The Thursday Murder Club / Клуб убийств по четвергам (by Richard Osman, 2020) - аудиокнига на английском

Killing someone is easy. Hiding the body, now that’s usually the hard part. That’s how you get caught. I was lucky enough to stumble upon the right place, though. The perfect place, really. I come back from time to time, just to make sure everything is still safe and sound. It always is, and I suppose it always will be. Sometimes I’ll have a cigarette, which I know I shouldn’t, but it’s my only vice. Part One MEET NEW PEOPLE AND TRY NEW THINGS 1 Joyce Well, let’s start with Elizabeth, shall we? And see where that gets us? I knew who she was, of course; everybody here knows Elizabeth. She has one of the three-bed flats in Larkin Court. It’s the one on the corner, with the decking? Also, I was once on a quiz team with Stephen, who, for a number of reasons, is Elizabeth’s third husband. I was at lunch, this is two or three months ago, and it must have been a Monday, because it was shepherd’s pie. Elizabeth said she could see that I was eating, but wanted to ask me a question about knife wounds, if it wasn’t inconvenient? I said, ‘Not at all, of course, please,’ or words to that effect. I won’t always remember everything exactly, I might as well tell you that now. So she opened a manila folder, and I saw some typed sheets and the edges of what looked like old photographs. Then she was straight into it. Elizabeth asked me to imagine that a girl had been stabbed with a knife. I asked what sort of knife she had been stabbed with, and Elizabeth said probably just a normal kitchen knife. John Lewis. She didn’t say that, but that was what I pictured. Then she asked me to imagine this girl had been stabbed, three or four times, just under the breastbone. In and out, in and out, very nasty, but without severing an artery. She was fairly quiet about the whole thing, because people were eating, and she does have some boundaries. So there I was, imagining stab wounds, and Elizabeth asked me how long it would take the girl to bleed to death. By the way, I realize I should have mentioned that I was a nurse for many years, otherwise none of this will make sense to you. Elizabeth would have known that from somewhere, because Elizabeth knows everything. Anyway, that’s why she was asking me. You must have wondered what I was on about. I will get the hang of writing this, I promise. I remember dabbing at my mouth before I answered, like you see on television sometimes. It makes you look cleverer, try it. I asked what the girl had weighed. Elizabeth found the information in her folder, followed her finger and read out that the girl had been forty-six kilos. Which threw us both, because neither of us was sure what forty-six kilos was in real money. In my head I was thinking it must be about twenty-three stone? Two to one was my thinking. Even as I thought that, though, I suspected I was getting mixed up with inches and centimetres. Elizabeth let me know the girl definitely wasn’t twenty-three stone, as she had a picture of her corpse in the folder. She tapped the folder at me, before turning her attention back to the room, and said, ‘Will somebody ask Bernard what forty-six kilos is?’ Bernard always sits by himself, on one of the smaller tables nearest the patio. It is Table 8. You don’t need to know that, but I will tell you a bit about Bernard. Bernard Cottle was very kind to me when I first arrived at Coopers Chase. He brought me a clematis cutting and explained the recycling timetable. They have four different coloured bins here. Four! Thanks to Bernard, I know that green is for glass, and blue is cardboard and paper. As for red and black, though, your guess is still as good as mine. I’ve seen all sorts as I’ve wandered about. Someone once put a fax machine in one. Bernard had been a professor, something in science, and had worked all around the world, including going to Dubai before anyone had heard of it. True to form, he was wearing a suit and tie to lunch, but was, nevertheless, reading the Daily Express. Mary from Ruskin Court, who was at the next table, got his attention and asked how much forty-six kilos was when it was at home. Bernard nodded and called over to Elizabeth, ‘Seven stone three and a bit.’ And that’s Bernard for you. Elizabeth thanked him and said that sounded about right, and Bernard returned to his crossword. I looked up centimetres and inches afterwards, and at least I was right about that. Elizabeth went back to her question. How long would the girl stabbed with the kitchen knife have to live? I guessed that, unattended, she would probably die in around forty-five minutes. ‘Well, quite, Joyce,’ she said, and then had another question. What if the girl had had medical assistance? Not a doctor, but someone who could patch up a wound. Someone who’d been in the army, perhaps. Someone like that. I have seen a lot of stab wounds in my time. My job wasn’t all sprained ankles. So I said then, well, she wouldn’t die at all. Which she wouldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fun for her, but it would have been easy to patch up. Elizabeth was nodding away, and said that was precisely what she had told Ibrahim, although I didn’t know Ibrahim at that time. As I say, this was a couple of months ago. It hadn’t seemed at all right to Elizabeth, and her view was that the boyfriend had killed her. I know this is still often the case. You read about it. I think before I moved in I might have found this whole conversation unusual, but it is pretty par for the course once you get to know everyone here. Last week I met the man who invented Mint Choc Chip ice cream, or so he tells it. I don’t really have any way of checking. I was glad to have helped Elizabeth in my small way, so decided I might ask a favour. I asked if there was any way I could take a look at the picture of the corpse. Just out of professional interest. Elizabeth beamed, the way people around here beam when you ask to look at pictures of their grandchildren graduating. She slipped an A4 photocopy out of her folder, laid it, face down, in front of me and told me to keep it, as they all had copies. I told her that was very kind of her, and she said not at all, but she wondered if she could ask me one final question. ‘Of course,’ I said. Then she said, ‘Are you ever free on Thursdays?’ And, that, believe it or not, was the first I had heard of Thursdays. 2 PC Donna De Freitas would like to have a gun. She would like to be chasing serial killers into abandoned warehouses, grimly getting the job done, despite a fresh bullet wound in her shoulder. Perhaps developing a taste for whisky and having an affair with her partner. But for now, twenty-six years old, and sitting down for lunch at 11.45 in the morning, with four pensioners she has only just met, Donna understands that she will have to work her way up to all that. And besides, she has to admit that the last hour or so has been rather fun. Donna has given her talk ‘Practical Tips for Home Security’ many times. And today there was the usual audience of older people, blankets across knees, free biscuits, and a few happy snoozers at the back. She gives the same advice each time. The absolute, paramount importance of installing window locks, checking ID cards and never giving out personal information to cold callers. More than anything, she is supposed to be a reassuring presence in a terrifying world. Donna understands that, and it also gets her out of both the station and paperwork, so she volunteers. Fairhaven Police Station is sleepier than Donna is used to. Today, however, she had found herself at Coopers Chase Retirement Village. It seemed innocuous enough. Lush, untroubled, sedate, and on her drive in she had spotted a nice pub for lunch on the way home. So getting serial killers in headlocks on speedboats would have to wait. ‘Security,’ Donna had begun, though she was really thinking about whether she should get a tattoo. A dolphin on her lower back? Or would that be too much of a clich?? And would it be painful? Probably, but she was supposed to be a police officer, wasn’t she? ‘What do we mean when we say the word “security”? Well, I think that word means different things to different …’ A hand shot up in the front row. Which was not normally how this went, but in for a penny. An immaculately dressed woman in her eighties had a point to make. ‘Dear, I think we’re all hoping this won’t be a talk about window locks.’ The woman looked around her, picking up murmured support. A gentleman hemmed in by a walking frame in the second row was next. ‘And no ID cards please, we know about ID cards. Are you really from the Gas Board, or are you a burglar? We’ve got it, I promise.’ A free-for-all had commenced. ‘It’s not the Gas Board any more. It’s Centrica,’ said a man in a very good three-piece suit. The man sitting next to him, wearing shorts, flip-flops and a West Ham United shirt, took this opportunity to stand up and stab a finger in no particular direction, ‘It’s thanks to Thatcher that, Ibrahim. We used to own it.’ ‘Oh do sit down, Ron,’ the smartly dressed woman had said. Then looked at Donna and added, ‘Sorry about Ron,’ with a slow shake of her head. The comments had continued to fly. ‘And what criminal wouldn’t be able to forge an ID document?’ ‘I’ve got cataracts. You could show me a library card and I’d let you in.’ ‘They don’t even check the meter now. It’s all on the web.’ ‘It’s on the cloud, dear.’ ‘I’d welcome a burglar. It would be nice to have a visitor.’ There had been the briefest of lulls. An atonal symphony of whistles began as some hearing aids were turned up, while others were switched off. The woman in the front row had taken charge again. ‘So … and I’m Elizabeth, by the way … no window locks, please, and no ID cards, and no need to tell us we mustn’t give our PIN number to Nigerians over the phone. If I am still allowed to say Nigerians.’ Donna De Freitas had regrouped, but was aware she was no longer thinking about pub lunches or tattoos – now she was thinking about a riot training course back in the good, old days in south London. ‘Well, what shall we talk about then?’ Donna had asked. ‘I have to do at least forty-five minutes or I don’t get the time off in lieu.’ ‘Institutional sexism in the police force?’ said Elizabeth. ‘I’d like to talk about the illegal shooting of Mark Duggan, sanctioned by the state and –’ ‘Sit down, Ron!’ So it went on, enjoyably and agreeably, until the hour was up, whereupon Donna had been warmly thanked, shown pictures of grandchildren and then invited to stay for lunch. And so here she is, picking at her salad, in what the menu describes as a ‘contemporary upscale restaurant’. A quarter to twelve is a little early for her to have lunch, but it wouldn’t have been polite to refuse the invitation. She notes that her four hosts are not only tucking in to full lunches, but have also cracked open a bottle of red wine. ‘That really was wonderful, Donna’, says Elizabeth. ‘We enjoyed it tremendously.’ Elizabeth looks to Donna like the sort of teacher who terrifies you all year but then gets you a grade A and cries when you leave. Perhaps it’s the tweed jacket. ‘It was blinding, Donna,’ says Ron. ‘Can I call you Donna, love?’ ‘You can call me Donna, but maybe don’t call me love,’ says Donna. ‘Quite right, darling,’ agrees Ron. ‘Noted. That story about the Ukrainian with the parking ticket and the chainsaw, though? You should do after-dinner speaking, there’s money in it. I know someone, if you’d like a number?’ The salad is delicious, thinks Donna, and it’s not often she thinks that. ‘I would have made a terrific heroin smuggler, I think.’ This was Ibrahim, who had earlier raised the point about Centrica. ‘It’s just logistics, isn’t it? There’s all the weighing too, which I would enjoy, very precise. And they have machines to count money. All the mod cons. Have you ever captured a heroin dealer, PC De Freitas?’ ‘No,’ admits Donna. ‘It’s on my list, though.’ ‘But I’m right that they have machines to count money?’ asks Ibrahim. ‘They do, yes,’ says Donna. ‘Wonderful,’ says Ibrahim, and downs his glass of wine. ‘We bore easily,’ adds Elizabeth, also polishing off a glass. ‘God save us from window locks, WPC De Freitas.’ ‘It’s just PC now,’ says Donna. ‘I see,’ says Elizabeth, lips pursing. ‘And what happens if I still choose to say WPC? Will there be a warrant for my arrest?’ ‘No, but I’ll think a bit less of you,’ says Donna. ‘Because it’s a really simple thing to do, and it’s more respectful to me.’ ‘Damn! Checkmate. OK,’ says Elizabeth, and unpurses her lips. ‘Thank you,’ says Donna. ‘Guess how old I am?’ challenges Ibrahim. Donna hesitates. Ibrahim has a nice suit, and he has great skin. He smells wonderful. A handkerchief is artfully folded in his breast pocket. Hair thinning, but still there. No paunch, and just the one chin. And yet underneath it all? Hmmm. Donna looks at Ibrahim’s hands. Always the giveaway. ‘Eighty?’ she ventures. She sees the wind depart Ibrahim’s sails. ‘Yes, spot on, but I look younger. I look about seventy-four. Everyone agrees. The secret is Pilates.’ ‘And what’s your story, Joyce?’ asks Donna to the fourth member of the group, a small, white-haired woman in a lavender blouse and mauve cardigan. She is sitting very happily, taking it all in. Mouth closed, but eyes bright. Like a quiet bird, constantly on the lookout for something sparkling in the sunshine. ‘Me?’ says Joyce. ‘No story at all. I was a nurse, and then a mum, and then a nurse again. Nothing to see here I’m afraid.’ Elizabeth gives a short snort. ‘Don’t be taken in by Joyce, PC De Freitas. She is the type who “gets things done”.’ ‘I’m just organized,’ says Joyce. ‘It’s out of fashion. If I say I’m going to Zumba, I go to Zumba. That’s just me. My daughter is the interesting one in the family. She runs a hedge fund, if you know what one is?’ ‘Not really,’ admits Donna. ‘No,’ agrees Joyce. ‘Zumba is before Pilates,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I don’t like to do both. It’s counter-intuitive to your major muscle groups.’ A question has been nagging at Donna throughout lunch. ‘So, if you don’t mind me asking, I know you all live at Coopers Chase, but how did the four of you become friends?’ ‘Friends?’ Elizabeth seems amused. ‘Oh, we’re not friends, dear.’ Ron is chuckling. ‘Christ, love, no, we’re not friends. Do you need a top-up, Liz?’ Elizabeth nods and Ron pours. They are on a second bottle. It is 12.15. Ibrahim agrees. ‘I don’t think friends is the word. We wouldn’t choose to socialize, we have very different interests. I like Ron, I suppose, but he can be very difficult.’ Ron nods, ‘I’m very difficult.’ ‘And Elizabeth’s manner is off-putting.’ Elizabeth nods, ‘There it is I’m afraid. I’ve always been an acquired taste. Since school.’ ‘I like Joyce, I suppose. I think we all like Joyce,’ says Ibrahim. Ron and Elizabeth nod their agreement again. ‘Thank you, I’m sure,’ says Joyce, chasing peas around her plate. ‘Don’t you think someone should invent flat peas?’ Donna tries to clear up her confusion. ‘So if you aren’t friends, then what are you?’ Donna sees Joyce look up and shake her head at the others, this unlikely gang. ‘Well,’ says Joyce. ‘Firstly, we are friends, of course; this lot are just a little slow catching on. And secondly, if it didn’t say on your invitation, PC De Freitas, then it was my oversight. We’re the Thursday Murder Club.’ Elizabeth is going glassy-eyed with red wine, Ron is scratching at a ‘West Ham’ tattoo on his neck and Ibrahim is polishing an already-polished cufflink. The restaurant is filling up around them, and Donna is not the first visitor to Coopers Chase to think this wouldn’t be the worst place to live. She would kill for a glass of wine and an afternoon off. ‘Also, I swim every day,’ concludes Ibrahim. ‘It keeps the skin tight.’ What is this place? 3 If you are ever minded to take the A21 out of Fairhaven, and head into the heart of the Kentish Weald, you will eventually pass an old phone box, still working, on a sharp left-hand bend. Continue for around a hundred yards until you see the sign for ‘Whitechurch, Abbots Hatch and Lents Hill’, and then take a right. Head through Lents Hill, past the Blue Dragon and the little farm shop with the big egg outside, until you reach the small stone bridge over the Robertsmere. Officially the Robertsmere is a river, but don’t get confused and expect anything grand. Take the single-track right turn just past the bridge. You will think you are headed the wrong way, but this is quicker than the way the official brochure takes you, and also picturesque if you like dappled hedgerows. Eventually the road widens out and, peeking between tall trees, you will begin to see signs of life rising on the hilly land up to your left. Up ahead you will see a tiny, wood-clad bus stop, also still working, if one bus in either direction a day counts as working. Just before you reach the bus stop you will see the entrance sign for Coopers Chase on your left. They began work on Coopers Chase about ten years ago, when the Catholic Church sold the land. The first residents, Ron, for one, had moved in three years later. It was billed as ‘Britain’s First Luxury Retirement Village’, though according to Ibrahim, who has checked, it was actually the seventh. There are currently around 300 residents. You can’t move here until you’re over sixty-five, and the Waitrose delivery vans clink with wine and repeat prescriptions every time they pass over the cattle grid. The old convent dominates Coopers Chase, with three modern residential developments spiralling out from this central point. For over a hundred years the convent was a hushed building, filled with the dry bustle of habits and the quiet certainty of prayers offered and answered. Tapping along its dark corridors you would have found some women comfortable in their serenity, some women frightened of a speeding world, some women hiding, some women proving a vague, long-forgotten point and some women taking joy in serving a higher purpose. You would have found single beds, arranged in dorms; long, low tables for eating; a chapel so dark and quiet you would swear you heard God breathing. In short, you would find the Sisters of the Holy Church, an army which would never give you up, which would feed you and clothe you and continue to need and value you. All it required in return was a lifetime of devotion, and, given there will always be someone requiring that, there were always volunteers. And then one day you would take the short trip up the hill, through the tunnel of trees, to the Garden of Eternal Rest – the iron gates and low stone walls of the Garden looking over the convent and the endless beauty of the Kentish High Weald beyond, your body in another single bed, under a simple stone, alongside the Sister Margarets and Sister Marys of the generations before you. If you had once had dreams they could now play over the green hills, and if you had secrets then they were kept safe inside the four walls of the convent for ever. Well, more accurately, three walls, as the west-facing side of the convent is now entirely glazed to accommodate the residents’ swimming-pool complex. It looks out over the bowling green, and then further down to the visitors’ car park, the permits for which are rationed to such an extent that the Parking Committee is the single most powerful cabal within Coopers Chase. Beside the swimming pool is a small ‘arthritis therapy pool’, which looks like a Jacuzzi, largely for the reason that it is a Jacuzzi. Anyone given the grand tour by the owner, Ian Ventham, would then be shown the sauna. Ian would always open the door a crack and say, ‘Blimey, it’s like a sauna in there.’ That was Ian. Take the lift up to the recreation rooms next. The gym, and the exercise studio, where residents could happily Zumba among the ghosts of the single beds. Then there’s the Jigsaw Room for gentler activities and associations. There’s the library, and the lounge for the bigger and more controversial committee meetings, or for football on the flat-screen TV. Then down again to the ground floor, where the long low tables of the convent refectory are now the ‘contemporary upscale restaurant’. At the very heart of the village, attached to the convent, is the original chapel. Its pale cream stucco exterior makes it look almost Mediterranean against the fierce, Gothic darkness of the convent. The chapel remains intact and unchanged, one of the few covenants insisted upon by the executors of the Sisters of the Holy Church when they had sold out ten years ago. The residents like to use the chapel. This is where the ghosts are, where the habits still bustle and where the whispers have sunk into the stone. It is a place to make you feel part of something slower and something gentler. Ian Ventham is looking into contractual loopholes that might allow him to redevelop the chapel into eight more flats. Attached to the other side of the convent – the very reason for the convent – is Willows. Willows is now the nursing home for the village. It had been established by the Sisters in 1841 as a voluntary hospital, charitably tending to the sick and broken when no other option existed. In the latter part of the last century it had become a care home, until legislation in the 1980s led to the doors finally closing. The convent then simply became a waiting room, and when the last nun passed away in 2005, the Church wasted no time in cashing in and selling it as a job lot. The development sits in twelve acres of woodland and beautiful open hillside. There are two small lakes, one real, and one created by Ian Ventham’s builder, Tony Curran, and his gang. The many ducks and geese that also call Coopers Chase home seem to much prefer the artificial one. There are still sheep farmed at the very top of the hill, where the woodland breaks, and in the pastures by the lake is a herd of twenty llamas. Ian Ventham had bought two to look quirky in sales photos and it had got out of hand, as these things do. That, in a nutshell, is what this place is. 4 Joyce I first kept a diary many years ago, but I’ve looked back at it, and I don’t think it would be of any interest to you. Unless you’re interested in Haywards Heath in the 1970s, which I am going to assume you’re not. That is no offence to either Haywards Heath or the 1970s, both of which I enjoyed at the time. But a couple of days ago, after meeting Elizabeth, I went to my first ever meeting of the Thursday Murder Club, and I have been thinking that perhaps it might be interesting to write about. Like whoever wrote that diary about Holmes and Watson? People love a murder, whatever they might say in public, so I will give it a go. I knew the Thursday Murder Club was going to be Elizabeth, Ibrahim Arif, who lives in Wordsworth, with a wraparound balcony, and Ron Ritchie. Yes, that Ron Ritchie. So that was something else exciting. Now I know him a bit better, the shine has worn off a little, but even so. Penny Gray also used to be part of it, but she is now in Willows, that’s the nursing home. Thinking about it now, I fitted right in. I suppose there had been a vacancy, and I was the new Penny. I was nervous at the time, though. I remember that. I took along a nice bottle of wine (?8.99, to give you an idea), and as I walked in, the three of them were already there in the Jigsaw Room, laying out photographs on the table. Elizabeth had formed the Thursday Murder Club with Penny. Penny had been an inspector in the Kent Police for many years, and she would bring along the files of unsolved murder cases. She wasn’t really supposed to have the files, but who was to know? After a certain age, you can pretty much do whatever takes your fancy. No one tells you off, except