Snap

by Belinda Bauer

  He looked at his watch. It was still light, thanks to summer, and the air was still warm, the sky still blue. Marvel flinched as a sheep baaed somewhere worryingly close. He turned off the engine and just sat – his brain bulging with a million permutations.

  Investigating a murder was like doing a jigsaw puzzle in the dark. The constant fingertip-feeling and testing and turning. The picking up and the putting down and the picking up again.

  The trying to make things fit.

  Marvel felt closer right now to seeing the picture on the box than Ralph Stourbridge had ever been.

  And further away too, because that picture had been drawn for him by a liar. A serial thief who’d assumed he’d found the knife that had killed his mother in a house he was burgling.

  Marvel snorted. That might be the biggest and best coincidence he’d encountered in his twenty-two years in homicide. Or it could be the twisted imaginings of a disturbed delinquent.

  If he hadn’t wanted a murder case so badly, he would have written it off as the latter.

  But he did want a murder case.

  Very badly.

  So he was prepared to consider the former, dig deeper, risk more.

  Marvel had a unique technique when it came to solving crime. He liked to consider all the smoke to be fire, just to see where it took him.

  So …

  Adam While had assaulted Jack Bright, and set his house ablaze.

  A woman who’d once loved While had believed he did have the capacity to kill, and While had hidden that past from the woman who loved him now.

  While had been jealous and angry with his pregnant wife on the day that pregnant Eileen Bright had been killed by a knife.

  He had been picked up in the lay-by where the knife had been found close to the body. And had a very similar knife …

  He still had that knife.

  It just wasn’t the right knife.

  ‘Shit!’ Marvel yelled at the steering wheel. ‘Bollocks and shit!’

  The window was down and a woman wheeling a supermarket trolley said, ‘No need for that sort of language!’

  ‘How would you know?’ Marvel shot back at her. Then he put his head out of the window and shouted after her, ‘Hey! Are you stealing that trolley?’

  The woman hurried away, looking daggers over her shoulder.

  Marvel withdrew, and resumed glaring at the steering wheel. Whichever way he looked at it, the boy was the key.

  There was little doubt he was Goldilocks, and with his cooperation it would be an open-and-shut case. In fact, over one hundred open-and-shut cases! Scores of burglaries that could be cleared off the books and boost the force’s solve-rate stats in an instant. It would mean that Marvel’s first case with a new force would be a wild success. It would go a long way to winning him the status he craved, without the need for years of hard work.

  There was only one problem …

  Marvel couldn’t arrest Adam While for the murder of Eileen Bright. Without any connection to the murder weapon, all he had on While was the same non-evidence that Stourbridge had had three years ago.

  Plus an ex-wife with a feeling in her water.

  Marvel got out of the car and slammed the door hard. He almost bumped into Reynolds inside the glass front door of the little police station.

  ‘Any luck, sir?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘Enough to arrest Adam While?’

  ‘No,’ snapped Marvel. ‘Did you finish up at the house?’

  ‘Almost, sir. Got everything in the van that needs to go back to Exeter. Just some personal items and clothing for Rice and me to pick up tomorrow.’

  ‘Good,’ said Marvel. ‘I told you the capture house would work.’

  ‘You did,’ said Reynolds. ‘And it did.’

  ‘Where’s Parrott?’

  ‘He left at the end of our shift, sir.’

  Marvel ignored the fact that Reynolds was still there past the end of his shift.

  ‘Duty solicitor here?’

  ‘Car trouble, sir,’ said Reynolds. ‘I’m a bit wary of keeping the boy this long without legal representation …’

  ‘We’ve put in the call,’ said Marvel testily. ‘Not our fault if the solicitor’s dragging his heels.’

  Elizabeth Rice walked in with a bag of apples and a sandwich. ‘For Jack,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t eat McDonald’s.’

  ‘I told you so,’ said Reynolds.

  Rice ignored him and took the key to the holding cell from the WPC with the cider nose who was on the desk. She disappeared down the corridor.

