Darkside

The dark little courtyard behind the shop contained a few wheelie bins, some old beer barrels filled with soil which Mr Jacoby laughingly referred to as ‘the garden’, and a recycling box filled with glass bottles. The back of the courtyard was hemmed by a high fence, above which a spray of brambles formed an effective barrier. The only way out – other than through the back door into the shop – was over a four-foot-high stone wall between this property and the next. Footprints in the snow showed that that was where the stranger had gone. Jonas’s heart started to race. The man had climbed over the wall and must have gone down the matching passage that ran along the side of the neighbouring house, rather than turn around to face him. It was not the action of a casual visitor who’d taken a wrong turning.

Jonas was about to vault the wall and go after him, when he heard a car burst into life out on the road.

Shit.

He ran back down the alleyway, slipping awkwardly on the cobbles. He overshot the pavement and skidded to a halt in the middle of the white road, looking up and down the narrow street.

There was no sign of the man or the car.

Shit again.

Jonas went back to the exit of the second alleyway and followed the distinctive herringbone footprints to a new gap between the parked cars. The fresh tyre tracks were still clear and snow-free – and had a loop in them before straightening up, which showed that the car had fishtailed. A quick getaway.

Jonas felt stupid. He should have got closer and followed the man into the alleyway immediately. Instead he’d assumed he would turn around and come back out. In his head he heard his old English teacher, Mrs O’Leary: Assume makes an ass out of u and me.

Jonas was just not used to being that suspicious – even of strangers. The thought that he might have lost the killer because he hadn’t wanted to face the social awkwardness of confronting him in Mr Jacoby’s ‘garden’ made him squirm.

He walked briskly up to the school, then back down to Margaret Priddy’s without catching a glimpse of another person, let alone the stranger. The snow kept everyone indoors. At least he’d got a look at the man: his stature, his clothing, his style of walking, with its short townie steps. Probably late thirties to early forties. He’d recognize him again. Maybe.

He considered telling Marvel, then immediately discounted the idea. On the face of it, all he’d done was desert his post on a smidgeon of a hunch and a barrowful of boredom – and he had nothing to show for it. All he’d be doing would be inviting Marvel to have another pop at him. So far the man hadn’t needed any excuse; Jonas didn’t feel like giving him one now.

Jonas sighed. The deaths of Margaret Priddy and Yvonne Marsh felt like his first real challenges as an officer of the law, and he was failing at every aspect of their investigation. He couldn’t even tail a suspect successfully in his own village – even in the snow.

As if to mock him, the snow started again, quickly filling in the herringbone footprints.

Jonas got back to his doorstep thoroughly defeated.

As though she’d known he would fail, Linda Cobb immediately opened the door and handed him his mug.

* * *

Reynolds felt well disposed towards Jonas Holly for no other reason than that Marvel didn’t.

He was on his way to get fish and chips at the Blue Dolphin when he saw Jonas standing on the doorstep with his hands around a mug. He pulled the car over and got out.

‘Hi,’ he said, sticking out his hand. Jonas took it and Reynolds could feel the residual warmth of the mug.

‘You know, we haven’t been properly introduced, what with all that’s going on. I’m DS Reynolds.’

‘Jonas Holly,’ said Jonas, wondering what Reynolds wanted.

But he didn’t seem to want anything very much.

‘Local officers are a big help to us,’ said Reynolds.

‘Yeah?’ said Jonas, raising a wry eyebrow.

‘If you’ve not been given that impression then I’m sorry,’ said Reynolds carefully. ‘But if you have any concerns or would like to talk about any aspect of this case, please give me a call.’

He took out a card and handed it to Jonas. ‘My mobile number’s on there.’

Jonas looked at the card, which was too thick to be standard police issue. Reynolds must have had his own made.

‘OK,’ he said. ‘I will. Thanks.’

Reynolds started to turn away.

‘I saw a stranger,’ Jonas blurted. Immediately he realized how dumb it must sound to the ears of someone not living in a tiny village.

Either way, he described what had happened.

Reynolds listened to Jonas’s story with an interested look on his face, and made sketchy notes – ‘waxed hat’, ‘long coat’, ‘herringbone prints’, ‘ducked into alleyway’ – all the time feeling faintly ridiculous at the amateur-sleuth nature of the whole thing.

‘I don’t know if it’s relevant,’ said Jonas at the end, and Reynolds guessed that it wasn’t. Hopping over a low wall was hardly jumping the wire on a motorbike.