Marvel made a huge effort not to let his frustration show. Mrs Creed was not her son, and her son was not a criminal. Yet. So he couldn’t treat her like a criminal, however much he’d like to. He’d already tried to cuff the wrong pregnant woman this week – he wasn’t going to add to his tally of shame with an old lady in a cat jumper.
‘Is there a problem with the knife?’ said Mrs Creed. ‘Because Christopher’s never had a complaint of any kind about a knife. I’m sure he’d be very concerned to hear there was a problem with a knife.’
She looked genuinely anxious.
‘It’s not about the knife,’ Marvel reassured her. ‘We’re investigating the owner of a VC knife.’
He took the knife from inside his jacket and laid it on the coffee table next to the biscuits. Mrs Creed peered at it through the plastic evidence bag. ‘Well, isn’t that pretty?’ she said. ‘Are you sure you’re looking for a man?’
‘We assume so,’ said Marvel.
Mrs Creed smiled moonily at him. ‘To assume makes an ass out of u and me …’
‘So my mother always says,’ said Reynolds. ‘But in the case of knives, it’s a pretty fair assumption.’
‘Well, Mr Marvel, I do hope it wasn’t used in the commission of a crime?’
‘I’m afraid it was,’ said Marvel. ‘A very serious crime. That dark substance at the base of the blade? That’s blood.’
Mrs Creed peered through the plastic. ‘It’s very black,’ she said.
‘It’s very old,’ countered Marvel.
‘Oh dear,’ Mrs Creed said. ‘I can’t believe Christopher would sell a knife to a criminal. He’s very specific on his website that his knives are not to be used in crimes.’
Marvel stared at her in case she was being ironic.
Apparently she wasn’t. Apparently she actually believed that it was possible to tell people not to commit a crime and expect them to simply obey!
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s very difficult to know what people will do with things once they have them, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said.
‘So you wouldn’t know who bought this knife from Christopher?’
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘But he has a very exclusive customer base. I’m sure he could tell you without even looking in his book!’
‘On Tuesday,’ said Marvel.
‘On Tuesday,’ she agreed.
Marvel nodded and pursed his lips. It was a dead end. Christopher Creed was in Lanzarote, and wishing he were not would not bring him home.
With a sigh, he took his card from his wallet and handed it to her.
‘That’s my number,’ he said. ‘Please call if you think of anything that could help, or if Christopher calls, please do pass on my number.’
‘Of course,’ she said.
They had finished their tea. They should leave.
Marvel hated to go. He felt so close to the information he needed.
He glanced at Reynolds in case he could pull this out of the fire.
‘I’d love to see more of his knives,’ Reynolds said suddenly. ‘We’ve heard so much about them.’
Good thinking, Reynolds! Marvel nodded at him approvingly. Every mother he’d ever met thought their kids were special – even if they hadn’t been born yet! So why not appeal to Mrs Creed’s pride in her son? Why not get her to show off his work, like a crappy bit of Lego or a finger-painting on a fridge?
‘Well,’ she frowned, ‘everything’s in his room – I’m very strict about him not leaving knives lying around the house, you see? – but he did make me a little penknife a few years ago for my birthday. Would you like to see that?’
‘Please,’ said Marvel, and to his surprise she immediately took it from the patchwork pocket of her corduroy skirt.
It was unremarkable at first sight. A few inches long, with a very flat, black handle. Slightly curved, with a tiny diamond on the thumb stud. Mrs Creed opened the blade with the merest flick of her thumbnail. The blade was less than three inches long – the legal maximum carry.
Marvel was disappointed.
‘Very nice,’ he said.
‘Very pretty,’ said Reynolds.
‘No, no, no,’ said Mrs Creed. ‘You don’t understand.’
That surprised Marvel. The woman was looking at him a little disapprovingly through her thick spectacles, like one of his old teachers.
‘You have to hold it …’ Mrs Creed closed the knife and pressed it into his hand and wrapped his fingers around it.