  ‘It’s some life he’s been leading,’ mused Reynolds. ‘Kid his age, supporting the family through crime. It’s Dickensian, isn’t it?’

  Marvel grunted.

  Rice shouted something.

  Marvel and Reynolds frowned at each other. ‘What did she say?’ said Marvel.

  ‘I didn’t catch it,’ said Reynolds.

  They both started down the corridor. ‘Rice?’ called Reynolds, and broke into a half-jog. ‘Rice?’

  Rice was standing in the holding cell with her apples and sandwich.

  ‘He’s gone!’

  ‘Spare change? … Spare change?’

  Feet passed. Somebody dropped something into the ice-cream tub.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the homeless man.

  More feet.

  They stopped.

  ‘Spare change?’

  But there was no corresponding rattle of money in the box.

  The homeless man looked up, and flinched, snatching up the tub as he did, cradling his cash, even as one hunched shoulder protected his ear.

  But the boy didn’t hit him.

  Instead he tossed something at him.

  A snake!

  The man cried out in fear as it dropped into his lap in poisonous stripes.

  But it wasn’t a snake. It was a necktie. Red silk with sharp white stripes.

  ‘We need a grown-up in the house,’ said Jack. ‘If you still want to come home.’

  ‘How the hell?’ said Marvel.

  The mattress was leaned drunkenly against the wall under the window, but the window was still locked. There were crayons and fake flowers on the floor.

  ‘How the hell?’ Marvel said again – but they worked it out eventually.

  Jack Bright had propped the mattress against the wall under the window and had stood on, or bounced off, its precarious edge to grab the flowers from the windowsill. He’d bent the wire stem of a single fake flower into a lock pick and opened the cell door, then somehow sneaked past the reception desk and out of the front door.

  ‘Let’s go and get the little bastard,’ said Marvel.

  As his car was parked conveniently outside, they piled into that, with Rice still holding the sandwich and apples.

  Marvel started the engine. ‘Where are we going, Reynolds?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘Uhhh … I don’t know, sir.’

  Marvel looked sharply at him. ‘You don’t know his address?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘But you’re the arresting officer.’

  Now Marvel and Rice both looked at Reynolds, who started to sweat.

  ‘You didn’t get his address?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  There was a thick silence, and then Marvel said, ‘Please tell me you read him his rights …’

  ‘Sir—’ Reynolds started, and Marvel banged the dashboard with his fist so hard that it cracked.

  ‘You bloody idiot, Reynolds!’

  ‘Sir, it’s just … it was a weird situation. It wasn’t a normal arrest, you see, as I’m sure you appreciate. I mean, he was there in the bed and … so it was all very odd and I admit I was a bit thrown.’

  ‘Then what’s all that bollocks in your notebook about capturing Goldilocks single-handed! “Silently I bloody pounced”! And now it turns out that not only didn’t you pounce, but you didn’t even read the little shit his rights! Which mea
ns he hasn’t escaped from legal custody because he was never legally in custody! Jesus Christ! We’re back to square fucking one. No! Square minus one, because now he knows we’ll be after him!’

  ‘I apologize, sir,’ said Reynolds stiffly – and in a tone that implied that Marvel should really be getting over it by now.

  ‘Well, bollocks to your apology!’ shouted Marvel. ‘Just bollocks to it! I’m not calling Stourbridge. You can call him and ask him for the address and explain to him how the Goldilocks prime suspect walked out of a police cell and now we don’t know where to find him because you screwed up the arrest.’

  ‘Sir?’ said Rice from the back seat.

  ‘What?’ snapped Marvel.

  ‘Wouldn’t Toby know the address?’

  ‘Who the fuck is Toby?’

  ‘DC Parrott, sir,’ said Rice. ‘I mean, he’s been here donkey’s years, and even if he wasn’t involved, he’s sure to know where the Bright family live, isn’t he?’

  There was a brief silence, then Marvel said, ‘Good thinking, Rice. Where’s Parrott?’

