By Belinda Bauer
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So he got Reynolds to tell Priddy to meet them outside, and then Marvel led them into the kitchen. Peter Priddy was a tall, broad man, but with the unfortunate face of a toddler. His cheeks were too rosy, his chin too pudgy, his eyes too blue and his hair too wispy-yellow to fake adulthood, even when perched atop such a frame. But Marvel noted that the man's hand engulfed his own when he shook it. He also noted the shiny black work-shoes that spoke of a uniform in another context. 'Prison officer,' said Priddy when he enquired.
He had asked Reynolds to track them down for interview. He pulled the flimsy file towards him and checked. Lynne Twitchett and Gary Liss. A male nurse. Marvel would have snorted if there'd been anyone in the room to hear him pass comment on male nurses. In his head he knew Gary Liss was large, soft, blond - and camp as a row of tents. He'd lay good money on it. He lost focus on the TV while he thought of how the investigation would proceed, all the elements that he needed to ensure worked together.
Only on the occasional Saturday for a kickabout, and even then he'd never warmed to the muddy, olive-green grass. Playing behind the garages or under the railway arches was cleaner and faster. Grass was overrated, in Marvel's opinion, and it was his constant gripe that most of the Avon and Somerset force area where he'd ended up working was covered in it. Now here he was in this shit-hole village in the middle of a moor that didn't even have the niceties of fences or barns on it, with the miserable prospect of having to conduct a murder investigation surrounded by the vagaries of gorse, yokels and pony shit instead of the sensible amenities of self-service petrol stations, meaningful road-signs and his beloved Kings Arms.
Darkside by Belinda Bauer