The Shut Eye (32 page)

‘So you’re off,’ said Clyde.

‘Yes,’ said Marvel. He had his box on his lap. There wasn’t much in it – his ashtray shaped like lungs, his
Reservoir Dogs
poster, and the photo of Edie Evans.

With her space face.

‘Taunton, eh?’ said Clyde, clapping his hands together like a vicar. ‘Fresh start. Lovely part of the world. We used to go walking there. Quantocks. Exmoor. Beautiful.’

Marvel said nothing. He had passed a sign for Taunton on the motorway once. Middle of fucking nowhere. Mile upon mile of grass and cow shit, peopled by bumpkins swigging cider and riding pigs to market.

Bizarrely, Taunton had been the only DCI transfer he could get in the whole country. He could have stepped back down to detective inspector and gone somewhere else in the Met, but he’d rather have died first. And he had no future here now at Lewisham. He didn’t need a psychic to tell him that.

There’d been several DCI posts in London and other major cities on the transfer lists, but by the time he’d made contact they’d all gone. Filled internally, he’d been told again and again.

And again.

After the fourth time, he’d called the recruitment officer at the West Midlands force and asked him what the hell was going on. In an accent that had made the rejection easier to bear, the officer had confirmed that the post had been filled internally. Then, at the end of their brief conversation, he’d asked Marvel to give his best to Robert Clyde.

That’s when Marvel had realized that leverage worked both ways; that Edie Evans had made a chink in him that was too big to fill or to hide. And that Clyde was calling in favours and pulling strings to herd him out of the city and into the sticks, just as surely as a sheep.

Finally, Marvel had felt a grudging respect for his superintendent.

Too late, of course.

‘Brady finished up the dog thing,’ said Clyde.

‘Yeah?’ Marvel no longer had any inclination to call him sir.

‘Yes,’ said Clyde, apparently unperturbed by the omission. ‘He cautioned Latham and Denise Granger and spoke to the boy’s parents. He really didn’t feel there was a need for anything more.’

He left Brady’s supposed opinion hanging there, almost inviting disagreement, but Marvel disagreed via the medium of silence.

‘He’s gunning for inspector,’ Clyde said.

Marvel mused. ‘Everybody’s moving up.’

‘That’s right,’ said Clyde impassively. ‘Everybody’s moving up.’

Marvel sighed. ‘You might want to give Aguda a chance,’ he said. ‘She’s too good for the desk.’

Clyde made a
maybe
face. He scribbled a blunt note with a sharp pencil, and Marvel wished he’d said something earlier, when his opinion might still have carried a bit of weight.

‘Brady should do OK,’ he added, over-generously.

‘Maybe’ said Clyde. ‘If he’s not too distracted.’

‘By what?’ said Marvel.

‘The baby,’ said Clyde. ‘His wife’s pregnant, you know?’

Marvel’s belly flip-flopped with memory.

Your wife is pregnant.

And you’re burning up in the ice and snow.

‘No,’ he managed faintly. ‘I didn’t know.’

Clyde got up and moved around him to the door, and after a long, paralysed moment, Marvel got slowly to his feet and walked out in a daze.

Across the squad room. Down in the lift. Through the foyer with his cardboard box.

If anybody else said goodbye to him, he didn’t hear them.

There was scaffolding on the roof of the Bickley Spiritualist Church.

Marvel parked his rental car and walked back to the grubby little church hall next to the King’s Arms.

He stood for several minutes, staring up at the new roof and wondering what percentage of it belonged to the Metropolitan Police.

The yellowing lights were on inside, although they were wan and watery through the filthy windows, and there was a soggy paper sign pinned to the split and peeling plywood noticeboard: THE DEAD ARE WAITING TO SPEAK TO YOU.

What bollocks
, thought Marvel, as he opened the door.

Inside the hall was tired and dingy, and there was a damp patch on the ceiling that looked like Africa.

Marvel put a tenner in a wooden bowl overseen by two frail old women, who panicked over it until someone came in behind him and they could make change.

He saw Richard Latham. The man was surrounded by a coterie of misfits and old folk, all gazing adoringly up into his face, or nodding like toys, listening in rapt attention to some story he was telling.

Marvel studied him. The medium was wearing a brown jumper with the label sticking out of the neck, beige slacks and scuffed black shoes.

If it
was
all about the money, Latham was hiding it well.

The man reached the climax of his story and his voice rose just enough so that Marvel could share it.

‘So I said, “
Come on, Whitney! You’re dead!
”’ Latham reached out a helping hand and his acolytes parted hurriedly, as if they’d been standing on Whitney without even knowing it. ‘And then I—’

Richard Latham froze as he met Marvel’s eyes across the blue-rinsed room. He stopped talking, lowered his arm and excused himself. Then he poked his glasses up on his nose, and left the knot of parishioners in the middle of the afterlife-and-death battle.

‘I never expected to see you here, Mr Marvel.’ The man’s forehead shone with nervous sweat, but – as usual – he was putting on a good show.

Marvel had been about to say something cutting about money and TV and dogs, but even as he opened his mouth he realized there was no point.

He had lost, and Latham had won, and both of those things were too insignificant to squabble over.

So he just shrugged and said, ‘I never expected to be here.’

Relief dawned on Latham’s face and, to his surprise, Marvel didn’t even regret putting it there.

