The Shut Eye (23 page)

One of the cages was empty.

‘Must’ve been where she kept Mitzi,’ Marvel went on.

The super only grunted. Marvel had never seen anybody less happy to get a thousand pounds back.

Eventually Clyde spoke – staring at a miniature Schnauzer. ‘Has she confessed?’

‘Like the fucking pope!’ Marvel said gleefully. He handed Clyde the same flyer that had lured Anna Buck out of the house. ‘Nice little business. Kid steals the dogs, Granger looks after them. Then they drop church leaflets through a few doors in the area where the dogs were nicked.
Have you lost a loved one?
Blah blah blah. Depending on what the owner does, they either sell the dog on for cash, or Latham keeps the owner on the hook for a while for donations and then they collect the reward.’

No questions asked
. The words hung in the air so loudly that even Marvel didn’t think there was any mileage in repeating them.

Clyde stared at the dogs for a moment, then said, ‘I’m Catholic, Chief Inspector,’ and walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

Marvel rolled his eyes at his crappy luck and followed him downstairs to the hallway of the small terraced house.

Through the open door into the lounge he could see three lanky teenagers crammed together on the sofa – two girls and a boy. Despite their mother’s arrest and the police in the house and the stolen dogs upstairs, all he saw in their eyes was the reflection of the TV screen.

Clyde spoke without looking at Marvel. ‘She’s implicated Latham by name?’

‘Yes, sir. And the kid’s the grandson of a neighbour. Bloody Spurs fans.’ He stopped quickly in case the Super was a Catholic
and
a Spurs fan, but if he was, he didn’t say so.

‘So,’ Marvel counted charges off on his fingers. ‘We’ve got theft of property, extortion, misrepresentation, obtaining pecuniary advantage by deception, conspiracy to defraud.’ He paused, then added, ‘Obstruction of justice …’

The Super gave him a chilly stare. ‘I’ll tell you all you’ve got, Marvel. Three defendants, one of them a minor, another one a mother of three who works at M and bloody S, and an old man who was once paid two thousand pounds by this very department. Workload – huge; chance of convictions – maybe five per cent. Sentences – a slap on the wrist all round if we’re lucky. Publicity – bloody terrible. All over a lost dog that you promised to find quickly and discreetly as a
personal fucking favour
.’

The super’s voice had increased in intensity to the point where even the teenagers were staring at him now, like three wise monkeys on a sofa. The one with the remote had even hit Mute, in order to hear him better.

The super glanced round, then leaned into the room and pulled the door shut on them. ‘You couldn’t let it go, could you?’ he hissed. ‘Even after I
told
you.’

Marvel understood the super’s anger. Clyde’s transgression was not big, but it was potentially very damaging. Any half-smart lawyer would point out his failure to carry out a proper investigation at any trial, to try to discredit the department, and it
was
a discredit. At Clyde’s rank – at his time of life – a black mark on his record would put the brakes on any further progress he’d hoped to make.

‘There’s still time to stop this,’ said the super.

Marvel hesitated. There was still time, and he knew it. All he had to do was give Denise Granger a caution, scare the kid, give Latham notice to cease and desist, and return the dogs. That would keep the whole thing out of court, and he’d be on easy street – cherry-picking his cases and almost certain of that promotion, whether he deserved it or not.

But he’d lose any leverage he’d ever have on Richard Latham regarding the Edie Evans case.

Marvel sighed deeply. He’d always rubbed people up the wrong way; he was a throwback whose face didn’t fit the new, modern police force peopled by short men with degrees and vegetarian lesbians. He hadn’t always made the right friends, said the right things, kissed the right arses.

Now the super was offering him a chance to change all that, and all he had to do was …
nothing
.

He didn’t really have a choice.

‘I’m arresting him,’ he said.

Superintendent Clyde stared at him in disbelief, then glanced at the door to the living room. ‘This isn’t about stolen dogs and you know it! It’s about your obsession with Edie Evans.’

Marvel couldn’t even deny it. ‘Latham knows more about her than he’s told us.’

‘If he knew any more, he’d have told you when you were
paying
him to tell you.’

‘Not if
he
killed her.’

‘What do you mean?’

Marvel wasn’t sure what he meant. The words had fallen out of his mouth before his brain had even engaged. But now that they were out there, they started to make sense to him. And something –
anything
– making sense right now felt like a breath of fresh air.