Marvel felt a shudder go through him – a physical response that started in his hand and ran up his arm to his head. It wasn’t pleasant. For a second he felt almost sick, and licked his lips like a dog.
Then he opened the knife, and – once again – he felt transported by something so odd, so indefinable, so dark that he felt exposed and laid bare.
‘It has ceramic pivot bearings,’ Mrs Creed said. ‘That’s why it runs so smoothly on the track, you see?’
Marvel nodded mutely. He closed it, then opened it again. He’d been here before. Captured. Enthralled.
It was magical.
‘That’s a titanium blade,’ said Mrs Creed. ‘And the handle and stop are carbon fibre. And see the diamond? That’s Christopher’s trademark. He gets his diamonds from a funny little man in Amsterdam. I think it’s very stylish, don’t you?’
She smiled and Marvel smiled too. It was stylish. The little diamond sparkled brilliantly in the black carbon fibre thumb stud.
He opened it and closed it, opened it and closed it. Opened it again.
‘And look at the clearance on the blade. That’s two-thousandths of an inch.’
She must have read ignorance in his eyes because she explained, ‘The best makers in the world would be happy with twenty!’
Marvel closed the blade more slowly. Watched it disappear into the handle by an invisible whisker. When folded, the spine of the knife looked like one solid piece of metal. Only turning it to the light revealed the hairline clues to the blade hidden within.
‘Very clever,’ he said, and meant it.
‘Yes, and not easy to make,’ Mrs Creed went on. ‘Titanium dust is so flammable you can’t let it build up. So you have to grind the blade very, very slowly. And the dust has to go straight into a bucket of water to stop the whole room bursting into flames!’
She laughed at the very idea.
Marvel laughed back, and wondered whether her home insurers knew about the titanium dust and the bucket.
Then Mrs Creed held out her hand and Marvel placed the knife reluctantly in her palm, feeling like a little kid who has to give back the drum at the end of a music lesson.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Christopher does make a lovely knife,’ she sighed with obvious pride. ‘You come back on Tuesday, Mr Marvel, and I’m sure he’d be very happy to help you with your inquiries.’
Marvel picked up the abalone knife in the plastic evidence bag. ‘Thank you for your help.’
‘You’re very welcome, Mr Marvel,’ she said. ‘Mr Reynolds.’
They walked back to the car and got in.
Jack Bright was still there. Just as Marvel knew he would be.
‘What happened?’ he said. ‘Did you see him?’
‘He wasn’t there,’ said Marvel. ‘We spoke to his mother, but she couldn’t give us any information.’
They got in and sat for a moment – Reynolds with the keys in his hand, held loose on one thigh. He shivered – a full-body shudder, a goose on his grave – and then laughed in embarrassment.
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Just a bit nippy,’ said Reynolds. But still he didn’t start the car.
They sat in silence.
Marvel felt oddly as if he’d woken from a dream. All those fucking cats! That sick shudder that turned his stomach. And the blade revealing itself as smoothly as obedient butter.
Had it even been real?
The whole encounter seemed like something
from a fairy story. Enchanted – but in a dark and scary way.
Foolishness!
Foolishness?
He tried to shake off the feeling. Then he held the abalone knife up to the window so he could see it better. He was a hair’s breadth from opening the sealed bag and taking it out, just to recapture the buzz …
‘I’m not cold,’ said Reynolds suddenly. ‘I’m … creeped out.’ He shot an embarrassed glance at Marvel. ‘Something about the house. Or her. Or the smell. Did you notice?’
Marvel nodded. He’d noticed it all.
Reynolds went on, ‘It felt as if someone we didn’t even know was there was watching us.’
‘Besides the gnome?’ said Marvel wryly.
‘Besides the gnome,’ said Reynolds, and Marvel nodded.
It was the first time they’d ever agreed on anything. Marvel doubted it would happen again.
‘You think Creed was there?’ said Reynolds.
