Darkside_ A Novel - Belinda Bauer [68]
The killer watched the hounds pass under the streetlights and wink out in the darkness beyond as if they had never existed. Only a broad swathe of churned snow up the centre of the road bore testament to their reality.
The killer sighed as if he had lost something dear to him.
Then he stepped carefully into the ruined snow and walked home without leaving a trail.
Six Days
Marvel and Reynolds moved from room to room in silence.
Gorse, Hazel and Moss.
Violet Eaves, Bridget Hammond and Lionel Chard.
Each had died without waking. Their covers were untrammelled, their hands lay calmly at their sides; Bridget Hammond still held a delicately embroidered handkerchief crumpled loosely in her palm.
From cursory inspection, Marvel surmised that each had been rendered unconscious or killed outright by a single mighty blow to the head. Then the killer had made sure by smothering them with their own pillows.
Marvel thought of the killer's rough hand on the frail faces, holding it there until he was sure each was lifeless. Then moving on.
Marvel thought this, but said nothing. He did not trust himself. And he could barely hear himself think for the hoarse whispers of the dead. Avenge me! Avenge me!
Reynolds had his notebook out and for once Marvel was grateful. His own head was so full of the horror that he felt he'd need to empty it like a waste basket before he could actually sit down and start to make sense of the carnage.
Downstairs he could hear the sound of crying. Lynne Twitchett had been crying since they had arrived, less than ten minutes after getting the call from Jonas Holly. The other residents cried spasmodically, and when they weren't crying they were comforting others who were, in quavering, tremulous voices that might as well have been weeping. Rupert Cooke had arrived red-eyed just after he and Reynolds had, and had continued to burst into tears every few minutes after that. The Reverend Chard was trying to offer words of comfort, while openly weeping at the loss of his own father.
Mayhem on wheels.
It seemed the only person not actively crying was Jonas Holly, and Marvel thought that might well be because the young constable was in shock. He had been called by Lynne Twitchett, and met Marvel and Reynolds at the door. He had taken them through his preservation of the scene in a low, careful voice. He had made sure everyone stayed in their rooms as far as was possible with confused old folk, and had asked Rupert Cooke to call all his relief staff in to help organize things in case the home had to be evacuated to allow the investigation to continue.
He had ensured that there were no other casualties in the first- or second-floor bedrooms and had kept people from moving about the house unnecessarily. He had taken off his boots. 'I thought they might be able to get prints off the carpets.' He shrugged sadly.
Jonas Holly had done a good job. Dully Marvel recognized that he'd done a similarly good job in most respects at the scene of Margaret Priddy's murder, for which he'd received no credit. Ah well, life wasn't fair.
The young constable had written everything in his notebook and kept referring to it for much longer than seemed necessary - kept staring at the pages as if he'd lost his place. At one point Marvel had become impatient and nearly snatched the notebook from him, but then he'd seen the man's Adam's apple working in his throat, and he'd given him the extra time he'd apparently needed to be able to speak without his voice breaking into a million pieces.
He felt close himself. Close to tears. He had never cried on a job - never even felt his bottom lip wobble in time to the grief around him.
But this ...
This was ...
Just.
Tragic.
The old people, helpless in their beds, their spectacles and teeth on their nightstands.
He remembered Lionel Chard, peering at the TV.
Countdown.
Big ears.
He wanted to punch a hole in Gary Liss's face with his bare hands. The nurse had disappeared. Never come down from wreaking havoc on the first floor. It all made sense now. It always did when it was far