He looked over his shoulder at the living-room door and lowered his voice. ‘Look what he did with Mitzi. Kidnapped her and made money off the back of it. Not just reward money, but people coming into the church every week, paying for private consultations, making donations to that bloody roof until – lo and behold – the dog is returned, just as he said it would be. And all of it stroking his ego. Building his reputation as a psychic. Earning him money.’

‘So?’ Clyde looked unimpressed.

‘So,’ said Marvel, ‘think about Edie Evans. What if he kidnapped her, only so that he could
find
her?’

Clyde blinked in surprise and Marvel hurried on. ‘All of a sudden he’s on TV, being a big shot. The numbers at the church go into orbit. His ego goes into orbit. All he has to do is waffle about gardens and rolling white wheels for a while and then lead us to her and he’s got it made. A bigger church; a TV series; books, videos, movies, the lot. After that he’s always going to be the psychic who found Edie Evans.’

‘So what went wrong?’ said Clyde.

‘I don’t know! But
something
. Maybe something beyond his control. Maybe an accident. She fell, she choked …’ Marvel took a deep breath. ‘Or maybe he just snapped and killed her.’

Clyde was silent. The sound of
The X Factor
seeped through the living-room door. Bad singing, and an audience chanting
Off! Off! Off!

Marvel said urgently, ‘But we’ll never know if we don’t have this to hold over his head. I need him in a room, under pressure, distracted by the immediate threat, and with his eye off the bigger ball. Make him slip up on one thing when he’s concentrating on hiding the other.’

‘So let me get this right,’ said Clyde slowly. ‘You’d throw me under the bus on the off-chance of getting some tiny scrap of information you don’t even know would be useful – from a
psychic
.’

Marvel said nothing and Clyde’s lips tightened bitterly. ‘You know, you can arrest a hundred people for a throusand stupid little things, and it will never change the fact that
you’re
the one who failed Edie Evans.’

Marvel bumped the super’s shoulder hard as he brushed past him on his way to the front door. As he reached for the handle, Clyde hissed, ‘You’re opening a
whole
can of worms, Marvel.’

Marvel yanked the door open and said, ‘I hope so.’

‘
THIS IS A
bit beneath you, isn’t it, Chief Inspector?’

‘I’m not proud,’ said Marvel. ‘I’ll talk to anyone, me.’

‘Not me,’ said Richard Latham. ‘I’ll wait for my solicitor, if you don’t mind.’

Latham didn’t look half as cocky without a toasted teacake in front of him, but he was still putting on a good show in Interview Three.

‘Suit yourself,’ said Marvel, but he sat down anyway and added, ‘Mrs Granger didn’t wait for
her
solicitor.’

‘I’m sorry?’

He’d heard him. But Marvel said it again anyway. ‘Mrs Granger didn’t wait for her solicitor.’

‘I don’t think I know a Mrs Granger.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I don’t—’ Latham stopped and Marvel grinned at him. Latham leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

Marvel could barely hide his self-satisfaction. Then decided he couldn’t be bothered to. ‘I
knew
you were hiding something, Latham. Didn’t I say so, Brady?’

DS Brady nodded at the psychic. ‘He said you were hiding something.’

‘Turns out it was nothing special after all. Nothing clever. Nothing
supernatural
. Just common or garden theft and deception.’ Marvel gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Mrs Granger is the lady who looked after all those dogs you pretended to find, Mr Latham.’

‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ said Latham. ‘So I’d prefer to wait for my solicitor before getting this matter cleared up, thank you.’

‘Of course,’ said Marvel. ‘It shouldn’t take long once we get going; Mrs Granger’s given us chapter and verse.’

Latham pursed his lips. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead he stared at the ceiling for a bit. Then he said, ‘Chapter and verse. That’s an interesting turn of phrase.’

Marvel ignored the invitation to ask
why
. He sipped the coffee he’d brought in with him and looked at his watch.

‘One Corinthians,’ Latham went on. ‘Fifteen twenty-six.
The last enemy to be destroyed is death
.’

‘What’s your point?’ said Marvel.

‘Are you a religious man, Chief Inspector?’

‘No.’

‘Aaah,’ sighed Latham, ‘you will be one day. Everybody gets there in the end.’

Marvel snorted. ‘Are you a betting man?’

‘No.’

‘Lucky for you,’ said Marvel. ‘I’d win.’

‘Even as you lost,’ said Latham sadly.

