Darkside_ A Novel Part 15

Jonas took it slowly on the way home. The bigger roads had been gritted but if they hadn't had the appointment he would never have ventured out in Lucy's old Beetle. It had all its weight over the back wheels, leaving the front end to wander about at will, tilting at hedges and flirting with ditches. He was so used to the Land Rover with its four-wheel drive and traction control that the VW felt like a roller skate in the snow.

As they came down the hill into s.h.i.+pcott, they could see a knot of people standing in the road roughly halfway through the village. In the brief glimpse they had before they lost sight of them again behind the hedges, Jonas thought he saw a horse, and felt unease start to pulse in his chest.

Lucy glanced at him questioningly, but he could only shrug.

They lost sight of the crowd until they rounded the curve in the road. Jonas slowed to a crawl and then parked a little haphazardly outside the shop and got out.

'What's going on?' he asked Billy Beer.

'The Marsh boy's gone mazed,' said Billy impatiently, as if it happened all the time and they were sick of it.

Jonas felt his stomach twist at the words. He hurried through the crowd and saw Danny Marsh dressed in hunting scarlet - complete with velvet hat, white britches and conker-topped boots - holding the reins of a large bay horse. It was saddled but ungroomed; there was dried mud up its legs, and its mane was a dusty tangle of dirt and twigs.

Before Jonas could speak, Danny saw him and broke into the biggest of smiles. 'Jonas! We're going hunting! You coming?' He rushed towards Jonas, making the horse throw its head up and roll its eyes. Danny jerked the reins. 'Steady up, Tigger! Stand!' Then he threw his arm around Jonas, laughing.

Jonas took in the scene. Danny and the horse, which Jonas knew wasn't his; beyond him stood Marvel and his team, including the woman - Rice, he thought her name was - who looked troubled, almost tearful. Framed in the doorway of his home stood Alan Marsh, his face blank as he watched his son disintegrate in front of him.

'What's up, Danny?' Jonas said, trying to keep his voice level.

'Going hunting,' said Danny again. 'Brilliant day for it.'

Jonas looked at the leaden sky that promised more snow.

'The hunt's not out today, mate. You've got the wrong day.'

'Aaaaah,' said Danny with a dismissive wave, 'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks to that! that! Who says it's got to be Thursdays? Me and Tigger are going Who says it's got to be Thursdays? Me and Tigger are going today! today! You want to come?' You want to come?'

To Jonas's surprise, he saw hope s.h.i.+ning in Danny's eyes. As if he really expected Jonas to say yes.

That's not Tigger, he wanted to say. That's not Tigger and this isn't right That's not Tigger and this isn't right.

'That's my my horse!' said John Took angrily from somewhere. Jonas didn't bother looking. horse!' said John Took angrily from somewhere. Jonas didn't bother looking. 'And my 'And my f.u.c.king coat!' f.u.c.king coat!'

Why hadn't Marvel and his men just grabbed hold of Danny, thrown him down in the slushy road and bundled him back into the house? Why did he he have to be involved? On a day like this, with Lucy sick and getting sicker? It was almost as if they'd been waiting for him. have to be involved? On a day like this, with Lucy sick and getting sicker? It was almost as if they'd been waiting for him.

Marvel stepped out of the crowd, looking like a man who'd seen enough and wanted to get back into the warm. The moment Danny Marsh caught sight of him, he let go of Jonas and swung the bay around in a short, clattering arc, which made Marvel - and all the crowd - recede like water to stay out of reach of its rump and heels. Danny did it again, using the horse to clear a s.p.a.ce for himself in the middle of the road. Jonas took two nervous steps backwards. The horse snorted again and gave a confused little prance, scattering people behind it.

'STAND, Tigger!' yelled Danny and slapped the horse's muzzle, making it back rapidly into a parked car, rocking it and crumpling the door like tin foil, then skittering sideways as more of the crowd parted around it.

You've lost it, thought Jonas dully. You've lost it in front of all these people You've lost it in front of all these people. Danny Marsh thought he was ten years old and they were still friends. And he was trying to drag Jonas back there with him - back to when they were kids hanging out at the farm, with their dreams and their lives intact ...

Jonas felt anger swelling inside him like a gross burp.

He reached out and gripped Danny's bicep, pulling him close in an attempt at privacy.

'Danny,' he said tightly, 'let's go inside and talk about this.'

Danny looked at him, suddenly serious. 'You want to talk, Jonas? I'm ready. I've always always been ready.' been ready.'