‘I see you got your roof,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Latham. Then, after an awkward pause, he said, ‘Want to buy a bucket?’

Marvel snorted. He looked around at the threadbare carpet, the fake plastic flowers and the dusty crucifix. ‘Just thought I’d come in and see what all the fuss was about,’ he said.

‘That’s nice,’ said Latham sincerely. ‘You’re very welcome, Mr Marvel.’

Marvel nodded slowly. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ve seen it.’

‘You’re not staying for the open circle?’

‘Nah,’ said Marvel. ‘Ghosts are not my thing.’ He waved a vague hand in the direction of Africa.

‘Not your thing?’ Latham said gently. ‘After everything that happened?’

Marvel laughed and shook his head. ‘
Especially
after that!’ It was a knee-jerk response. If Marvel had thought about it, he might have said something different. Something more … measured. Although he had no idea what that might have been. Whether it would have been about everything that happened.

Or everything that
might
…

‘I don’t even know why I came in,’ he said a little angrily, feeling foolish in the face of his enemy.

But Latham opened his hands generously. ‘Everybody goes everywhere eventually, does everything. We all go round in circles, Mr Marvel. Maybe you’ll come again.’

Marvel gave him a wry look. ‘Maybe I’ve been before.’

‘Ha!’ said Latham. ‘Very good!’

Marvel headed for the door.

‘Remember, Chief Inspector …’

Marvel turned.

‘A circle never ends,’ said Richard Latham. ‘Even yours.’

Marvel walked out of the church and stood on the pavement opposite the brick parapet of Bickley Bridge.

The sun had set but the days were still long, and the twilit clouds had formed spectacular banks of fire and smoke against the fading blue.

Marvel couldn’t remember the last time he had looked at the sky.

He looked at it now, and felt better for it.

Maybe Taunton wouldn’t be so bad after all. He’d be a big fish in a small pool. Show the yokels a thing or two. And maybe they’d have some good murders there. Something he could get his teeth into. Maybe he could advance the forensics of pitchforks and slurry.

He snorted and turned towards his second church of the night, where the lights were already on to guide the faithful home.

As he did, his eye was caught by a family walking towards him. It was Anna and James Buck, with Daniel.

Anna still had hold of Daniel’s hand, while James pushed the buggy.

Marvel watched them. He wouldn’t have said anything, but Anna saw him and waved, so he crossed the road.

They met at the spot where they had first met six months before, on that bitter night – both Valentine’s cheats, flirting with drink and death.

Anna kissed his cheek again, and James shook his hand, and Daniel hid behind Anna’s leg and watched him from there.

Marvel ignored the buggy. It was just too weird.

He asked after James’s legs. They were healing up well; he’d have scars, but that’s why God invented trousers. He asked how Daniel was settling in and Anna must have told him, but he couldn’t remember any of it, because she was so
different
. Everything about her was so filled with life and joy that he could barely believe that this person had been inside her all along, just hidden by pain and loss.

He remembered how the orange light had fallen on her bare, goosebumpy arm on that frigid February night – right here on this bridge – and wondered whether she was thinking about it too.

She didn’t look as if she ever thought about it, and that made Marvel oddly happy.

Anna Buck was beautiful – anyone could see.

She was still talking, and he was still not quite hearing, when she bent over the buggy and pushed back the hood.

With a sense of dread, Marvel looked down at a bag of cement.

‘We got Blue Circle,’ said James. ‘For old times’ sake.’

They all laughed then, and Marvel caught up with the fact that they were on their way to fill in the five footprints.

‘Danny’s going to do it, aren’t you, Dan? He made ’em, he’s going to fix ’em!’

Daniel poked his head out from behind Anna just long enough to nod happily at his father.

‘Better get off before it gets dark, then,’ said Marvel.

They said goodbye and the little family carried on down Northborough Road. Marvel went to cross over to the King’s Arms.

‘Edie’s in space!’

Marvel’s heart pumped a jolt of pure electricity. He turned to look at Daniel.

The boy was still holding Anna’s hand, but had stopped at arm’s length to stare back at him with a fathomless blue gaze.

‘
What?
’ Marvel choked, even though they had all heard it. ‘
What?
’

Daniel only ducked shyly against Anna’s leg, hiding his face.

‘
Daniel—?
’ Anna started, but Marvel held up a hand to stop her.

Suddenly, he didn’t want to hear any more than he already had.

Didn’t want to live with a different truth.

Edie was in space.

That was all he wanted to know.

Belinda Bauer
grew up in England and South Africa and now lives in Wales. She worked as a journalist and a screenwriter before finally writing a book to appease her nagging mother. With her debut,
Blacklands
, Belinda was awarded the CWA Gold Dagger for Crime Novel of the Year. She went on to win the CWA Dagger in the Library for her body of work in 2013. Her fourth novel,
Rubbernecker
, was voted 2014 Theakston Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year. Her books have been translated into twenty-one languages.

For more information visit
www.belindabauer.co.uk
or
@BelindaBauer

Blacklands

Darkside

Finders Keepers

Rubbernecker

The Facts of Life and Death

For more information on Belinda Bauer and her books, see her website at
www.belindabauer.co.u

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First published in Great Britain by Bantam Press an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Belinda Bauer 2015

Belinda Bauer has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

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Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781448170791
ISBNs 9780593072875

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