Marvel yawned. ‘How long did your solicitor say he’d be?’

‘About an hour.’

‘From when?’

‘About an hour ago.’

‘Good,’ said Marvel, and opened the case file.

Marvel would have felt naked walking into an interview without a case file, so he’d hastily put one together on Mitzi Clyde, although it consisted of little more than a few photos and the recovered cheque, so it was necessarily thin.

Latham laughed, but it sounded short and hollow in this small, featureless room. ‘I see you have
lots
of evidence against me, Mr Marvel.’

Marvel liked the fact that Latham had been concerned enough to check, so he smiled back.

‘Enough is all I need,’ he said. And it was true. Cases could stand or fall on a single hair or a solitary thumbprint. Sometimes a boxful of paperwork was only evidence of how confusing a case was – or how confused the investigating officer was.

‘So,’ said Marvel. ‘Mrs Granger – Denise. Are you two …’ Marvel left the words hanging but made a small twisty motion with two fingers.

‘Don’t be distasteful, Mr Marvel.’

‘What?’ said Marvel. ‘I thought you didn’t know her. She could look like Julia Roberts for all you claim to know.’

Latham pushed his glasses up his nose and glanced at his watch.

‘So it was just a business relationship?’ said Marvel.

‘I’m waiting for my solicitor,’ said Latham.

‘It was just about the money,’ mused Marvel. ‘That’s very you, isn’t it, Richard?’

‘I hope Mr Proctor gets here soon,’ said Latham, looking at the door. ‘No offence, Chief Inspector, but you’re a very boring man to be stuck in a small room with.’

They all stopped talking.

Marvel finished his tea.

Brady folded a page from his notebook into a paper plane and flew it into the clock.

Latham sat.

‘Tell me about your church,’ Marvel said to his own surprise; he hadn’t known he was going to ask.

Latham looked at him suspiciously

‘I’m serious,’ said Marvel. ‘While we’re waiting. Might as well.’

Latham shrugged. ‘Well,’ he started, ‘it’s small—’

‘With a big roof,’ said Marvel.

Latham looked at him like a headmaster. ‘Do you want to hear about it, Marvel, or do you just want to poke fun?’

Marvel locked his lips and threw away the key. Brady laughed.

Latham ignored them and went on. ‘We’ve only got about fifty members now. And only twenty or so come regularly.’

‘What about when you were on TV?’

‘Ah. That was a different story. We had hundreds sometimes. Standing room only.’

‘So what went wrong?’

Latham shook his head. ‘You know what went wrong, Mr Marvel.’

‘You mean after you screwed up on Edie Evans, people realized you were a fake.’

Brady laughed, but Latham’s throat and ears started to go red, like some exotic lizard.

‘Everybody laughs,’ he said. ‘Everybody thinks it’s a big joke. It’s not a joke, Chief Inspector, it’s a
gift
.’

‘A gift you expect people to pay for.’

Latham fixed Marvel with his one good eye while his other kept a lookout. ‘Why not? People pay for rubbish they don’t even need. Milkshakes and porn mags and Botox. Why
shouldn’t
people pay for my gift? It’s something I’ve worked at, something incredible – this skill, this
magic
.’

‘I did pay for it, remember?’ said Marvel cheerfully. ‘But now I want a refund.’

Brady laughed again, but when Latham spoke next, there was an angry tremor in his voice. ‘A hundred years from now, you’ll see. People like me will be paid our due. We’ll be on the front page of every newspaper, received by presidents and kings. We’ll live in stately homes, like idiot footballers do now. Mansions and palaces, Marvel. Mansions and palaces!’ He slapped the table, making them both flinch, then jabbed his finger at their faces. ‘People like
you
, and
you
, will look like the Flat Earth Society, while the psychics and the seers and the shut eyes rule the world. You’ll see. In the future we’ll be heroes. In the future we’ll be gods!’

‘Maybe,’ said Marvel with a dismissive shrug. ‘But until then you can always make a few bob nicking dogs.’

‘Shut up,’ snapped Latham.

Marvel didn’t shut up. Instead he pressed his forefingers to his temples and gazed up at the strip lighting. ‘I can see Rover, Mrs Jones. And I predict that he will be miraculously returned to you. I also predict that will happen very soon now, when I get sick of cleaning shit off the bedroom carpet. Don’t give up hope, Mrs Jones, and that’ll be fifty quid for the church roof, please.’