Jonas dropped his arm. He had no idea what he meant, but there was a sense of threat in Danny Marsh that caught him unawares and sent a s.h.i.+ver down his spine. Right here in the middle of the day, in the middle of the street, surrounded by half of s.h.i.+pcott and fellow officers of the law, he felt in serious danger for the first time that he could remember.

Danny Marsh opened his arms in a loud 'bring it on' gesture, flapping the reins and making the horse flinch once more, but when he spoke again it was softly - as if he and Jonas were the only ones there.

'Don't pretend you don't know what I mean, Jonas.'

Danny was crazy. They all knew that. He was stuck in some recess of his own mind. Jonas wouldn't play his game. This had to end.

'That's not Tigger,' he said brutally. 'Tigger's dead.'

'f.u.c.k you!' cried Danny, and he let go of the horse and swung a wild fist at Jonas.

Jonas. .h.i.t him so hard he felt it in his feet. Danny went down and Jonas followed him to the ground, unaware of Lucy shouting from the Beetle, unaware of the horse spinning round and bolting up the snowy road with its reins dangling - unaware of anything but the feeling of flesh and bone connecting, and hard velvet hurting his knuckles.

Until he remembered where he was and who he was and what what he was. he was.

Then he got up and walked away.

More than anyone, Lucy knew what Jonas had sacrificed for her.

He'd had his eye on Glock 17s and body armour, but her diagnosis had forced them to make other choices.

They had married in the local church with poor Margaret Priddy playing a clunking, wheezing 'All Things Bright And Beautiful' on the eccentric little organ. They had only sent invitations to her her family and friends; he'd told her everyone in s.h.i.+pcott would come anyway, whether they were invited or not. And they did - standing at the back and outside among the leaning tombstones to watch Jonas lead his bride into the suns.h.i.+ne. family and friends; he'd told her everyone in s.h.i.+pcott would come anyway, whether they were invited or not. And they did - standing at the back and outside among the leaning tombstones to watch Jonas lead his bride into the suns.h.i.+ne.

His parents had beamed.

Desmond and Cath.

Lucy had only met them twice before the wedding and would only see them once again, before they were both killed instantly in a head-on collision on the A39 link road. The other car had rolled right over the Hollys' demure Rover, which had been so flattened that when she and Jonas were later allowed to see it in the police pound, a box of tissues in a hand-crocheted cover was still held in its place between the roof and the parcel shelf. Lucy would never forget it - or the way Jonas's hand had twitched and tightened a little around hers at the sight.

Lucy had always felt the need to protect him. It was ridiculous really. Jonas could take care of himself.

She was the one who was weak and feeble. She with her endless medications that he had to fetch and store and prepare, and administer in injected doses. She with her tears and her depressions and her dropping of crockery and her failure to cook or clean properly and her mood swings and her despair. She with her weight gain, her weight loss, the regular desertion of her libido. He would go weeks - sometimes months - without seeing her naked behind unless he was about to stick a needle in it.

Hot.

Not.

He never complained. Never got impatient. Never made her feel bad.

But today, just maybe, she'd seen the effect on Jonas for the first time.

He never talked about growing up in the village - as if he thought she already knew his business the way everyone did here in s.h.i.+pcott - but she knew that he'd grown up with Danny Marsh because he'd told her after Danny's mother was killed.

'She used to make us beans and chips,' he'd said suddenly in bed that night.

She had turned to him in the darkness, even though she couldn't see his face.

'Mrs Marsh?'

'Yeah. She was my best friend's mother. When I was at school.'

'You mean Danny Marsh from the garage?'

'Yes,' he'd said.

'I never knew that. He's sweet. Why don't you hang out with him any more?'

' "Sweet"?' he'd said, and she'd heard the laugh in his voice. 'Is he sweeter than me?'

'Much,' she'd said, only too pleased to feel his mood lift, and there it was - they'd changed the subject. He'd He'd changed the subject. changed the subject.

And today she'd watched him beat up Danny Marsh. There was no other word for it. She'd sat in the car and watched him lose control. And it made her think for the first time how much control he must have had to lose.

She wanted to hold him and tell him it was all going to be all right. To stroke his hair like a child's. It made her think again of Jonas's face at the hospital - before he knew he was being watched. That fear. That raw, innocent fear that she'd only ever seen before on the faces of small children.

It was a face that made her wonder where that little boy inside him hid for the rest of the time.

Eight Days

'I've got a theory,' said Reynolds.

You always do, thought Marvel. Reynolds was a hotbed of theories, hypotheses and what he like to call 'proposals'.

They were sitting in the mobile unit, as close to the Calor gas as was physically possible without actually bursting into flames.

