Darkside_ A Novel - Belinda Bauer [32]
'Of course,' said Cooke. 'Be my guests.'
'Not for a while, I hope,' said Marvel drily. Too drily, apparently, as nobody laughed.
He and Reynolds wandered through the large airy rooms where a few residents sat and did jigsaws or knitted. An old man with an oxygen mask on and ears so big he looked like a spaniel peered fixedly at an enormous television with the sound down so low that it was all but inaudible. Seemed that past a certain age, one functioning sense at a time was all any resident could really expect to enjoy.
Reynolds peered into a large aquarium. 'They've got a Japanese fighting fish in here. Beautiful.'
Marvel ignored him. Ridiculous hobby, fish-keeping. Making yourself a slave to guppies.
A middle-aged woman in a blue uniform bustled towards them and Marvel stopped and raised his eyebrows. 'Lynne Twitchett?'
'In the garden room, I think,' smiled the woman, pointing in the direction they were already heading.
The majority of the residents were in the garden room and Marvel understood why the moment they entered. It was hot. Saharan hot - even in the middle of winter. With its long windows and glass roof, the garden room was no more or less than a greenhouse for cultivating old folk. And it seemed to be working. At least two dozen old women with identical hair sat around the perimeter of the room, sunning themselves like lizards in wing chairs, sucking up the heat as if they'd outlived the capacity to make their own. Several of them wore hand-knitted cardigans and crocheted knee-rugs just to be on the safe side. A large tin of cheap biscuits was being passed around the room and examined at each station as if it were the Holy Grail. Ahead of the tin was all craning white heads and expectant muttering, behind it was silence and crumbs.
Lynne Twitchett sat at the upright piano against the far wall of the room, playing a faltering version of 'Jingle Bells' while perched on a piano stool. At least, Marvel assumed that was what she was sitting on. From behind it looked as if Lynne Twitchett's giant blue arse had simply sprouted four spindly wooden legs, so completely had her bulk consumed the rest of the furniture.
Reynolds leaned in to him and murmured, 'Who ate all the Jaffa Cakes?' - the first funny thing Marvel had ever heard come out of his mouth.
They talked to Lynne Twitchett for less than five minutes in the office. Her near-impenetrable Somerset accent made her sound like one of Marvel's yokels, but even Reynolds felt it was less a misleading anomaly than the cherry on the top of her dubious intellect.
Marvel loved dumb people. If guilty, they either confessed or were so transparent in their lies that there was never any doubt about their culpability. Similarly, if they were innocent it shone through despite their nerves or their rambling or their accidental self-incriminatory statements. Dumb people were a breeze and Lynne Twitchett was right up there with the breeziest he'd encountered. Added to which, he had discounted her as a suspect the moment they saw her; the thought of Ms Twitchett tiptoeing unnoticed past Annette Rogers, or bounding gracefully on to the lean-to roof, was comical. Reynolds thanked her and released her back into the greenhouse, where she would no doubt grow even bigger on a mulch of the residents' biscuits.
They found Gary Liss changing beds upstairs, where it was cooler and apparently empty of old folk.
Gary Liss was nothing like Marvel had imagined. He was a small and lithe thirty-five-year-old. He had dark hair, an olive complexion and narrow blue eyes. He looked like a circus acrobat who had been reassigned to bedpans and taken to them like a duck to water. He didn't miss a beat while they talked, and his military bed-making was hypnotic to watch. Marvel and Reynolds followed him from room to room asking their questions, and Gary Liss stripped beds, bundled dirty sheets, shook out fresh ones and then wound mattresses in them as neat and as tight as if he was working in the gift-wrap department of the Great Pyramid at Giza.