Part 21 (1/2)

Now Marvel found that, while Paul Angell asked why he hadn't been kept advised of the status of the hunt for Gary, he was suddenly transfixed by the hand of the old lady who had asked Trinny if she remembered 'Cheek To Cheek'. The hand had been clapping and Marvel had seen its palm. Just briefly. He wasn't even sure why his eye had been caught. Now he listened with half an ear and answered Angell with half a brain, while both his eyes watched the old, lined hand touch the arm of the chair, then reach for the biscuit tin, then poke at the selection with one bony finger, then lift the biscuit to the old-lady mouth-- Marvel stepped around Angell and gripped her by the wrist.

'Oh!' she said and dropped the biscuit. It fell on her chest and then to her lap. A Bourbon.

Marvel turned her palm up as though he were about to read it. There was a dirty smudge in the middle of it. Red-brown. It might have been chocolate.

'Reynolds!'

Marvel turned and looked at Angell. 'Get my sergeant for me. Now!'

He looked back at the scared-looking old woman. 'What's your name?'

'Mrs Betty t.i.thecott,' she answered tremulously.

'Here, leave her alone,' said Trinny next door.

Marvel ignored Trinny and softened his tone, but still held the squirming hand in his. 'I just need to have a look at your hand, all right, Betty? I'm not going to hurt you.'

She met his eyes and nodded. Her hand relaxed.

'This mark,' he said. 'What have you touched?'

'Nothing,' said Betty, her eyes watery and confused.

There was a similar, smaller stain inside her thumb.

Lynne Twitchett approached a little nervously. 'Is something wrong?'

'No,' said Marvel curtly and heard Reynolds hurrying into the room.

'What's up, sir?'

Marvel turned the hand up so Reynolds could see it, and was gratified to hear a surprised expletive. He rubbed his thumb across the smudge and a small amount of colour transferred itself. Whatever Betty had touched, she had touched it recently.

'She says she hasn't touched anything. Look around, will you?'

Reynolds did, checking the arms of the wing chair, the head-rest, the handles of a Zimmer which was on standby for take-off a few feet away.

'Can you hold your hand up for me, Betty?'

She nodded and he let go of her wrist.

Everyone in the room was watching them now. Behind him Marvel could hear a hum of low mutterings: 'What's going on?' 'What's going on?' ... ... 'What's he doing to Betty?' 'What's he doing to Betty?' ... ... 'Where are the biscuits?' 'Where are the biscuits?'

Betty s.h.i.+fted in her seat, careful not to move her hand much, and Marvel saw her walking stick hooked over the arm of her chair, right near the back where it would be out of the way.

He looked around for something to pick it up with and started to lift the rug off Betty's knees. Her smudged hand clapped down to her lap to keep her rug and her modesty in place, so instead he yanked his own tie off and used it carefully to pick up the stick.

'Reynolds.'

Reynolds came over and Marvel held the walking stick up to the light. It was made of stout wood, the handle of tooled bra.s.s - stained brownish-red.

And near the end was a small but unmistakable clump of white hair.

He had his murder weapon.

He had his suspect.

Marvel thought of the line from 'Amazing Grace'.

I once was lost, but now I'm found.

That was him. Lost, then found. Dark, then light. Drunk, then sober. The moment he saw those strands of white stuck to the end of the cane, Marvel knew he didn't have to drink any more. He would would, but he didn't have have to. Not on this case, at least. to. Not on this case, at least.

It had been getting out of hand anyway. Last night he and Joy had had a barney because she'd got all maudlin about Something with an R and, instead of sympathizing, he'd asked if she had any ice. She'd thrown a gla.s.s at him and he'd said something mean about Dubonnet ...

What the h.e.l.l was he doing getting into an argument with some lonely old drunk over ice and Dubonnet? He should have his head examined.

Lost and found.

As long as things progressed in that order, Marvel felt he was doing a reasonable job with his life.

All day long, while he clambered over debris and peered through shed windows on the off-chance of finding Gary Liss, Jonas worried about the notes.

The first had been oblique: Call yourself a policeman? Call yourself a policeman?

The second had been personal: Do your job, crybaby Do your job, crybaby.

The third - in the wake of a triple murder - could no longer be seen as anything but a warning: If you won't do your job, then I'll do it for you If you won't do your job, then I'll do it for you.

But he was was doing his job! This time the killer was wrong! He'd started his night patrols, and now he was properly part of the investigation by day, too. They even had a suspect lined up. How could the killer - or anyone - accuse him of no longer doing his job? doing his job! This time the killer was wrong! He'd started his night patrols, and now he was properly part of the investigation by day, too. They even had a suspect lined up. How could the killer - or anyone - accuse him of no longer doing his job?

But the threatening tone of this note was unmistakable, and Jonas knew he could no longer hide behind previous ambiguity.

The time had come to speak to Marvel.

The killer couldn't keep hiding for ever. Things were closing in. Things were catching up with him. Memories pressed against the ceiling of his subconscious like desperate sailors in the hold of a doomed s.h.i.+p.

He was no longer sure he could hold it all together. Some part of him had once imagined some connection with the policeman/protector; there had been times when he had wondered if they might one day be on the same team. Work side by side.

But Jonas was still stubbornly ineffective where it really mattered.

The bodies were piling up.

The wrong people were dying and it just wasn't fair fair. It just wasn't right right.

Something had to give.