Part 13 (1/2)

Jonas said he'd be back on the doorstep tomorrow and would drop it by then.

'And you're doing this too too?' she said, waving her arm at the street.

Jonas agreed that he was, and the look she gave him made everything worthwhile - even having to leave Lucy alone. With any luck the news would be all round s.h.i.+pcott tomorrow that he was making night patrols. If a killer was out there, maybe it would make him think twice.

For the same reason he dropped into the Red Lion and was greeted so warmly that yesterday's impressions did seem to be no more than paranoia. He felt foolish. Everyone in the bar now seemed to know that he had jumped into the freezing stream and tried to revive Yvonne Marsh, and clamoured to buy him a drink. When he told them he was on duty and explained about the night patrols, the atmosphere grew even warmer.

'Good thinking, Jonas,' said Mr Jacoby to general agreement, and Graham Nash brought over a coffee on the house.

The talk in the pub was all about the deaths. Murders, they called them both already, because n.o.body believed that Yvonne Marsh had lived all her life in s.h.i.+pcott but had chosen this this week to fall into the stream and drown. Jonas couldn't disagree, although he wouldn't speculate out loud for them. They didn't mind; having Jonas be the voice of reason would only have spoiled their theories. week to fall into the stream and drown. Jonas couldn't disagree, although he wouldn't speculate out loud for them. They didn't mind; having Jonas be the voice of reason would only have spoiled their theories.

'I reckon it's some nutter from Tiverton,' said old Jack Biggins of the cow-and-gate incident. His macro-xenophobia meant that everyone beyond Dulverton was a suspect.

'Could be anyone just pa.s.sing through,' suggested Billy Beer, vaguely enough for the others to feel confident in disagreeing with him.

'Now if that were that were it,' said Graham Nash, 'we'd have noticed him.' Which was true, thought Jonas, because a stranger in a village this size in the middle of winter stuck out like a sore thumb. it,' said Graham Nash, 'we'd have noticed him.' Which was true, thought Jonas, because a stranger in a village this size in the middle of winter stuck out like a sore thumb.

'Maybe one of our own turned bad then,' shrugged Stuart Beard.

Beard was the kind of man whose opinion usually attracted sage nods all round, but Jonas noted that this time there were only a few careful grunts of agreement, noticeably half-hearted enough for him to look up and see that Clive Trewell - father of Skew Ronnie - was sat in the window nursing a half.

Jonas went over to him and said h.e.l.lo.

Ronnie Trewell had been a good kid but was growing up all wrong, and Clive Trewell was not used to speaking to Jonas Holly in anything other than an official capacity.

Clive blamed himself; he'd encouraged his son to take driving lessons, and driving lessons had been like lighting a blue touch paper for Ronnie Trewell. Some people had a calling. They were called to be missionaries in Africa; they were called to find delicate art hidden in marble blocks; they were called to open their homes to hedgehogs or stray cats. Ronnie Trewell was called to drive. Very fast. And because he couldn't afford anything faster than a thirteen-year-old Ford Fiesta with the weekly wage he earned at Mr Marsh's car-repair garage, he was called to steal those very fast cars.

Teased away from school because of his lopsided walk, caused by an uncorrected club foot, Skew Ronnie had achieved the wherewithal to steal cars, but not the guile to hide the fact. He would simply drive around in his Fiesta until he saw a car he wanted to drive. Then he would steal it, leaving his Fiesta in its place, keys in the ignition for convenience's sake. It did not take Sherlock Holmes to work out whodunit. But depending on where Ronnie Trewell had stolen the car from, it did sometimes take a little while for the police to come knocking on the door. During that time Ronnie would drive at breakneck speed across the moors, and when he wasn't actually driving the stolen car, he was modifying, tuning and customizing it in his dad's garage. Given that he didn't steal the cars to sell - and that the cars were always recovered eventually - it was this curious aspect of the crimes, coupled with his youth, which had so far kept nineteen-year-old Ronnie Trewell away from hard-core custodial sentences. Owners who had their cars returned in better condition than when they were stolen were disinclined to press charges. The owner of an old but sporty Honda CRX discovered a rusty wheel-arch had been excised, welded and expertly re-sprayed. A woman in Taunton was delighted to have her Toyota MR2 returned with a new, satisfyingly throaty exhaust fitted, and the owner of an Alfa Romeo GTV was so impressed by his reclaimed car's improved performance that he sent Ronnie a thank-you note.

Clive knew that Ronnie couldn't help himself. He had tried to teach him right from wrong but, when it came to cars, it just hadn't taken. Something in his son needed those needed those cars the way other people needed braces or spectacles. Each car Ronnie stole became part of him; he put his heart, soul and all his meagre spare cash into it. And every time the police sent a tow truck to take away a stolen car, Ronnie stood in the road and cried. cars the way other people needed braces or spectacles. Each car Ronnie stole became part of him; he put his heart, soul and all his meagre spare cash into it. And every time the police sent a tow truck to take away a stolen car, Ronnie stood in the road and cried.