Marvel pursed his lips. ‘I think it’s entirely possible. There’s a CCTV camera outside, he might have cameras everywhere. A knife nut. A security nut. Watching everything.’
‘Doesn’t even let his mother in his room,’ Reynolds nodded. ‘Sounds like the paranoid sort.’ He looked nervously over his shoulder, as if he expected Christopher Creed to be standing beside the car – sudden as a ghost and brandishing a VC knife …
‘It would all make her a very smooth liar,’ he said.
‘She’s obsessed with cats,’ shrugged Marvel. ‘Who knows what she’s capable of?’
Reynolds laughed.
‘But she was creepy,’ said Marvel carefully. ‘When she handed me the knife, she touched my hand. Made me feel almost sick. I thought it was the KFC, but now …’
‘You think we should stake it out?’ said Reynolds suddenly.
Marvel grunted. ‘Just us?’
‘And me!’ said Jack.
They both ignored him.
Reynolds shrugged. ‘We could book into a place overnight, get a couple of hours’ sleep now, and then come back when it’s dark and see who’s in the house when the lights are on.’
‘I think we should do that!’ said Jack.
They both ignored him some more.
Reynolds went on, ‘I know it’s a long shot. But if she lied and Christopher Creed really is at home, it would give us a reason to return with a search warrant. And all we need is one bit of paperwork with Adam While’s name on it …’
Marvel nodded. Any record of While ever having been a customer of VC Knives, and the case would start to move inexorably in the right direction.
The direction of murder.
Bromley was not a tourist destination and John Hurt was doing something at the Churchill Theatre, so rooms were hard to come by, and two rooms in the same place at such short notice turned out to be impossible.
It was four o’clock before Reynolds managed to find a twin room in a B&B on Pickhurst Lane, where the owner agreed to put a folding bed in the room for an extra tenner. As they were going to spend most of the night in the Ford Focus, Marvel deemed it acceptable.
The B&B was supposed to be run by a couple called the Copples, who looked very happy and welcoming in their brochure in the hallway. But Mrs Copple seemed to have left, and Mr Copple could hardly have been less interested in running a B&B by himself.
He pointed out their room from the bottom of the stairs, and then handed them each an unfolded towel, like a PE teacher.
‘Breakfast’s at eight,’ he said. ‘There’s no bacon.’
Then, as he headed back to the lounge to finish watching the football they’d interrupted, he stopped, dug in his trouser pocket, and gave each of them a rather fluffy Murray Mint.
‘For your pillows,’ he said, and closed the lounge door.
Reynolds searched to see if there was a kettle and tea-tray, and by the time he’d established there was not, Marvel had turned on the TV, peed loudly in the toilet with the door open, bounced heavily on both beds, toed off his shoes, and was propped up against his chosen headboard, channel surfing.
Reynolds sat on the rumpled bed Marvel had left for him and frowned at the DCI’s feet. He had always felt a little uncomfortable in the presence of another man’s socks.
‘You mind if I draw the curtains?’ he said.
Marvel did not.
Reynolds did that and lay on the bed. If he’d been alone he’d have got into it – even fully clothed – but somehow that didn’t seem manly, so he lay on top of the covers instead.
Jack had assumed correctly that he’d be on the folding bed. He lay down on it and went to sleep immediately.
He didn’t even flinch when Reynolds’ phone rang.
It was Mrs Passmore. The old reverse panda herself. She shouted at Reynolds for five minutes while he tried to speak – first to offer advice, then to remonstrate, and finally to tell her that the conversation was at an end. But she hung up before he could get to any of those points, and he was left with his phone buzzing in his ear, feeling like an idiot.
‘Trouble in paradise?’ said Marvel.
‘Mr Passmore’s been arrested for insurance fraud,’ said Reynolds, and braced himself for I told you so.
But instead Marvel nodded and said, ‘It’s good you didn’t get involved,’ as if it had been Reynolds’ own good judgement that had saved him from humiliation.
