jack nodded. Could only whisper ‘thanks’ as Louis and Baz left.
A long silence was finally broken by Marvel.
‘Interesting bloke. How do you know him?’
Jack only shrugged.
Marvel toyed with the bag.
‘What now, sir?’ said Parrott, from his post beside the mop.
Marvel leaned back in his rickety chair.
‘I think it’s time to see the whites of Adam While’s eyes.’
DCI MARVEL KNOCKED on the Whiles’ front door for the second time in two days. While he and Rice waited, he prepared to be businesslike with Mrs While. If she brought up his behaviour at their last meeting, he was ready to slap her down fast. He wasn’t going to let her build up a head of steam, or start talking about her ‘rights’. If she did, he would remind her, in no uncertain terms, that she had assaulted a police officer in the commission of his duties and that to take an accusatory stance could be very much worse for her than it might be for him. Pregnant or not bloody pregnant. The law made no allowance for hysteria.
Still, when he saw a shape approaching behind the pebbled glass of the door, his palms itched with sweat.
But it wasn’t Catherine While. It was her husband, unshaven and hollow-eyed.
‘Mr While?’
‘Yes?’
Marvel held up his ID. ‘DCI Marvel. This is DC Rice. Can we come in?’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Eileen Bright.’
A look of such desperation passed across Adam While’s face that for a moment Marvel thought the man was going to make a run for it – or pull a gun.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he snapped. ‘What do you want from me now that you couldn’t get three bloody years ago? One piss in a lay-by and I’m Jack the bloody Ripper!’
‘Calm down, Mr While,’ said Marvel – but only because it was usually guaranteed to wind a person up. Marvel was always up for a fight and liked to needle people he thought might be suspects.
Or just people.
But on this occasion, Adam Whil
e did calm down a bit. He sighed and opened the door and turned away – and Marvel and Rice followed him into the plummy front room. He turned to face them when they joined him. ‘Sorry,’ he said, running his fingers through his hair. ‘Just having a bad day.’
‘Sorry to hear that, Mr While,’ Rice said sympathetically. ‘Anything in particular?’
He flapped a vague hand and sighed. ‘Car trouble. Work trouble. Wife trouble. You name it.’
No wonder, thought Marvel. He guessed that Adam While had got it in the neck from his wife over his secret past.
Good.
‘Life, eh?’ said Rice with a sigh. ‘It’s a rollercoaster.’
‘You can say that again,’ While said, and even gave her a little smile, as if her corny platitude had actually helped him gain some perspective.
Marvel was suddenly pleased to have a woman officer with him. He could see their value in this kind of interaction.
And she’d bought a bottle opener for the capture house.
‘Where’s your wife, Mr While?’ said Marvel.
‘Gone to see her mother.’
‘Live nearby, does she?’
‘Withypool.’
Marvel paused, then said, ‘I have no idea where that is.’
‘On Exmoor,’ said Rice, and he nodded as if he knew where that was.
‘We missed you when we came round yesterday,’ he said. Marvel liked to say ‘we’ when his own behaviour might be called into question. It made it easier to blame another – fictional – colleague.
Then he cut straight to the chase. ‘We’ve come about your VC knife.’
He’d hoped for an unguarded reaction he could work off. There was none.
‘What about it?’ said While.
‘Can I see it?’
‘Sure,’ he said, and reached into his pocket.
If that knife was in the house, it was in his pocket. Angela While’s words rushed back at Marvel.
He held out his hand. ‘May I?’
While hesitated, as if he were being asked to hand over his firstborn to a fox.
Then he gave it to him.
Marvel looked down at the knife. Jack Bright was right. It was the same.
Snap_‘The best crime novel I’ve read in a very long time’ Val McDermid Page 22