PC Holly had made half a dozen visits to the Trewell home in the past two years, so Clive was prepared.

'Them other police already talked to Ronnie!' he said - and was taken aback when Jonas started to talk not about Ronnie, but about Dougie.

'Did he tell you what happened yesterday?'

Clive's heart sank. Not Dougie too! Not Dougie too! But then he listened in amazement as Jonas told him about the part his younger son had played in the drama down behind the playing field. But then he listened in amazement as Jonas told him about the part his younger son had played in the drama down behind the playing field.

'Didn't say a word!' he said.

When he'd first stood up, Jonas had fully intended to quiz Clive Trewell about Ronnie. Where he was. Where he'd been. What he'd been doing. But when he'd got close to the man and seen the sad, wary look in his eyes as he approached, he'd lost the stomach for it.

Instead he talked up Dougie - told Clive what a good lad he had there - and then brought the surprised man a drink before saying goodnight and heading back out on patrol.

Before he did, he went into the gents' toilets.

There was no message.

The night was clear and bitter and the stars were close overhead. The street had emptied of dog-walkers and was awaiting the early exodus from the Red Lion, after which it would finally rest for the night.

Without thinking why, Jonas walked towards the Trewell home, skidding more than once on the ice that had already formed on the narrow pavement.

He had no great suspicion that Ronnie Trewell was involved in the murders. He knew he was only going to speak to him now because Ronnie was the only person in s.h.i.+pcott whom anyone could logically accuse of any wrongdoing that went beyond poor parking or leaving the bins out too early. He worked for Alan Marsh, certainly, but Jonas wasn't setting much store by that. Talking to him seemed sensible - that was all. Marvel may have done it already but Marvel wasn't local, so anything anyone told him or his team was necessarily open to improvement.

Jonas turned up Heather View - a name which always made him smile because, unless you stuck your head in a cupboard, there was nowhere in s.h.i.+pcott that didn't didn't offer a heather view. The short, steep lane ended in a dead end of frozen mud in front of the stile beside the Trewell home, which consisted of a tiny, ugly bungalow and a vast double garage. It seemed that even the buildings of his childhood home had conspired to lure Ronnie into following his calling. offer a heather view. The short, steep lane ended in a dead end of frozen mud in front of the stile beside the Trewell home, which consisted of a tiny, ugly bungalow and a vast double garage. It seemed that even the buildings of his childhood home had conspired to lure Ronnie into following his calling.

Dougie answered the door and looked concerned to see Jonas.

'All right?' he said carefully.

'All right, Dougie. Warm now?' said Jonas and the boy smiled faintly. 'Can I come in for a minute?'

'OK,' said Dougie.

The house smelled old and cold. The front room was devoid of furniture apart from an oversized green vinyl sofa and a large TV with wires pouring from the back like entrails, and connected to various speakers, games consoles, DVD players and satellite receivers strewn about the dirty carpet.

'I haven't done anything wrong,' said Ronnie instantly. He sat on the floor while a white-muzzled greyhound took up the whole length of the sofa behind his head. The dog lifted its nose and looked at Jonas with its solemn, blue-sheened eyes, then lay flat again.

'I know,' said Jonas, standing in the doorway. Dougie hovered a little nervously between the two of them, unsure of whose side he should be on.

'Then why are you here?' Ronnie put down the game control he'd been holding in his lap and turned away from Jonas to pet the dog. The vast, flat animal lifted its front leg off the sofa so Ronnie could tickle its armpit.

'She likes that,' said Jonas.

'Yeah,' said Ronnie. And then - after a long pause - 'You told me that.'

'What?'

Ronnie spoke with his back to Jonas but his voice was softened by the contact with the greyhound, which lay stiff-legged, hypnotized by pleasure.

'You told me dogs like their armpits tickled.'

'Yeah?' Jonas was puzzled. 'When?'

Ronnie shrugged one shoulder. 'Dunno. When I was a kid.'

Jonas had no recollection of it. He only vaguely recalled Ronnie Trewell as a child - marked out by his limp - hanging around on the edges of everything, never excluded but never really involved either.

He watched the teenager's callused, oil-stained fingers gently stroke the most tender skin the dog had to offer.

'How old is she?' he asked.

'Twelve,' said Dougie, relieved at this new non-confrontational turn in the conversation. 'She used to race. She had tattoos in her ears but they cut them out when they dumped her.'

Jonas saw the dog's cloudy eyes widen and its whole body stiffen as Ronnie lifted its ear to show where the delicate drape of silken flesh had been brutally sliced to prevent identification and responsibility.