They'd had a call from the pathologist to confirm what Marvel had already surmised at the scene - that Yvonne Marsh had drowned and had almost certainly been held underwater. Marvel had imparted the news with a remarkable lack of I-told-you-so's, which had, in turn, opened the door to one of their few discussions where neither was trying to score points.

They'd been talking about the incident with Danny Marsh.

Marvel and Grey had stepped in to stop Jonas Holly, but Jonas had stopped himself, so they had hauled Danny to his feet instead. His riding hat was askew but had still protected all the important stuff.

The horse had skidded into several parked cars on its destructive way up the road and had later been caught by someone down on the playing field.

The crowd had dispersed in almost complete silence.

Elizabeth Rice and Alan Marsh had ushered a tearful Danny inside, where the local doctor - a man who looked as if he was popping in on his way to a surfing compet.i.tion - had given him a sedative.

Marvel had gone over to the Beetle and said something biting to Jonas about police brutality but hadn't really meant it. Somebody Somebody had needed to stop Danny Marsh and, for the first time since coming to s.h.i.+pcott, he felt Jonas Holly had done the right thing, albeit a little over-enthusiastically. There might be some fallout from that, but somehow Marvel doubted it. The mood in the street had been one of relief that it was all over, rather than shock at had needed to stop Danny Marsh and, for the first time since coming to s.h.i.+pcott, he felt Jonas Holly had done the right thing, albeit a little over-enthusiastically. There might be some fallout from that, but somehow Marvel doubted it. The mood in the street had been one of relief that it was all over, rather than shock at how how.

And now Reynolds had a theory.

'I was thinking about what you said. About the link between Margaret Priddy and Yvonne Marsh.'

'Yes?' said Marvel, mildly encouraged that this particular 'proposal' might be based on something sensible.

'There's something called the tipping point,' said Reynolds. 'You heard of it?'

Marvel hated that kind of question. If he said no, Reynolds would elucidate in minute detail; if he said yes, he'd be lying and then might not grasp what came next.

'No,' he said, in a tone that demanded that Reynolds take no more than thirty seconds to explain it to him. It was a very specific tone and Reynolds knew it well, so he did his best.

'It's something which tips the balance and creates a deviation from the normal path of events.' That wasn't wholly accurate, but it wasn't long enough to p.i.s.s Marvel off.

'For instance, you know all those j.a.panese kids who commit suicide - a whole bunch of them, one after another, like it's catching?'

'What's your point, Reynolds?'

'The theory is that one suicide can spark others. People become aware of the suicide, and kids who wouldn't have gone that far before suddenly consider it. A few more actually do it - as if they have permission permission to kill themselves because it seems that everybody's doing it - it's no longer taboo. And before you know it, kids are topping themselves because their dog ate their homework, and you've got an epidemic on your hands. You've pa.s.sed the tipping point.' to kill themselves because it seems that everybody's doing it - it's no longer taboo. And before you know it, kids are topping themselves because their dog ate their homework, and you've got an epidemic on your hands. You've pa.s.sed the tipping point.'

Marvel said nothing, so Reynolds knew he had his attention.

'You asked me about the link. And I was thinking of what you said about Margaret Priddy and Yvonne Marsh both being a burden to their families. The methods are different, not consistent. Maybe the killers are different too. Maybe the killer of Yvonne Marsh felt he had permission permission because someone had already killed Margaret Priddy.' because someone had already killed Margaret Priddy.'

'So you're saying Alan Marsh could have killed his wife because Peter Priddy had already killed his mother?' said Marvel.

'It's a theory,' said Reynolds a little defensively. 'You imagine taking care of someone like Yvonne Marsh for years. Stark staring mad. Wandering off. Doesn't know who the f.u.c.k you are after forty years of marriage. You imagine the strain of that. Maybe it only takes a nod and a wink in the way of permission for you to feel that it's OK to go right ahead and drown her in a stream.'

Marvel nodded. He could see the logic. 'In the way that serial killers take many years to build up to their first murder. The first one is difficult, but after that it gets easier and easier, more and more casual.'

'Same thing,' agreed Reynolds. 'Someone breaks the taboo.'

Marvel stared into the distance and nodded slowly. 'The unthinkable becomes thinkable.'

The two men sat pondering in rare harmony.

'I hope you're wrong,' said Marvel.

And, for once, Reynolds hoped he was too.

Seven Days

The ground was frozen and they couldn't have dug a hole for Yvonne Marsh even if her body had not been retained as evidence, but the funeral went ahead anyway. 'Interment to follow at a later date' 'Interment to follow at a later date' was what was written in biro under the order of service. was what was written in biro under the order of service.