for your doctors and your children. I’m not supposed to say what Elizabeth used to do for a living, even though she does go on about it herself at times. Suffice to say though, that murders and investigations and what have you wouldn’t be unfamiliar work for her. Elizabeth and Penny would go through every file, line by line, study every photograph, read every witness statement, just looking for anything that had been missed. They didn’t like to think there were guilty people still happily going about their business. Sitting in their gardens, doing a sudoku, knowing they had got away with murder. Also, I think that Penny and Elizabeth just thoroughly enjoyed it. A few glasses of wine and a mystery. Very social, but also gory. It is good fun. They would meet every Thursday (that’s how they came up with the name). It was Thursday because there was a two-hour slot free in the Jigsaw Room, between Art History and Conversational French. It was booked, and still is booked, under the name Japanese Opera – A Discussion, which ensured they were always left in peace. There were certain favours both of them could call upon, for different reasons, and all sorts of people had been called in for a friendly chat over the years. Forensics officers, accountants and judges, tree surgeons, horse-breeders, glass-blowers – they’d all been to the Jigsaw Room. Whomever Elizabeth and Penny thought might help them with some query or other. Ibrahim had soon joined them. He used to play bridge with Penny, and had helped them out once or twice with bits and bobs. He’s a psychiatrist. Or was a psychiatrist. Or still is, I’m not quite sure. When you first meet him you can’t see that at all, but once you get to know him it makes a sort of sense. I would never have therapy, because who wants to unravel all that knitting? Not worth the risk, thank you. My daughter, Joanna, has a therapist, although you’d be hard pushed to know why if you saw the size of her house. Either way, Ibrahim no longer plays bridge, which I think is a shame. Ron had all but invited himself, which won’t surprise you. He wasn’t buying Japanese Opera for a second and walked into the Jigsaw Room one Thursday, wanting to know what was afoot. Elizabeth admires suspicion above all else and invited Ron to flick through the file of a scoutmaster found burned to death in 1982, in woodland just off the A27. She soon spotted Ron’s key strength, namely, he never believes a single word anyone ever tells him. Elizabeth now says that reading police files in the certain knowledge that the police are lying to you is surprisingly effective. It is called the Jigsaw Room, by the way, because this is where the bigger jigsaws are completed, on a gently sloping wooden table in the centre of the room. When I first walked in, there was a 2,000-piecer of Whitstable harbour, missing a letterbox of sky. I once went to Whitstable, just for the day, but I couldn’t really see what the fuss was all about. Once you’ve done the oysters, there’s no real shopping to speak of. Anyway, Ibrahim had put a thick perspex screen over the jigsaw, and this is where he, Elizabeth and Ron were laying out the autopsy photos of the poor girl. The one who Elizabeth thought had been killed by her boyfriend. This particular boyfriend was bitter at being invalided out from the army, but there’s always something, isn’t there? We all have a sob story, but we don’t all go around killing people. Elizabeth told me to shut the door behind me and come and take a look at some pictures. Ibrahim introduced himself, shook my hand and told me there were biscuits. He explained that there were two layers, but they tried to finish the top layer before they started the bottom layer. I told him he was preaching to the converted there. Ron took my wine and put it by the biscuits. He nodded at the label and commented that it was a white. He then gave me a kiss on the cheek, which gave me pause for thought. I know you might think that a kiss on the cheek is normal, but from men in their seventies it isn’t. The only men who kiss you on the cheek are sons-in-law or people like that. So I had Ron down as a quick worker straight away. I found out that the famous trade union leader Ron Ritchie lived in the village when he and Penny’s husband, John, nursed an injured fox back to health and called it Scargill. The story had featured in the village newsletter when I first arrived. Given that John had been a vet and Ron was, well, Ron, I suspected that John had done the nursing and Ron had simply been on naming duties. The newsletter, by the way, is called Cut to the Chase, which is a pun. We all crowded around the autopsy photos. The poor girl, and that wound that should never have killed her, even back in those days. The boyfriend had bolted from Penny’s squad car on the way to a police interview and hadn’t been seen since. He had given Penny a belt for her troubles too. No surprises there. If you hit women, you hit women. Even if he hadn’t run off, I suppose he would have got away with it. I know you still read about these things all the time, but it was even worse back then. The Thursday Murder Club wasn’t about to magically bring him to justice; I think everyone knew that. Penny and Elizabeth had solved all sorts of cases to their own satisfaction, but that was as far as they could go. So I suppose you could say that Penny and Elizabeth never really got their wish. All those murderers remained unpunished, all still out there, listening to the shipping forecast somewhere. They had got away with it, as some people do, I’m afraid. The older you get, the more you have to come to terms with that. Anyway, that’s just me being philosophical, which will get us nowhere. Last Thursday was the first time it was the four of us. Elizabeth, Ibrahim, Ron and me. And, as I say, it seemed very natural. As if I was completing their jigsaw again. I will leave the diary there for now. There is a big meeting in the village tomorrow. I help to put the chairs out for these sorts of things. I volunteer, because (a) it makes me look helpful and (b) it gives me first dibs at the refreshments. The meeting is a consultation about a new development at Coopers Chase. Ian Ventham, the big boss, is coming to talk to us about it. I try to be honest where I can, so I hope you don’t mind me saying I don’t like him. He’s all the things that can go wrong with a man if you leave him to his own devices. There has been a fearsome hoo-ha about the new development, because they’re chopping down trees and uprooting a graveyard, and there’s a rumour of wind turbines. Ron is looking forward to causing a bit of trouble, and I am looking forward to watching him do that. From now on I promise to try to write something every day. I will keep my fingers crossed that something happens. 5 The Waitrose in Tunbridge Wells has a caf?. Ian Ventham parks his Range Rover in the last empty disabled bay outside, not because he’s disabled but because it’s nearest to the door. Walking in, he spots Bogdan by the window. Ian owes Bogdan ?4,000. He has been stalling for a while, in the hope that Bogdan is thrown out of the country, but thus far, no luck. Anyway, he now has a real job for him, so it’s all worked out OK. He gives the Pole a wave and approaches the counter. He scans the chalkboard, looking for a coffee. ‘Is all your coffee fair trade?’ ‘Yes, all fair trade,’ smiles the young woman serving. ‘Shame,’ says Ian. He doesn’t want to pay an extra fifteen pence to help someone he’ll never meet in a country he’ll never go to. ‘Cup of tea please. Almond milk.’ Bogdan isn’t Ian’s biggest worry that day. If he ends up having to pay him, then so be it. Ian’s biggest worry is being killed by Tony Curran. Ian takes his tea over to the table, spotting anyone over sixty as he goes. Over sixty, and with Waitrose money? Give them ten years, he thinks. He wishes he’d brought some brochures. Ian will deal with Tony Curran as and when, but right now he has to deal with Bogdan. The good news is that Bogdan doesn’t want to kill him. Ian sits down. ‘What’s all this about two grand, Bogdan?’ Ian asks. Bogdan is drinking from a two-litre bottle of Lilt he has smuggled in. ‘Four thousand. Is pretty cheap to retile a swimming pool. I don’t know if you know that?’ ‘Only cheap if you do a good job, Bogdan,’ says Ian. ‘The grouting’s discoloured. Look. I asked for coral white.’ Ian takes out his phone, scrolls through to a photo of his new pool and shows it to Bogdan. ‘No, that is filter, let’s take off filter.’ Bogdan presses a button and the image immediately brightens. ‘Coral white. You know it.’ Ian nods. Worth a try though. Sometimes you have to know when to pay up. Ian takes an envelope out of his pocket. ‘All right, Bogdan, fair’s fair. Here’s three grand. That do you?’ Bogdan looks weary. ‘Three grand, sure.’ Ian hands it over ‘It’s actually two thousand eight hundred, but that’s near enough between friends. Now, I wanted to ask you about something.’ ‘Sure,’ says Bogdan, pocketing the money. ‘You seem a bright lad, Bogdan?’ Bogdan shrugs. ‘Well, I speak fluent Polish.’ ‘Whenever I ask you to do something, it gets done, and it gets done pretty well, and pretty cheap,’ says Ian. ‘Thank you,’ says Bogdan. ‘So I’m just wondering. You ready for something bigger, you think?’ ‘Sure,’ says Bogdan. ‘A lot bigger, though?’ says Ian. ‘Sure,’ says Bogdan. ‘Big is the same as small. There’s just more of it.’ ‘Good lad,’ says Ian, and drains the last of his tea. ‘I’m on my way to fire Tony Curran. And I need someone to step up and take his place. You fancy that?’ Bogdan gives a low whistle. ‘Too much for you?’ asks Ian. Bogdan shakes his head. ‘No, not too much for me, I can do the job. I just think that if you fire Tony, maybe he kills you.’ Ian nods. ‘I know. But you let me worry about that. And tomorrow the job’s all yours.’ ‘If you’re alive, sure,’ says Bogdan. Time to go. Ian shakes Bogdan’s hand and turns his mind to telling Tony Curran the bad news. There’s a consultation meeting down at Coopers Chase, and he has to listen to what all the old people have to say. Nod politely, wear a tie, call them by their first names. People lap that sort of thing up. He’s invited Tony along, so he can fire him straight afterwards. Out in the open air, with witnesses nearby. There is a ten per cent chance that Tony will kill him on the spot. But that means there is a ninety per cent chance that he won’t, and, given how much money it will make Ian, he is comfortable with those odds. Risk and reward. As Ian gets outside, he hears beeping and sees a woman on a mobility scooter furiously pointing at his Range Rover with a cane. I was there first, love, thinks Ian, as he steps into the car. What is wrong with some people? As he drives, Ian listens to a motivational audiobook called Kill or Be Killed – Using the Lessons of the Battlefield in the Boardroom. Apparently it was written by someone in the Israeli Special Forces, and it had been recommended to him by one of the personal trainers at the Virgin Active in Tunbridge Wells. Ian isn’t certain if the personal trainer himself is Israeli, but he looks like he’s from there or thereabouts. As the midday sun fails to force its way through the illegally tinted windows of the Range Rover, Ian starts to think about Tony Curran again. They’ve been very good for each other over the years, Ian and Tony. Ian would buy up tattered and tired old houses, big ones. Tony would gut them, divide them up, put in the ramps and the handrails, and on they’d go to the next one. The care-home business boomed, and Ian built his fortune. He kept a few, he sold a few, he bought a few more. Ian takes a smoothie from the Range Rover’s ice box. The ice box had not come as standard. A mechanic in Faversham had fitted it for him, while he was gold-plating the glove box. It is Ian’s regular smoothie. A punnet of raspberries, a fistful of