By Belinda Bauer
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He made tea - thick and milky - and then searched pointlessly through the cluttered kitchen cupboards for a packet of Jaffa Cakes he claimed to have brought on his last visit, while Marvel and Reynolds sat at the table. 'Not real ones,' Priddy added hastily, to allay any soaring expectations. 'Spar ones. ' 'Generic,' supplied Reynolds helpfully and Marvel frowned; Reynolds couldn't bear to hide his education - even when it came to biscuits. 'Please don't trouble yourself,' said Marvel formally, but Priddy got on his haunches in case someone had hidden them behind the bleach under the kitchen sink.
The corpse. That stabbed, strangled, beaten, shot, dismembered, poisoned used-to-be-person hung over his head every day like a cat toy - endlessly fascinating, tantalizing, taunting, always reminding him of why he was here and the job he had to do. The burgled replaced their televisions, bruises healed on the beaten, and the raped kept living, kept going to work and buying groceries and sending postcards and singing in the choir. The murdered were dead and stayed dead. For ever. How could any true copper not love the murdered and the challenge they threw down from beyond the grave?
Now the thirty-one-year-old Jonas swallowed that same bitter pill and unfocused his eyes so he could look straight over Marvel's greying hair. ' Marvel regarded the tall young policeman with a little disappointment. He'd really have preferred the fool to have got defensive and angry. He loved a good fight. Instead PC Holly had rolled over like a puppy and shown the world his belly. Ah well. Marvel turned away before speaking. 'You can go,' he said. In small defiance, Jonas bit back his 'Yes, sir' and left without another word.