‘Indeed,’ said Reynolds. He plumped his pillow and lay down again. People were always surprising him.
Even Marvel!
Turned out the man wasn’t so bad after all.
Reynolds folded his arms awkwardly, and wished he had the guts to get under the covers.
For a few minutes, Marvel carried on flicking through channels, his chin on his chest and his eyes glazed.
Then – just as Reynolds’ eyelids were drooping – Marvel said, ‘I told you so.’
JACK FOUND HIS mother.
She was on the hard shoulder, walking to the phone, and he was following her with Merry heavy and sweaty in his arms.
His mother kept looking back at him, but the sun was behind her and he couldn’t see her face – only the shimmer of her golden hair like a halo around her head.
He was tired and wanted to stop and put Merry down for a bit.
Mum? he kept saying. Mum?
But she didn’t stop, just kept walking, and he started to fall behind. He hoisted Merry up and hurried, but as soon as he stopped hurrying, he fell behind again. Further each time, until his mother was fifty yards ahead of him. A hundred.
He hoisted Merry up again.
And his mother disappeared.
There was nowhere for her to disappear to; she had just gone.
Jack stopped and stood in the heat.
The road was all there was left. Beyond the crash barriers on either side, the world had disappeared into a yellow-grey haze, as far as the eye could see. The fields, the grass, the hedges. All were gone. Only the road was left. And the –
Small bugs
Small bugs
Merry wriggled and twisted, and reached out beyond his shoulder –
Mama! Mama!
Jack turned to see his mother, but too slow, too late – and the knife slit him from navel to neck.
He woke with a gasp in the dark and knew he was not alone.
He sat up, panting, one hand clutching the place where the knife had entered his belly as if he might still stop the blood.
It felt so real!
He looked around the room, slowly remembering where he was.
The TV was still on and by its light he could see that Marvel and Reynolds were both asleep. Reynolds was curled on his side with his back to the room, Marvel slumped against the headboard, his tie loosened and the remote control on his chest along with his chin.
Carefully, carefully, Jack got off the bed and stood in the middle of the room.
He’d done all he could. The police were on the case. His father was home. Merry and Joy were safe. He could go now and not even have to
buy a train ticket to London. No charges, no court case, no detention.
Start at the beginning again.
He didn’t even have to pull on his shoes, because he’d slept in them, the same way he’d slept in them every night for a year.
Always ready to run.
He walked soundlessly across the carpet. The door handle was cold round brass, and made a small squeak as he turned it. Marvel stirred and Jack held his breath. He watched the big man roll and resettle into a more comfortable position on his side, facing him.
Jack opened the door, and thought of Goldilocks creeping into the Three Bears’ home, eating their porridge and sleeping in their beds.
Fuck Goldilocks, he thought, and then grinned at the memory of Marvel’s words.
Fuck Goldilocks.
Marvel was a copper and a dick – not necessarily in that order. He’d told Jack straight that he didn’t want to get involved with his case, and Jack had wanted to punch him.
But then he had got involved, and they’d made a deal. And now Marvel was doing all he could to keep his side of the bargain.
Marvel had surprised him. And – more than that – Marvel had revived something inside Jack that he thought he’d lost.
Hope.
The hope of justice.
Of an ending, and of a new, better beginning.
Of sleeping without dreaming.
Marvel was on the case, and didn’t need him any more, just as Joy and Merry didn’t need him any more.
Nobody needed him any more.
Jack was free to go.
And yet he did not move. He just stood, silhouetted in the doorway.
He couldn’t leave.
Not when his best hope for justice was right here in this room – lying in a lumpy bed, with the light from the TV flickering across his face and a Murray Mint stuck to his cheek.
Quietly, Jack shut the door.
They went back to the house at eleven. There were no lights on.
They parked across the street and Reynolds squinted into the night.
Snap_‘The best crime novel I’ve read in a very long time’ Val McDermid Page 24