Latham shrugged. ‘I don’t know ….’
He was playing hard to get. Let him, thought Marvel. Let him play the innocent who wanted his day in court. They all knew different, but if Latham wanted to be dragged kicking and screaming to the deal by his lawyer to keep up the pretence, then let him. Marvel wanted Latham to suffer, but he wanted to know what had happened to Edie Evans more; it was as simple as that.
He got up. ‘How about I run this past the super so we know exactly where we stand? There’s no point in me offering it if he’s not going to go for it.’
‘Right,’ said Proctor.
Marvel left the room.
He walked to the machine and got a cup of soup and put two sugars in it.
He stood there until the soup had gone cool, then he dropped it into the bin marked NO LIQUIDS, and went back to Interview Three.
‘Took some doing,’ he said. ‘But the deal’s on the table.’
Proctor – whom Marvel noticed was now noticeably red in the face – said tightly, ‘My client has decided to decline your offer.’
‘What?’
Marvel looked at Latham. Unlike his lawyer, he looked pale and sick.
‘I don’t want to do it,’ he said.
The look that Marvel and Proctor exchanged was brief, but so transparent that they each knew in an instant what the other was thinking.
Nobody would turn down that offer but a fool or a guilty man.
Even Clyde got it.
‘Is he an idiot?’ he asked Marvel as they sat in his greasy mint office an hour later.
‘He’s being an idiot,’ said Marvel. ‘But no, sir, I don’t think he is one.’
‘Then he killed her,’ said Clyde firmly. ‘Or knows who did.’
Marvel nodded. ‘That’s my thinking too.’
‘But we have no evidence against him?’
‘Only his own claims that she is dead. Seen in psychic visions. And if he’s willing to take the drop for the dognapping thing rather than talk about it again, then where’s our leverage?’
Clyde sighed and shook his head with a pained expression on his face. ‘The CPS’ll never go for that. They’d laugh us out of court. Shit! What a bloody mess you’ve made of this, Marvel. You only wanted to get Latham for the dog thing because you couldn’t get him on this other case. And you do that even though I asked you not to and even though you throw me under the bloody bus.
‘And now, when you try to cut him loose and make everything better, he won’t be cut loose because either he really did kill the girl – which he’s never going to tell you – or because you’ve scared him so shitless that he thinks you’re trying to fit him up for murder! Now he’s screwed and I’m screwed and the only person who isn’t screwed is you!’
But Marvel felt screwed. Screwed by whoever really had stolen Edie Evans and really had killed her – whether by accident or design.
He had to try to salvage something from this mess.
‘I can go over Edie’s file again, sir—’
‘No,’ said Clyde.
Marvel adjusted his sights in an instant. ‘In my spare time. It’s still open. I could look at it right from the start with Latham at the middle. Alibis and witness statements—’
‘I said no.’
Marvel stopped talking and looked at Clyde’s face. It was oddly patient, despite his angry words. As if he knew what was coming, and it was worth waiting for.
And suddenly Marvel knew too. His heart dropped into the pit of his queasy guts as he realized what had happened. He’d spent so much of his life looking for weakness in others that he’d forgotten to disguise his own vulnerability. It was a mistake he would never make again, but he had made it now. He’d shown his hand – his chink – too easily, too often, and now his boss was going to punish him for it.
He understood the rules of the game.
He’d just never thought they applied to him.
‘Please …’ he started, and then stopped and finished the rest of the sentence in his head. Please don’t do this to her.
If Superintendent Robert Clyde read those words in John Marvel’s eyes, he ignored them.
‘I’m closing the Edie Evans case.’
37
EDIE STARED AT the door.
Her wonky Neil Armstrong stared back at her.
She had been sitting like this – not moving, cross-legged on her camp bed – for three hours, although she had no way of knowing that. Cross-legged in quivery stillness, her ears vibrating with the strain of listening for the man to return.
She also had no way of knowing that it was now eighteen hours since she had broken his hat, and he had stormed out and bolted the door behind him.
In her dry mouth, it felt like more.
Still he didn’t come.
Edie licked her lips, but her tongue was dry too.
And bigger. It felt bigger than before.
She got up slowly to check the jug again. Another dribble had collected in the bottom, but this time it was barely a few drops. The glass jug was heavy, but she held it tipped against her lips until her arms got tired.
Swallowing was difficult. It was like there was a lump of cotton wool in her throat. She had to gulp two or three times just to feel her swallow was still working.
Her legs ached. Even after she had stretched them, they ached.
She stretched them again anyway, and banged on the door. The sound was dead, like her shout had been that first time.
She shouted again anyway, but now her mouth was so dry that the sound that came out was shockingly small, even in this shockingly small room.
There were still four of the Bakewell tarts left, but although she was hungry again, she was wary of eating one. They cried out for a cup of tea.
Tea.
Her mother made good tea.
Her mother made good everything.
Edie’s face tingled with approaching tears, and when they rose on her lower lids, she collected them on her finger and swallowed them greedily, painfully.
But they brought no relief – only the faint taste of salt.
She returned to the big glass jug and ran a finger around the inside walls.