  ‘I imagine he went home, sir,’ said Reynolds.

  ‘Well, imagine calling him,’ said Marvel. ‘And imagine telling him you need him to cover your arse.’

  ‘Who are you?’ said Merry suspiciously from the living-room doorway. And then, before he could tell her, her eyes lighted on the tub in the man’s hand. ‘Have you got ice cream?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ He glanced at Jack. ‘I should have brought ice cream,’ he said. ‘I should have brought something.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Jack. ‘We didn’t expect anything from you.’

  ‘Who are you?’ said Merry again.

  ‘It’s Dad,’ said Jack bluntly.

  She frowned at the man. Took out her vampire teeth and looked him up and down.

  The beard. The dirty clothes. The red silk tie looped around his neck.

  ‘You got so tall, Merry!’ He stepped towards her, but she slid backwards around the doorframe to keep her distance.

  He stopped and touched his cheek and glanced at Jack. ‘It’s the beard. I’ll shave it off.’

  He smiled tentatively. They didn’t.

  He stared slowly around the scorched hallway, at the granulated carpet, the blistered front door. Then back at Merry.

  ‘What are you reading?’

  She looked at the book in her hand – her finger a bookmark – and read the cover to him. ‘It by Stephen King.’

  He frowned. ‘Aren’t you a bit young for that?’

  ‘It’s about clowns in the drains,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s not real.’

  He gave a shaky laugh. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said. ‘I’ve missed you all so much.’ His voice was filled with emotion, but his words went un-echoed.

  ‘Where have you been?’ said Merry.

  ‘Well … I went away for a little bit.’

  ‘For a long bit,’ she corrected him.

  ‘You’re right. For far too long. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Were you sad? Joy said you were sad.’

  ‘Yes I was,’ he nodded. ‘Very very sad. I felt … well, it doesn’t matter what I felt. I should never have gone. But every day I was gone I thought about you all and missed you all, and wanted to see you again.

  ‘I would have come home sooner but …’ He shrugged, then looked at Jack. ‘But I understand. I do understand.’

  Then he straightened up and smoothed down the tie as if preparing for a job interview. ‘But I’m home now. I’ll be better this time round. I promise.’

  He smiled at Merry, but she only stared back at him in blank solemnity.

  Jack opened his backpack. ‘I got you a suit,’ he said. ‘So you can get a job.’

  He hung it over the door to the front room. It was nice. Pale grey.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’ll have to get your own shoes.’

  ‘Daddy?’

  They all looked up.

  Joy stood in the living-room doorway, filthy and shining.

  She fell into her father’s arms, and he caught her.

  Toby Parrott didn’t pick up his phone for fifteen long minutes.

  Marvel knew exactly, because he made the increasingly sweaty Reynolds keep trying the number while they all waited for directions in the car.

  While they waited, Marvel planned his strategy.

  He didn’t know who’d answer the door at the Bright home, but he did know he didn’t have a warrant. Any other time he could have demanded entry to search for a prisoner escaped from custody. But this time – thanks to Reynolds – the prisoner had never officially been in custody and therefore could not be said to have escaped it. In fact, if he took a fancy, Jack Bright could probably sue the shit out of two police forces for keeping him in a cell without arrest or charge or even legal representation. And him a juvenile, too …

  So, although it wasn’t in his nature, Marvel knew he would have to proceed exceedingly carefully. Keep it cordial. Seek consent.

  It was irritating, but there it was.

  When Parrott finally did answer his phone, Reynolds spoke in low, clipped sentences, and hung up within the minute.

  ‘It’s on Blundell’s Road,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t have the number, but he says he’ll know it when he sees it, so he’s meeting us at the car showroom there.’

  Marvel started the engine and bumped off the kerb and swung the car in a squealing arc. He glanced at his sergeant’s anxiously jiggling knee.

  ‘Excited, Reynolds?’ he said. ‘Now you can catch Goldilocks twice.’

  In the warm summer twilight, they carried armfuls of newspapers from the house to the garden.

