No Other Darkness by Sarah Hilary Page B

played under the stairs? Not that Noah could remember. He remembered Sol setting up a camp bed in their parents’ room and sleeping there whenever Dad was away, fetching blankets and a damp flannel for his forehead, everything Mum needed to take care of her sick little boy. Noah couldn’t remember Sol ever being sick, not really. But he could remember days and days with Sol in that camp bed, playing at being feverish; his favouritegame, and their mother’s too. It was a short cut to her affection and attention. Sol had always been good at short cuts.
    Marnie finished setting up the floodlights and stood side by side with Noah, facing the makeshift bed. ‘You saw the toys they took up top?’
    Noah nodded. ‘And the books . . .’
    What Does a Dinosaur Do All Day? The picture of a Tyrannosaurus rex with a thermometer between his teeth – that was when Noah had first thought of Sol’s sickbed games.
    ‘Whoever put them down here,’ Marnie said, ‘it wasn’t intended as a grave. Or not just that.’
    ‘Unless the books and toys were to keep them quiet . . .’
    ‘There are ropes and gags if it was just about keeping them quiet.’
    ‘Distracted, then. Or he wanted to win their trust.’
    ‘Or he already had it.’ Marnie picked a flake of rust from her gloved palm. ‘The toys didn’t look new. They looked like old favourites, well loved.’
    The felt eyes had been rubbed flat on the toy monkey, like the face of Sol’s favourite lion with its fuzzy mane, a rare present from their dad, who didn’t believe in spoiling his kids but who made an exception, sometimes, for Sol.
    Noah said, ‘Familial DNA . . . Are we sure a family member did this?’
    ‘Would I rather it was a stranger? I don’t know if that’s better or worse. It depends how they died. If they thought they were safe, if they climbed down here because they felt safe . . .’ She turned her eyes away from the bed. ‘Maybe that’s worse.’
    ‘Of course it’s worse,’ Noah said reflexively. ‘It’s betrayal, the worst kind of betrayal.’
    ‘They might not have known that. They might’ve diedfeeling safe. Loved . . . What’s the alternative? That they died in fear, terrified, crying for their mum and dad?’
    ‘It’s horrible.’ Noah buried his fists in his pockets. ‘However it happened, it’s horrible.’
    Marnie didn’t speak for a while. Then she said, ‘Let’s say you brought them down here. How did you do that, without their help?’
    It was what they did, how they solved crimes like this. Except that there hadn’t been any crimes like this, not for Noah. It was different, for Marnie.
    ‘They were little,’ he said. ‘They wouldn’t put up much of a fight.’
    ‘But there are two of them. You can’t carry two at once, down that.’ Marnie jerked her head at the ladder. ‘I’m not even sure you could carry one if he didn’t want you to.’
    Noah looked up the ladder with its narrow vertical rungs. ‘I drugged them.’
    ‘Post-mortem said no drugs.’
    ‘No lethal drugs. This wasn’t anything stronger than Calpol in warm milk.’ He grimaced as he said it, hating himself.
    This was what they did, he and Marnie. Reconstructed crime scenes, acting out the roles of perpetrator and victim, whatever it took to get under the skin of a case. But it felt wrong down here in the dark where the boys had died.
    ‘You didn’t mean them to die,’ Marnie said. ‘Let’s go with that theory. You were hiding them. You thought you were keeping them safe.’
    ‘Safe from what?’ Noah demanded. ‘Daylight and fresh air?’
    ‘Maybe . . .’ She crouched by the bed. ‘Maybe you were scared of whatever was up there.’
    ‘Daylight and fresh air,’ Noah repeated. He didn’t understand how she could do it. Treat this like any other crime scene. She’d been doing this job a lot longer than him;maybe she’d seen worse things than the dead boys. His mind blanked at what that might be.
    ‘So what’s up there?