  At first it was a slow process: take a thick slice of newsprint from the canyon wall and carry it outside, where Arthur Bright was building them into a careful pyramid in the centre of the lawn. But the lower the canyon wall got, the more excited Joy became, and her excitement was infectious, so that within minutes all three of them were running in and out of the back door, giggling and bumping into each other in the doorway, shrieking at scuttling spiders, and slipping and sliding on fallen issues of The Times and the Daily Mail and the Tiverton Gazette.

  Slowly but surely, one canyon wall completely disappeared from the kitchen, leaving a broad strip of pale floor in its place.

  While Joy and Merry carried newspapers past him, Jack stood and stared at the floor – amazed that it had been there all along, and how easy it had been to find it. Then he hoisted another armful of papers off the counter and headed outside.

  Finally Arthur held up a hand. ‘I think that’s enough for now,’ he smiled.

  Jack, Joy and Merry watched him, bright-eyed and breathless, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of matches.

  ‘Stand clear now,’ he said.

  It was getting dark when Toby Parrott waved them down in the light that spilled from the showroom filled with luxury cars. Marvel had never seen a luxury car on the streets of Tiverton, and made a mental note to be very suspicious of the dealership when he next had the time.

  Parrott jogged over to them wearing a very old tracksuit – bobbly and too short in the ankle. He got in the back with Rice, and Marvel drove slowly out on Blundell’s Road.

  ‘I think that’s the one,’ said Toby Parrott, pointing.

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Reynolds.

  ‘As I can be.’

  ‘If it’s not that one, we can just knock on the neighbours’ doors,’ said Rice. ‘Someone will know them.’

  ‘It’s getting a bit late for that, isn’t it?’ said Reynolds.

  Marvel frowned at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘What’s wrong with you, man? We’re the police!’ He parked badly and they all got out.

  Marvel looked at the neat little terraced house. It was not what he’d expected. Then again, nothing about Goldilocks had been what he’d expected.

  The windows were clean and there was a four-foot strip of trimmed lawn behind a low
retaining wall.

  Spick and span, he thought.

  Then he sniffed the air. ‘Is that smoke?’

  The glass porthole in the front door was smashed, and through it they could hear the sound of a child sobbing as if its heart would break.

  Marvel stepped up to the door. He hesitated for a second, then leaned forward and looked through the porthole. Inside was very dark, but he could just about make out a small girl sitting on the floor of the hallway, holding a football to her chest and crying her eyes out.

  Marvel knocked on the door. The crying didn’t stop.

  He knocked again, more loudly.

  He wrinkled his nose and looked at Rice and Reynolds, who’d been joined by Parrott.

  Rice crossed the road to get a better view of the house. ‘Something’s on fire round the back, sir!’

  Marvel hammered on the door. ‘Oi!’ he said to the child. ‘Are you all right in there?’

  The child turned her face towards him and slowly shook her head. ‘No!’ she wailed, and went on crying.

  ‘Shit,’ said Marvel irritably. ‘Stand clear!’ He backed up a few paces and ran at the door. He hit it hard and bounced off, staggering backwards with his arms flailing.

  Reynolds grabbed him and stopped him from toppling over the little wall, just as a gaunt, unshaven man in a khaki T-shirt and a red silk tie opened the door.

  ‘Hello.’

  Marvel fumbled for his ID. ‘Mr Bright?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re looking for Jack.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Bright, and looked behind him, distracted by the kid still bawling on the floor. He turned and picked her up and came back to the door with her sitting in the crook of his elbow, still crying, and with her head on his shoulder. Now that she was closer, Marvel could see that what she was holding was not a football but a large tortoise with a patient look on its face, as if it had seen it all before.

  ‘She’s upset about the lawn,’ said Bright cryptically.

  ‘I just mowed it!’ wept the tear-stained child. ‘And now it’s on fire!’

  ‘It’ll grow back, Merry. I promise.’ He patted her back and explained to Marvel, ‘We’re having a bit of a clear-out.’