spinach, Icelandic yoghurt (Finnish, if they are out of Icelandic), spirulina, wheatgrass, acerola cherry powder, chlorella, kelp, acai extract, cocoa nibs, zinc, beetroot essence, chia seeds, mango zest and ginger. It is his own invention, and he calls it Keep It Simple. He checks his watch. About ten minutes until he gets to Coopers Chase. Get the meeting done, then break the news to Tony. This morning he had googled ‘stab-proof vests’, but the same-day delivery option had been unavailable. Amazon Prime? They must think he’s a mug. He’s sure it will be fine, though. And great news that Bogdan’s on board to take over. A seamless transition. And cheaper, of course, which is the whole point. Ian had worked out very early on that he needed to take his business upmarket if he wanted to make real money. The worst thing was when clients died. There was admin, rooms left earning nothing as new clients were found and, worst of all, you’d have to deal with the families. Now, the richer a client was, by and large the longer they would live. Also, the richer they were, the less often their family would visit, as they tended to live in London, or New York, or Santiago. So Ian moved upmarket, transforming his company, Autumn Sunset Care Homes, into Home from Home Independent Living, concentrating on fewer, bigger, properties. Tony Curran hadn’t blinked an eye. What Tony didn’t know he would quickly learn, and no wet room, electronic key card or communal barbecue pit could faze him. It seemed a shame to let him go really, but there it was. Ian passes the wooden bus stop on his right, and turns into the entrance to Coopers Chase. As so often, he follows a delivery van over the cattle grid, and is stuck behind it all the way up the long driveway. Taking in the view on the way, he shakes his head. So many llamas. You live and learn. Ian parks up and makes sure his parking permit is correctly and prominently displayed, on the left-hand side of his windscreen, with permit number and expiration date clearly showing. Ian has been in all sorts of scrapes with all sorts of authorities over the years, and the only two that have ever truly rattled him are the Russian Import Tax Investigation Authority and the Coopers Chase Parking Committee. Worth it, though. Whatever money he had made before, Coopers Chase had been in another league entirely. Ian and Tony both knew it. A waterfall of money. Which, of course, was the source of today’s problem. Coopers Chase. Twelve acres of beautiful countryside, with permission to build up to 400 retirement flats. Nothing there but an empty convent, and someone’s sheep up on the hill. An old friend of his had bought the land off a priest a few years before, then suddenly needed some quick cash to fight off extradition proceedings due to a misunderstanding. Ian did the sums and realized this was a leap worth taking. But Tony had done the sums too, and decided to make a leap of his own. Which is why Tony Curran now owned twenty-five per cent of everything that he built at Coopers Chase. Ian had felt compelled to agree to the terms because Tony had never been anything but loyal to him, and also because Tony had made it clear he would break both of Ian’s arms if he refused. Ian had seen Tony break people’s arms before, and so they were now partners. Not for long, though. Surely Tony knew it couldn’t last? Anyone can build a luxury apartment really – strip to the waist, listen to Magic FM, dig out some foundations or shout at a bricklayer. Easy work. But not everyone has the vision to oversee someone building luxury apartments. With the new development about to start, what better time for Tony to learn his true value? Ian Ventham feels emboldened. Kill or be killed. Ian gets out of the car, and as he blinks into the sudden glare of the sun, he just catches the aftertaste of beetroot essence that was one of the key obstacles to him launching Keep It Simple as a commercial proposition. He could leave the beetroot essence out, but it was essential to pancreatic health. Sunglasses on. And so to business. Ian is not planning on dying today. 6 Ron Ritchie is, as so often, having none of it. He is jabbing a practised finger at a copy of his lease. He knows it looks good, it always does, but Ron can feel his finger shaking, and the lease shaking. He waves the lease in the air to hide the shakes. His voice has lost none of its power, though. ‘Now here’s a quote. And it’s your words, Mr Ventham, not my words. “Coopers Chase Holding Investments reserves the right to develop further residential possibilities on the site, in consultation with current residents”.’ Ron’s big frame hints at the physical power he must once have had. The chassis is all still there, like a bull-nosed truck rusting in a field. His face, wide and open, is ready at a second’s notice to be outraged or incredulous, or whatever else might be required. Whatever might help. ‘That’s what this is,’ says Ian Ventham, as if talking to a child. ‘This is the consultation meeting. You’re the residents. Consult all you like, for the next twenty minutes.’ Ventham sits at a trestle table at the front of the Residents’ Lounge. He is teak-tanned, relaxed and has his sunglasses pushed up over his 1980s catalogue-model hair. He is wearing an expensive polo shirt, and a watch so large it might as well be a clock. He looks like he smells great, but you wouldn’t really want to get close enough to find out for certain. Ventham is flanked by a woman around fifteen years his junior and a tattooed man in a sleeveless vest, scrolling through his phone. The woman is the development architect; the tattooed man is Tony Curran. Ron has seen Curran around, has heard about him too. Ibrahim is writing down every word that’s said as Ron continues to jab in Ventham’s direction. ‘I’m not falling for that old bull, Ventham. This ain’t a consultation, it’s an ambush.’ Joyce decides to chip in. ‘You tell him, Ron.’ Ron fully intends to. ‘Thanks, Joyce. You’re calling it “The Woodlands”, even though you’re cutting down all the trees. That’s rich, old son. You’ve got your nice little computer pictures, all done up, sun shining, fluffy clouds, little ducks swimming on ponds. You can prove anything with computers, son; we wanted to see a proper scale model. With model trees and little people.’ This gets a ripple of applause. A lot of people had wanted to see a scale model, but according to Ian Ventham it wasn’t the done thing these days. Ron continues. ‘And you’ve chosen, deliberately chosen, a woman architect, so I won’t be allowed to shout.’ ‘You are shouting though, Ron,’ says Elizabeth, who is two seats away, reading a newspaper. ‘Don’t you tell me when I’m shouting, Elizabeth,’ shouts Ron. ‘This geezer’ll know when I’m shouting. Look at him, dressed up like Tony Blair. Why don’t you bomb the Iraqis while you’re at it, Ventham?’ Good line, thinks Ron, as Ibrahim dutifully writes it down for the record. Back in the days when he was in the papers, they called him ‘Red Ron’, though everyone was ‘Red’ something in those days. Ron’s picture was rarely in the papers without the caption ‘talks between the two sides collapsed late last night’. A veteran of picket lines and police cells, of blacklegs, blacklists and bust-ups, of slow-downs and sit-ins, of wildcats and walkouts, Ron had been there, warming his hands over a brazier, with the old gang at British Leyland. Ron had seen, first-hand, the demise of the dockers. Ron had picketed Wapping as he witnessed the victory of Rupert Murdoch and the collapse of the printers. Ron had led the Kent miners up the A1 and had been arrested at Orgreave as the final resistance of the coal industry was crushed. In fact, a man less indefatigable than Ron might have considered himself a jinx. But that’s the fate of the underdog, and Ron simply loved to be the underdog. If he ever found himself in a situation where he wasn’t the underdog, he would twist and turn and shake that situation until he had convinced everyone that he was. But Ron had always practised what he had preached. He had always quietly helped anyone who had needed a leg-up, needed a few extra quid at Christmas, needed a suit or a solicitor for court. Anyone who, for any reason, had needed a champion, had always been safe in Ron’s tattooed arms. The tattoos are fading now, the hands are shaking, but the fire still burns. ‘You know where you can shove this lease, don’t you, Ventham?’ ‘Feel free to enlighten me,’ says Ian Ventham. Ron then starts to make a point about David Cameron and the EU referendum, but loses his thread. Ibrahim places a hand on his elbow. Ron nods the nod of a man whose work here is done and he sits, knees cracking like gunshots. He’s happy. And he notices his shakes have stopped, just for the moment. Back in the fight. There was nothing like it. 7 As Father Matthew Mackie slips in at the back of the lounge, a large man in a West Ham shirt is shouting about Tony Blair. There is a big turnout, as he had hoped. That’s useful, plenty of objections to the Woodlands development. There had been no buffet service on the train from Bexhill, and so he is glad to see there are biscuits. He grabs a handful when no one is looking, takes a blue plastic seat in the back row and settles himself in. The man in the tightly fitting football top is running out of steam now and, as he sits down, other hands go up. Hopefully this was a wasted trip, but it is far better to be safe than sorry. Father Mackie is aware that he is nervous. He adjusts his dog collar, runs a hand through his shock of snowy-white hair and dips into his pocket for a shortbread finger. If someone doesn’t ask about the cemetery, perhaps he should. Just be brave. Remember he has a job to do. How peculiar to be in this room! He shivers. Probably just the cold. 8 The consultation over, Ron is sitting with Joyce beside the bowling green, cold beers glinting in the sunshine. He is currently being distracted by a retired, one-armed jeweller from Ruskin Court, called Dennis Edmonds. Dennis, to whom Ron has never spoken before, wants to congratulate Ron on the very salient points he made during the consultation meeting. ‘Thought-provoking, Ron, thought-provoking. Plenty to chew on there.’ Ron thanks Dennis for his kind words, and waits for the move that he knows is coming. The move that always comes. ‘And this must be your son?’ says Dennis, turning towards Jason Ritchie, also cradling a beer. ‘The champ!’ Jason smiles and nods, as polite as always. Dennis extends his arm. ‘Dennis. I’m a friend of your dad’s.’ Jason shakes the man’s hand. ‘Jason. How do you do, Dennis.’ Dennis stares for a beat, waiting for Jason to start a conversation, then nods enthusiastically. ‘Well, a pleasure to meet you, I’m a huge fan, seen all your fights. We’ll see you soon again, I hope?’ Jason nods politely again and Dennis ambles off, forgetting even to pretend to say goodbye to Ron. Father and son, well used to these interruptions, resume their conversation with Joyce. ‘Yeah, it’s called Famous Family Trees,’ says Jason. ‘They’ve researched the family history and they want to take me round various places, tell me a bit about, you know, family history. Great-granny’s a prostitute and all that.’ ‘I ain’t seen it,’ says Ron. ‘What is it, BBC?’ ‘It’s ITV; it’s really very good, Ron,’ says Joyce. ‘I saw one recently, did you see it Jason, with the actor? He’s the doctor from Holby City, but I’ve also seen him in a Poirot.’ ‘I didn’t see it, Joyce,’ says Jason. ‘It was very interesting. His grandfather, it turns out, had murdered his lover. A gay lover as well. His face was a picture. Oh, you should do it, Jason.’ Joyce claps. ‘Imagine if Ron had a gay granddad. I’d enjoy that.’ Jason nods. ‘They’d want to talk to you too, Dad. On camera. They asked if you’d be up for it, and I told them good luck shutting you up.’ Ron laughs. ‘But are you really doing that Celebrity Ice Dance thing as well?’ ‘I thought it might be fun.’ ‘Oh, I agree,’ says Joyce, finishing her beer and reaching for another. ‘You’re doing a lot at the moment, Son,’ says Ron. ‘Joyce says she saw you on MasterChef.’ Jason shrugs. ‘You’re right, Dad. I should go back to boxing.’ ‘I can’t believe you’d never made a macaroon before, Jason,’ says Joyce. Ron knocks back some of his beer, then motions over to his left with the bottle. ‘Over by the BMW, Jase – don’t look now – that’s Ventham, the one I was telling you about. I ran rings around him, didn’t I, Joyce?’ ‘He didn’t know if he was coming or going, Ron,’ agrees Joyce. Jason leans back and stretches, a casual look to his left as he does so. Joyce moves her chair to get a better view. ‘Yeah, nice and subtle, Joyce,’ says Ron. ‘That’s Curran with him, Jase, the builder. You ever come across him in town?’ ‘Once or twice,’ says Jason. Ron looks over again. The conversation between the men looks tense. Talking fast and low, hands aggressive and defensive, but contained. ‘They having a little barney, you think?’ he asks. Jason sips his beer and scans across to the car park again, taking the men in. ‘They’re like a couple out on a date, pretending they’re not having an argument,’ says Joyce. ‘In a Pizza Express.’ ‘You’ve nailed it there, Joyce,’ agrees Jason, turning back to his dad and finishing his beer. ‘Game of snooker this afternoon, Son?’ says Ron. ‘Or are you shooting off?’ ‘Love to, Dad, but I’ve got a little errand.’ ‘Anything I can help with?’ Jason shakes his head. ‘Boring one, won’t take long.’ He stands and stretches. ‘You haven’t had any journalists ringing you up today, have you?’ ‘Should I have?’ asks Ron. ‘Something up?’ ‘Nah, you know journalists. But no calls, no mail or anything?’ ‘I had a catalogue for walk-in baths,’ says Ron. ‘You want to tell me why you’re asking?’ ‘You know me, Dad, they’re always after something.’ ‘How exciting!’ says Joyce. ‘See you both,’ says Jason. ‘Don’t get drunk and smash the place up.’ Jason leaves. Joyce turns her face up to the sun and closes her eyes. ‘Well, isn’t this lovely, Ron? I never knew I liked beer. Imagine if I’d died at seventy? I never would have known.’ ‘Cheers to that, Joyce,’ says Ron, and polishes off his drink. ‘What do you reckon’s up with Jason?’ ‘Probably a woman,’ says Joyce. ‘You know what we’re like.’ Ron nods. ‘Probably, yeah.’ He watches his son depart into the distance. He’s worried. But then there’s never been a day with Jason, whether in the ring, or out, when Ron hasn’t worried. 9 The consultation went well. Ian Ventham is no longer worried about The Woodlands; it’s a done deal. The loud guy from the meeting? He’d met his type before. Let him blow himself out. He’d also seen a priest at the back of the room. What was that? The cemetery, he guessed, but it was all above board, he had all the permits. Let them try and stop him. And sacking Tony Curran? Well, he hadn’t been happy, but he hadn’t killed him either. Advantage Ian. So, Ian Ventham is already thinking ahead. After The Woodlands is up and running there will be another, final phase of the development, Hillcrest. He has driven the five minutes up a rough track from Coopers Chase and is now sitting in the country kitchen of Karen Playfair. Her father, Gordon, owns the farmland at the top of the hill, adjoining Coopers Chase, and he seems in no mood to sell. No matter, Ian has his ways. ‘I’m afraid nothing has changed, Ian,’ says Karen Playfair. ‘My dad won’t sell, and I can’t make him.’ ‘I hear you,’ says Ian. ‘More money.’ ‘No, I think –’ says Karen, ‘and I think you know this already – I think he just doesn’t like you.’ Gordon Playfair had taken one look at Ian Ventham and disappeared upstairs. Ian could hear him stomping about, proving whatever point he was proving. Who cared? Sometimes people didn’t like Ian. He has never quite worked out why, but over the years has learned to live with it. Certainly, it was their problem. Gordon Playfair was just another in a long line of people who didn’t get him. ‘But listen, leave it with me,’ says Karen. ‘I’ll find a way. It’ll work for everyone.’ Karen Playfair gets him. He has been talking her through the sort of money she could expect if she persuades her dad to sell up. Her sister and brother-in-law have their own business, organic raisins in Brighton, and Ian has already tried this line on them, and failed. Karen Playfair is a much better bet. She lives alone in a cottage on the land and she works in IT, which you can tell just by looking at her. She is wearing make-up, but in a subtle, understated way that Ian honestly can’t see the point of. Ian wonders exactly when Karen had given up on life and started wearing trainers and long, baggy jumpers. And you’d think, given that she works in IT, she could have googled ‘Botox’. She must be fifty, Ian thinks, same age as him. Different for women, though. Ian is on a lot of dating apps, and sets a strict upper age limit of twenty-five. He finds the dating apps useful, because it can be hard to meet exactly the right kind of women these days. They need to understand that his time is limited and his work demanding, and that commitment is hard for him. Women over twenty-five don’t seem to get that, in his experience. What happens to them, he wonders. He tries to imagine why someone would choose to date Karen Playfair, but draws a blank. Conversation? That runs out soon enough, doesn’t it? She’ll be rich soon, of course, when Ian buys the land. That will help her. Hillcrest will be a real life-changer for Ian, too. It will eventually double the size of Coopers Chase, and so double Ian’s profits. Profits he will no longer have to share with Tony Curran. If that meant having to flirt with a fifty-year-old for a couple of weeks then so be it. On dates, Ian has his tried-and-tested material. He’ll impress young women with pictures of his pool, and the time he was interviewed on Kent Tonight. He had already shown Karen a picture of his pool, because you never knew, but she had simply smiled politely and nodded. No wonder she was single. He could do business with her, though. She knew the upsides here, and she knew the obstacles, and they end their conversation with a handshake and a plan of action. As he shakes Karen’s hand, Ian thinks that using a bit of hand cream every now and again wouldn’t kill her. Fifty! He wouldn’t wish it on anyone. The thought briefly occurs to Ian that the only woman over twenty-five he spends any time with at all is his wife. Oh well, time to go. Things to do. 10 Tony Curran has made up his mind. He brings his BMW X7 to a halt on his heated driveway. There is a gun buried under the sycamore in the back garden. Or is it under the beech? It’s one or the other, but that’s something he can think about with a nice cup of tea. And he can try to remember where his spade is, while he’s at it. Tony Curran is going to kill Ian Ventham, that’s a given now. Surely Ian knows it too? You can only take so many liberties before even the most calm and rational man snaps. Tony whistles a tune from an advert and heads indoors. He moved in about eighteen months ago, on the first real profits from Coopers Chase. It was the type of house he had always dreamed of. A house built on hard work, on making the right choices, cutting the right corners and backing his own talent. A monument to what he had achieved, in brick, glass and tempered walnut. Tony lets himself in and sets to work switching off the alarm. Ventham had got some of his gang to fit it last week. Polish, the lot of them, but then who isn’t these days? Tony gets the four-digit code right on the third attempt. A new record. Tony Curran has always taken his security very seriously. For many years Tony’s building company had really just been a front for his drugs business. A way to explain away his income. A way to wash his dirty money. But it slowly got bigger, took up more of his time, brought in more and more money. If you’d told young Tony he would end up living in this house, he wouldn’t have been at all surprised. If you’d told him he’d be buying it with money earned legally, he’d have keeled over there and then. His wife, Debbie, is not back, but that suits him fine for now. Gives him time to concentrate, really think it all through. Tony rewinds to the row with Ian Ventham, and his fury rises again. Ian was cutting him out of The Woodlands? Just like that? A conversation on the way to his car? Outdoors, just in case Tony felt like swinging a punch. He would love to have smacked him there and then, but that was the old Tony. So they’d had a little row, nice and quiet. No one could possibly have noticed, and that’s good for Tony. When Ventham turns up dead, no one can say they saw Tony Curran and Ian Ventham having a ding-dong. Keeps it clean. Tony sits on a bar stool, pulls it up to the island in his vast kitchen and slides open a drawer. He needs to get a plan down on paper. Tony is not a believer in luck, he’s a believer in hard work. If you fail to prepare, you prepare to fail. An old English teacher of Tony’s had once told him that, and he’d never forgotten it. The next year he had torched the same teacher’s car, following an argument about a football, but Tony still had to hand it to the guy. If you fail to prepare, you prepare to fail. As it turns out, there is no paper in the drawer, so Tony decides to work out the plan in his head instead. Nothing needs to be done tonight. Let the world continue for a while, let the birds keep singing in the garden, let Ventham think he has won. And then strike. Why did people ever mess with Tony Curran? When had that ever worked out for anyone? Tony hears the noise a second too late. He turns to see the spanner as it swings towards him. A big one too, real old-school stuff. There’s no way of avoiding the swing and, in the brief moment of realization he has, Tony Curran gets it. You can’t win ’em all, Tony. That’s fair enough, he thinks, that’s fair enough. The blow catches Tony on the left temple and he collapses to the marble floor. The birds in the garden stop singing for the briefest of moments and then continue their merry tune. High up in the sycamore tree. Or is it the beech? The killer places a photograph on the worktop, as Tony Curran’s fresh blood begins to form a moat around his walnut kitchen island. 11 Coopers Chase always wakes early. As the foxes finish their nightly rounds and the birds begin their roll-call, the first kettles whistle and low lamps start to appear in curtained windows. Morning joints creak into life. Nobody here is grabbing toast before an early train to the office, or packing a lunchbox before waking the kids, but there is much to do nonetheless. Many years ago, everybody here would wake early because there was a lot to do and only so many hours in the day. Now they wake early because there is a lot to do and only so many days left. Ibrahim is always up by six. The swimming pool doesn’t open until seven, for health-and-safety reasons. He has argued, unsuccessfully, that the risk of drowning while swimming unsupervised is dwarfed by the risk of dying from cardio-vascular disease or respiratory or circulatory illness due to lack of regular exercise. He even produced an algorithm proving that keeping the pool open twenty-four hours a day, would make residents thirty-one point seven per cent safer than closing it overnight. The Leisure and Recreation Amenities Committee remained unmoved. Ibrahim could see that their hands were tied by various directives and so held no grudge. The algorithm was neatly filed away, should it ever be needed again. There was always a lot to do. ‘I have a job for you, Ibrahim,’ says Elizabeth, sipping a mint tea. ‘Well, a job for you and Ron, but I’m putting you in charge.’ ‘Very wise,’ says Ibrahim, nodding. ‘If I might say?’ Elizabeth had rung him the night before with the news about Tony Curran. She had heard from Ron, who had heard it from Jason, who had heard it from a source yet to be documented. Dead in his kitchen, blunt force trauma to the head, found by his wife. Ibrahim usually likes to spend this hour looking through old case notes and sometimes even new ones. He still has a few clients and, if they are ever in need, they will make the trip out to Coopers Chase and sit in the battered chair under the painting of the sailing boat, both of which have followed him around for nearly forty years now. Yesterday, Ibrahim had been reading the notes of an old client of his, a Midland Bank manager from Godalming who took in stray dogs and killed himself one Christmas Day. No such luck this morning, Ibrahim thinks. Elizabeth had arrived with the sunrise. He is finding the break in his routine challenging. ‘All I need you to do is to lie to a senior police officer,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Can I trust you with that?’ ‘When can you not trust me, Elizabeth?’ says Ibrahim. ‘When have I let you down?’ ‘Well, never, Ibrahim,’ agrees Elizabeth. ‘That’s why I like to keep you around. Also, you make very good tea.’ Ibrahim knows he is a safe pair of hands. Over the years he has saved lives and saved souls. He was good at what he did, and that’s why, even now, some people will drive for miles, past the old phone box and the farm shop, turning right just after the bridge and left by the wooden bus stop, just to speak to an eighty-year-old psychiatrist, long retired. Sometimes he fails – who doesn’t, in this world? – and those are the files that Ibrahim will reach for in those early mornings. The bank manager who sat in the battered chair and cried and cried and could not be saved. But this morning there are different priorities, he understands that. This morning the Thursday Murder Club has a real-life case. Not just yellowing pages of smudged type from another age. A real case, a real corpse and, somewhere out there, a real killer. This morning Ibrahim is needed. Which is what he lives for. 12 PC Donna De Freitas carries a tray of teas into the incident room. A local builder, Tony something, has been murdered, and judging by the size of the assembled team it’s a big deal. Donna wonders why. If she takes her time with the teas, maybe she can find out. DCI Chris Hudson is addressing the team. He always seems nice enough. He once opened some double doors for her without looking like he wanted a medal for it. ‘There are cameras at the property, and plenty of them. Get the footage. Tony Curran left Coopers Chase at 2 p.m. and he died at 3.32, according to his Fitbit. That’s only a small window to search.’ Donna has placed the tea tray on a desk while she stoops to tie her shoelace. She hears Coopers Chase mentioned, which is interesting. ‘There are also cameras on the A214, around 400 metres south of Curran’s home, and half a mile north, so let’s get hold of that footage too. You know the time frame.’ Chris stops for a moment and looks over at where Donna De Freitas is crouching. ‘Everything all right, Constable?’ he asks. Donna straightens up. ‘Yes, sir, just tying my shoelaces. Wouldn’t want to trip with a tray of tea.’ ‘Very wise,’ agrees Chris. ‘Thank you for the tea. We’ll let you get on now.’ ‘Thank you, sir,’ says Donna, and walks towards the door. She realizes that Chris – a detective of course – has probably spotted that her shoes have no laces. But surely he wouldn’t blame a young constable for a bit of healthy curiosity? As she opens the door to leave she hears Chris Hudson continue. ‘Until we get all that, the biggest lead is the photograph the killer left by the body. Let’s take a look.’ Donna can’t resist turning and sees, projected onto the wall, an old photograph, three men in a pub, laughing and drinking. Their table is covered in banknotes. She only has a moment, but she recognizes one of the men immediately. Things would be very different when Donna was part of a murder squad; very different. No more visiting primary schools to write serial numbers on bikes in invisible ink. No more politely reminding local shopkeepers that overflowing bins were actually a criminal off– ‘Constable?’ says Chris, snapping Donna from her train of thought. Donna takes her eyes off the photo and looks at Chris. Firmly, but kindly, he motions that she is free to leave. Donna smiles at Chris and nods. ‘Daydreaming. Sorry, sir.’ She opens the door, walks through, back to the boredom. She strains to hear every last word before the door finally swings shut. ‘So, three men, all of whom we obviously know very well. Shall we take them one by one?’ The door clunks shut. Donna sighs. 13 Joyce I hope you will forgive a morning diary entry, but Tony Curran is dead. Tony Curran is the builder who put this place up. Perhaps he even laid the bricks in my fireplace? Who knows? I mean, probably not. He probably had someone else to do that for him, didn’t he? And all the plastering and what have you. He would have just overseen things, I suppose. But I bet his fingerprints are here somewhere. Which is quite a thrill. Elizabeth rang me last night with the news. I would never describe Elizabeth as breathless, but, honestly, she wasn’t far off. Tony Curran was bludgeoned, of all things, by hand, or hands, unknown. I told her what I’d seen with Ron and Jason, the row between Curran and Ian Ventham. She told me she already knew, so she must have spoken to Ron before she spoke to me, but she was polite enough to listen as I gave my view of it. I asked her if she was taking notes and she said she would remember it. Anyway, Elizabeth seems to have some sort of plan. She said she is seeing Ibrahim this morning. I asked her if there was any way I might be able to help and she said that there was. So I asked her what that way might be and she said if I held my horses, I would find out soon enough. So I suppose I sit and wait for instructions? I’m going to take the minibus into Fairhaven later, but I shall keep my mobile on just in case. I have become someone who has to keep their mobile on. 14 ‘So who killed Tony Curran, and how do we catch him?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Or catch “him or her”, I know I should say, but it’s probably “him”. What kind of woman would bludgeon someone? A Russian woman, but that’s about it.’ After giving Ibrahim his instructions for the day, Elizabeth had headed straight over for this chat. She is in her usual chair. ‘He absolutely seems the type to have had enemies. Sleeveless vest, big house, more tattoos than Ron, so on and so forth. The police will be making a list of suspects right now and we’ll have to get our hands on it. In the absence of their list, though, why don’t we look at whether Ian Ventham killed Tony Curran? You remember Ian Ventham? With the after-shave? Ventham and Tony Curran had a little fight. Ron saw them, of course – when does he ever miss a thing? And Joyce said something about Pizza Express, but I knew what she meant.’ Elizabeth tries to mention Joyce more often these days, because why deny it? ‘Shall we make some reasonable assumptions? Let’s say that Ventham is unhappy with Curran, or Curran is unhappy with Ventham? It doesn’t much matter which. They have something to discuss, and yet they meet in public, which is peculiar.’ Elizabeth checks her watch. She is subtle about it, despite everything. ‘So, let’s say straight after the consultation meeting, Ventham has bad news to break. He fears Curran’s reaction so much that he meets him in public view. He hopes to placate him. But in Ron’s view he was “unsuccessful”. I’m paraphrasing Ron there.’ There is a small sponge cube on a stick next to the bed. Elizabeth places it in a jug of water and wets Penny’s dry lips. The metallic chirp of Penny’s heart monitor fills the silence. ‘So how would Ventham react, in that scenario, Penny? Facing Curran with a grudge? Switch to plan B? Follow Curran to his house? “Let me in, let’s just talk about this, perhaps I’ve been too hasty?” And then, wallop!, as simple as that, don’t you think? He kills Curran before Curran kills him?’ Elizabeth looks around for her bag. She places her hands on the arms of the chair, ready to leave. ‘But why? That’s the question I know you’d ask. I’m going to try and take a look at their financial relationship. Chase the money. There’s a man in Geneva who owes me a favour, so we should be able to get Ventham’s financial records by this evening. Either way, it sounds like fun, doesn’t it? An adventure. And I think we’ll have a few tricks that the police won’t. I’m sure they’d appreciate a bit of help, and that’s my task for this morning.’ Elizabeth gets out of her chair and walks to the side of the bed. ‘A real murder to investigate, Penny. I promise I won’t let you miss a thing.’ She kisses her best friend on the forehead. She turns to the chair on the other side of the bed and gives a small smile. ‘How are you, John?’ Penny’s husband puts down his book and looks up. ‘Oh, you know.’ ‘I do know. You always know where I am, John.’ The nurses say Penny Gray can hear nothing, but who is to say? John never speaks to Penny while Elizabeth is in the room. He comes into Willows at seven each morning and he leaves at nine each evening, back to the flat that he and Penny had lived in together. Back to the holiday trinkets and the old photos and the memories that he and Penny shared for fifty years. She knows that he talks to Penny when she is not there. And every time she walks in, always after knocking, she notices the fading white prints of John’s hand on Penny’s. His hand back on his book, though he always seems to be on the same page. Elizabeth leaves the lovers together. 15 Joyce Every Wednesday I take the residents’ minibus into Fairhaven to do a spot of shopping. On Mondays it goes to Tunbridge Wells, half an hour in the other direction, but I like the younger feel of Fairhaven. I like to see what people are wearing and I like to hear the seagulls. The driver’s name is Carlito and he is generally understood to be Spanish, but I have chatted to him a number of times now and it turns out he is Portuguese. He is very good about it though. There is a vegan caf?, just off the seafront, that I found a few months ago and I am already looking forward to a nice mint tea and an almond-flour brownie. I am not a vegan and have no intention of ever becoming one, but I still feel like it’s something that should be encouraged. I read that if mankind doesn’t stop eating meat, there will be mass starvation by 2050. With respect, I am nearly eighty and so this won’t be my problem, but I do hope they sort it out. My daughter Joanna is vegetarian and one day I will take her there. We’ll just drop in, as if me visiting a vegan caf? is the most natural thing in the world. The usual crowd are always on the bus. There are the regulars, Peter and Carol, a nice couple from Ruskin, who take the minibus down to visit their daughter who lives on the front. I know there are no grandkids, but nonetheless she seems to be at home during the day. There will be a story there. There’s Sir Nicholas, who just goes for a mooch now they won’t let him drive any more. There’s Naomi with her hip that they can’t get to the bottom of and a woman from Wordsworth whose name I have never quite caught and am now too embarrassed to ask. She is friendly enough though. (Elaine?) I know that Bernard will be in his customary position at the back. I always feel like I would like to sit next to him, he is jolly company when he turns his mind to it. But I know he visits Fairhaven for his late wife, so I leave him in peace. That’s where they met and that’s where they lived before they moved in here. He told me that since she died he would go to the Adelphi Hotel where she used to work and polish off a couple of glasses of wine, overlooking the sea. That’s how I first found out about the minibus, if I’m honest, so silver linings. They turned the Adelphi into a Travelodge last year, so now Bernard sits on the pier. That is less desolate than it sounds, as they recently revamped it and it has won a number of awards. Perhaps I will just sit next to him at the back of the bus one day, what am I waiting for? I’m looking forward to my tea and brownie, but I’m also looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet. The whole of Coopers Chase is still gossiping about poor Tony Curran. We are around death a lot here, but even so. Not everyone is bludgeoned, are they? Right, that’s me. If anything happens, I will report back. 16 As the minibus is about to leave, the doors slide open for a final time and Elizabeth steps in. She takes the seat next to Joyce. ‘Good morning, Joyce,’ she says, smiling. ‘Well, this is a first,’ says Joyce. ‘How lovely!’ ‘I’ve brought a book, if you don’t want to talk on the journey,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Ooh no, let’s talk,’ says Joyce. Carlito pulls away with his customary care. ‘Splendid!’ says Elizabeth. ‘I haven’t really brought a book.’ Elizabeth and Joyce settle into conversation. They are very careful not to talk about the Tony Curran case. One of the first things you learn at Coopers Chase is that some people can still actually hear. Instead, Elizabeth tells Joyce about the last time she went to Fairhaven, which was sometime in the 1960s and whose purpose concerned a piece of equipment that had washed up on the beach. Elizabeth refuses to be drawn into details, but tells Joyce it was almost certainly now a matter of public record and she could presumably look it up somewhere if she was interested. The journey passes very pleasantly. The sun is up, the skies are blue and murder is in the air. As always, Carlito stops the minibus outside Ryman’s. Everyone knows to meet back here in three hours’ time. Carlito has done this job for two years now and not a single person has ever been late. Except for Malcolm Weekes, who, as it turned out, had died in the lightbulb aisle in Robert Dyas. Joyce and Elizabeth let the others out first, allowing their assault course of ramps and sticks and frames to disperse. Bernard doffs his hat to the ladies as he exits and they watch as he shuffles towards the seafront, his Daily Express tucked under his arm. As they step down from the bus and Elizabeth thanks Carlito for his considerate driving in perfect Portuguese, Joyce thinks to ask for the first time what Elizabeth is planning to do in Fairhaven. ‘Same as you, dear. Shall we?’ Elizabeth starts walking away from the seafront and Joyce chooses to follow, keen for adventure, but still hopeful she might have time for her tea and brownie. A short walk away is Western Road and the broad stone steps of Fairhaven Police Station. Elizabeth turns back to Joyce, as the automatic doors open in front of her. ‘Here’s the way I see it, Joyce. If we are going to investigate this murder …’ ‘We’re going to investigate the murder?’ asks Joyce. ‘Of course we are, Joyce,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Who better than us? But we have no access to any case files, any witness statements, any forensics, and we are going to have to change that. Which is why we’re here. I know I don’t need to say this, Joyce, but just back me up, whatever happens.’ Joyce nods, of course, of course. They walk in. Once inside, the two ladies are buzzed through a security door into a public reception area. Joyce has never been inside a police station before, though has watched every ITV documentary going and is disappointed that no one is being wrestled to the ground and dragged to a cell, their obscenities thrillingly bleeped out. Instead there is just a young desk sergeant, pretending he isn’t playing patience on his Home Office computer. ‘How can I help you, ladies?’ he asks. Elizabeth starts to cry. Joyce manages to control her double-take. ‘Someone just stole my bag. Outside Holland and Barrett,’ weeps Elizabeth. So that’s why she didn’t have a bag with her, thinks Joyce. That had been bugging her in the minibus. Joyce puts her arm around her friend’s shoulders. ‘It was awful.’ ‘Let me get an officer to take a statement from you and we’ll see what we can do.’ The desk sergeant presses a buzzer on the wall to his left and within seconds a young constable enters through a further security door behind him. ‘Mark, this lady has just had her handbag stolen on Queens Road. Can you take a statement? I’ll make a cuppa for everyone.’ ‘Certainly. Madam, if you’ll follow me?’ Elizabeth stands her ground and refuses to move. She is shaking her head, cheeks wet with tears now. ‘I want to talk to a female police constable.’ ‘I’m sure Mark can sort this out for you,’ says the desk sergeant. ‘Please!’ cries Elizabeth. Joyce decides the time has come to help her friend out. ‘My friend is a nun, Sergeant.’ ‘A nun?’ says the desk sergeant. ‘Yes, a nun,’ says Joyce. ‘And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what that entails?’ The desk sergeant sees that this is a discussion that could end badly in so many ways and chooses an easy life. ‘If you’ll give me a moment, madam, I will find someone for you.’ He follows Mark back through the security door and Elizabeth and Joyce are alone for a minute. Elizabeth stops the waterworks and looks over at Joyce. ‘A nun? That was very good.’ ‘I didn’t have much time to think,’ says Joyce. ‘If pushed, I was going to say someone had touched me,’ says Elizabeth. ‘You know how hot they are on that these days. But a nun is much more fun.’ ‘Why do you want to see a female officer?’ Joyce has a number of other questions now, but this is first in the queue. ‘And well done on not saying WPC, by the way. I’m proud of you.’ ‘Thank you, Joyce. I just thought that, as the bus was going into Fairhaven anyway, we should pop in and see PC De Freitas.’ Joyce nods slowly. In Elizabeth’s world that is absolutely the sort of thing that makes sense. ‘But what if she’s not on shift? Or what if she is, but there are other female constables?’ ‘Would I have brought you here if I hadn’t already checked that, Joyce?’ ‘How did you check th—’ The security door opens and Donna De Freitas steps through. ‘Now, ladies, how can I –’ Donna registers who is in front of her. She looks from Elizabeth to Joyce and back again, ‘– help you?’ 17 DCI Chris Hudson has been given a file on Tony Curran so thick it makes a pleasing thud if you drop it on a desk. Which is what he has just done. Chris takes a swig of Diet Coke. He sometimes worries he is addicted to it. He had read a headline about Diet Coke once, which was so worrying he had chosen not to read the article. He opens the file. Most of Tony Curran’s dealings with Kent Police were from before Chris’s time in Fairhaven. Charges for assault in his twenties, minor drug convictions, dangerous driving, dangerous dog, possession of an illegal weapon. A tax disc misdemeanour. Public urination. Then comes the real story. Chris opens an indeterminate sandwich from the garage. There are transcripts of a number of interviews held with Tony Curran over the years, with the last one being after a shooting in the Black Bridge pub, which left a young drug dealer dead. A witness recognized Tony Curran as firing the fatal shot and Fairhaven CID called Curran in for questioning. Tony Curran had been in the middle of everything back then. Ask around and anyone would tell you. Tony ran the drugs trade in Fairhaven, and plenty more besides. Made a lot of money. Chris reads the depressingly familiar stream of ‘no comments’ on the Black Bridge transcript. He reads that the witness, a local taxi driver, had disappeared soon after. Scared away, or worse. Tony Curran, local builder, walked away scot-free. So what was that? One death? Two? The drug dealer shot at the Black Bridge and, perhaps, the poor taxi driver who witnessed it? Since 2000 though, nothing. A speeding ticket, promptly paid, in 2009. He looks at the photograph the killer had left by the body. Three men. Tony Curran, now dead. With his arm around Tony was a local dealer from back in the day, Bobby Tanner. Hired as muscle. Whereabouts currently unknown, but they would track him down soon enough. And the third man, whereabouts very much known. The ex-boxer Jason Ritchie. Chris wonders what the newspapers would pay for this photo. He has heard of officers doing this. The lowest of the low, as far as Chris is concerned. He looks at the smiles, the banknotes and the beers. It was probably sometime around 2000, when the boy was shot in the Black Bridge. Funny to think of the year 2000 as ancient history. Chris opens a Twix as he studies the photo. He has his annual medical in two months and every Monday he convinces himself that this is finally the week he gets back into shape, finally shifts the stone or so that holds him back. The stone or so that gives him cramp. The stone or so that stops him buying new clothes, just in case, and that stops him dating, because who would want this? The stone or so that stands between him and the world. Two stone if he’s really honest. Those Mondays are usually good. Chris doesn’t take the lift on Mondays. Chris brings food from home on Mondays. Chris does sit-ups in bed on Mondays. But by Tuesday, or, in a good week, Wednesday, the world creeps back in, the stairs seem too daunting and Chris loses faith in the project. He’s aware that the project is himself, and that drags him further down still. So out come the pasties and the crisps, the petrol-station lunch, the quick drink after work, the takeaway on the way home from work, the chocolate on the way home from the takeaway. The eating, the numbing, the release, the shame and then repeat. But there was always next Monday and one of these Mondays there would be salvation. That stone would drop off, followed by the other stone that was lurking. He’d barely break sweat at the medical, he’d be the athlete he always secretly knew he was. Text a thumbs-up to the new girlfriend he’d have met online. He finishes the Twix and looks around for his crisps. Chris Hudson guesses that the Black Bridge shooting was the wake-up call that Tony Curran had needed. That was certainly how it looked. He had started working with a local property developer called Ian Ventham around this time, and perhaps he decided life would be simpler if he turned legit. There was good money in it, even if it was not what he had grown used to. Tony must have known he couldn’t keep riding his luck. Chris opens his crisps and looks at his watch. He has an appointment and he should probably head off. Someone saw Tony Curran having a row just before he died, and that someone is insisting on talking to him personally. It’s not a long trip. The retirement community Curran had been working at. Chris looks at the photo again. The three men, that happy gang. Tony Curran and Bobby Tanner, arms around each other. And, off to the side, a bottle in his hand and that handsome broken nose, maybe a couple of years past the height of his powers, Jason Ritchie. Three friends, drinking beer, at a table covered with money. Why leave the photo by the body? A warning from Bobby Tanner or Jason Ritchie? A warning to them? You’re next? More likely a red herring, or a misdirect. No one would be so stupid. Either way, Chris will need to have a chat with Jason Ritchie. And, hopefully, his team will find their missing man, Bobby Tanner. Actually, their missing men, thinks Chris, tipping the last of his crisps into his mouth. Because, who took the photograph in the first place? 18 Donna motions for her two visitors to sit. They are in Interview Suite B, a boxy, windowless room, with a wooden table bolted to the floor. Joyce looks around her with the excitement of a tourist. Elizabeth looks at home. Donna has her eyes on the heavy door, waiting for it to swing shut. The moment it clicks into place she looks straight at Elizabeth. ‘So you’re a nun now, Elizabeth?’ Elizabeth nods quickly, raising a finger to acknowledge that this is a good question. ‘Donna, like any modern woman, I am any number of things, as and when the need arises. We have to be chameleons, don’t we?’ She takes a notepad and pen from an inside coat pocket and places them on the table. ‘But Joyce takes the credit for that one.’ Joyce is still staring around the room. ‘This is exactly like you see on television, PC De Freitas. How wonderful! It must be so much fun to work here.’ Donna is not sharing in the sense of awe. ‘So, Elizabeth. Have you had a bag stolen?’ ‘No, dear,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Good luck to anyone trying to steal my bag. Can you imagine?’ ‘Then can I ask what the two of you are doing here? I have work that needs finishing.’ Elizabeth nods. ‘Of course, that’s very reasonable. Well, I’m here because I wanted to talk to you about something. And Joyce was here for shopping, I presume. Joyce? I realize I haven’t asked.’ ‘I like to go to Anything with a Pulse, the vegan caf?, if you know it?’ Donna looks at her watch, then leans forward. ‘Well, here I am. If you want to talk, go ahead. I’ll give you two minutes before I go back to catching criminals.’ Elizabeth gives a light clap of the hands. ‘Excellent! Well, first I will say this. Stop pretending you are not pleased to see us again, because I know that you are. And we’re pleased to see you again. This will be so much more fun if we can all just accept that.’ Donna does not reply. Joyce leans in to the tape recorder sitting on the table. ‘For the purposes of the tape, PC De Freitas refuses to answer, but is attempting to hide a slight smile.’ ‘Secondly, but connected to that,’ continues Elizabeth, ‘whatever it is we are keeping you from, I know one thing for certain, it isn’t catching criminals. It is something boring.’ ‘No comment,’ deadpans Donna. ‘Where are you from, Donna? May I call you Donna?’ ‘You may. I’m from south London.’ ‘Transferred from the Met?’ Donna nods. Elizabeth makes a note in her book. ‘You’re taking notes?’ asks Donna. Elizabeth nods. ‘Why so? And why to Fairhaven?’ ‘That’s a story for another day. You have one more question before I leave the room. Fun though this is.’ ‘Of course,’ replies Elizabeth. She shuts her notebook and adjusts her glasses. ‘Well, I have a statement really, but I promise it ends with a question.’ Donna turns up her palms, inviting Elizabeth to continue. ‘This is what I see, and I know you’ll stop me if I misspeak. You are in your mid twenties, you give the impression of being clever and intuitive. You also give the impression of being very kind, yet very handy should a fight erupt. For reasons we will get to the bottom of, almost certainly a doomed relationship, you have left London, where I would have thought the life and the work would have suited you to a T. You find yourself here, in Fairhaven, where the crime is minor and the criminals are petty. And you are pounding the streets. Maybe a junkie steals a bicycle, Donna; maybe someone drives off from a petrol station without paying, or maybe there’s a fight, over a girl, in a pub. Goodness me, what a bore. For reasons that are not of importance, I once worked in a bar in the former Yugoslavia for three months and my brain was screaming out for excitement, for stimulation, for something extraordinary to happen. Does that sound familiar? You are single, you are living in a rented flat, you have not found it easy to make friends in the town. Most of your colleagues in the station are a bit old for you. I’m sure that young PC, Mark, has asked you out, but there’s no way he could handle a south London girl, so you had to say no. You both still find it awkward. That poor boy. Your pride won’t allow you to go back to the Met for a good while and so you’re stuck here for the time being. You’re still the new girl, so promotion is a pretty distant prospect, added to the fact you’re not all that popular because, deep down, everyone can tell you’ve made a mistake and you resent being here. You can’t even quit. Why throw away these years on the force, the tough years, just because of a wrong turn? So you strap on the uniform and you turn up, shift after shift, teeth gritted, just waiting for something extraordinary to happen. Like, perhaps, a woman who isn’t a nun, pretending her bag has been stolen.’ Elizabeth raises an eyebrow at Donna, looking for a response. Donna is utterly impassive, utterly unimpressed. ‘I’m still waiting for the question, Elizabeth.’ Elizabeth nods, and opens her notebook again. ‘My question is this. Wouldn’t you like to be investigating the Tony Curran murder?’ There is silence as Donna slowly weaves her hands together and rests her chin on them. She considers Elizabeth very carefully before speaking. ‘There is already a team investigating the Tony Curran murder, Elizabeth. A highly qualified murder squad. I recently delivered tea to it. They don’t really have a vacancy for a PC who tuts every time she gets asked to do the photocopying. Have you ever thought it’s possible you don’t really understand how the police works?’ Elizabeth notes this down and talks as she writes. ‘Mmm, that is possible. How complicated it all must be. But a lot of fun, I imagine?’ ‘I imagine too,’ agrees Donna. ‘They say he was bludgeoned,’ says Elizabeth. ‘With a large spanner. Could you confirm that?’ ‘No comment, Elizabeth,’ says Donna. Elizabeth stops writing and looks up again. ‘Wouldn’t you like to be part of it, Donna?’ Donna starts to drum her fingers on the desk. ‘OK. Let’s just suppose I would like to be involved in the murder investigation …’ ‘Yes, quite, let’s suppose that. Let’s start there and see where we get to.’ ‘You do understand how CID works, Elizabeth? I can’t simply ask to be assigned to a particular investigation.’ Elizabeth smiles. ‘Oh goodness, don’t you worry about that, Donna; we can take care of it all.’ ‘You can take care of it?’ ‘I should have thought so, yes.’ ‘How?’ asks Donna. ‘Well, there’s always a way, isn’t there? But you would be interested? If we could make it happen?’ Donna looks back to the heavy door, safely shut. ‘When could you make that happen, Elizabeth?’ Elizabeth looks at her watch and gives a small shrug. ‘An hour, perhaps?’ ‘And this conversation never leaves this room?’ Elizabeth puts a finger to her lips. ‘Then I would. Yes, please.’ Donna holds up her hands, open and honest. ‘I would really, really like to chase murderers.’ Elizabeth smiles and puts her notebook back in her pocket. ‘Well, this is smashing. I thought I had read the situation correctly.’ ‘What’s in it for you?’ asks Donna. ‘Nothing, other than a favour to a new friend. And we might have the odd question here or there, about the investigation. Just to satisfy our curiosity.’ ‘You know I couldn’t tell you anything confidential? That’s not a deal I can agree to.’ ‘Nothing unprofessional, I promise you.’ Elizabeth crosses herself. ‘As a woman of God.’ ‘And in an hour you say?’ Elizabeth looks at her watch. ‘I’d say about an hour. Depending on the traffic.’ Donna nods, as if this makes complete sense. ‘About your little speech, though, Elizabeth. I don’t know if it was designed to impress me, or to show off in front of Joyce, but it was pretty obvious stuff.’ Elizabeth concedes the point. ‘Obvious, but right, dear.’ ‘Almost right, but you’re not quite, Miss Marple. Is she, Joyce?’ Joyce pipes up. ‘Oh yes, that boy Mark is gay, Elizabeth. You’d have to be fairly blind to miss that.’ Donna smiles. ‘Lucky you have your friend with you, Sister.’ She likes that Elizabeth is attempting to hide a smile of her own. ‘I’ll need your mobile number, by the way, Donna,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I don’t really want to fake a crime every time I need to see you.’ Donna slides a card over the table. ‘I hope that’s a personal number and not an official one,’ says Elizabeth. ‘It would be nice to have some privacy.’ Donna looks at Elizabeth, shakes her head and sighs. She writes down another number on the card. ‘Lovely,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I suspect between us we can find whoever killed Tony Curran. It can’t be beyond the wit of man. Or rather woman.’ Donna stands. ‘Should I ask how you can get me on the investigating team, Elizabeth, or don’t I want to know?’ Elizabeth checks her watch. ‘Nothing you need to concern yourself with. Ron and Ibrahim should be taking care of it about now.’ Joyce waits for Elizabeth to stand too, then leans into the tape recorder once again. ‘Interview terminated, 12.47 p.m.’ 19 DCI Chris Hudson swings his Ford Focus onto the long, broad driveway leading up to Coopers Chase. The traffic hasn’t been at all bad and he is hoping this won’t take too long. As he checks out his surroundings, Chris wonders why this place needs quite so many llamas. There are no spaces in the visitors’ car park, so he eases the Focus onto a verge and steps out into the Kent sun. Chris has been to retirement communities before and this is not at all what he had been expecting. This is a whole village. He wanders past a bowls match, wine chilling in coolers at each end. One of the players is an extremely elderly woman smoking a pipe. He follows a meandering path through a perfect English garden, flanked by three storeys of flats. There are people gossiping on patios and balconies, enjoying the sunshine. Friends sit on benches, bees buzz round bushes, light breezes play tunes with ice cubes. Chris finds the whole thing deeply infuriating. He’s a wind-and-rain guy, a turn-up-the-collar-on-your-overcoat man. If Chris had his way he would hibernate for the summer. He has not worn shorts since 1987. Chris crosses a residents’ car park, past a red postbox looking picture-book perfect, annoying him further, and finds Wordsworth Court. He rings the buzzer for flat 11: Mr Ibrahim Arif. After being buzzed up and walking across a lushly carpeted hallway and up a lushly carpeted staircase and knocking on a solid oak door, Chris finds himself in that flat of Ibrahim Arif, sitting opposite the man himself and also opposite Ron Ritchie. Ron Ritchie. Well, wasn’t that quite the thing? Chris had been taken aback the moment they had been introduced. The father of a man Chris was investigating – what was that? Luck? Something more sinister? Chris decides he will just let it play out. He trusts that, if there is an angle, he will spot it. Strange that this is where ‘Red Ron’ ended up, though. The scourge of the bosses, the Beast of British Leyland, and British Steel, and British whatever else you’d care to mention? Amidst the honeysuckle and Audis of Coopers Chase? Chris would have barely recognized him, to be honest. Ron Ritchie is wearing mismatched pyjamas, an unzipped tracksuit top and dress shoes. He is looking around vacantly, mouth open. He is a mess and Chris feels awkward, as if he is imposing on a private scene. Ibrahim is explaining the situation to DCI Chris Hudson. ‘It can be very stressful for elderly people to talk to police officers. You mustn’t think that’s your fault. This is why I suggested you conduct the interview here.’ Chris nods gently, because he has done the training. ‘I can assure you that Mr Ritchie is not in trouble, but if, as you say, he has information, I will need to ask him a couple of questions.’ Ibrahim turns to Ron. ‘Ron, he just wants to ask you about the argument you saw. Remember, we talked about it?’ Ibrahim looks back to Chris. ‘He forgets things. He’s very old, Detective Chief Inspector. A very, very old man.’ ‘All right, Ibrahim,’ says Ron. Ibrahim pats Ron’s hand and speaks to him slowly. ‘I think it’s quite safe, Ron. We’ve seen this gentleman’s warrant card. I rang the number on it, then I googled him. Remember?’ ‘I just … I just don’t think I can,’ says Ron. ‘I don’t want to get into any trouble.’ ‘There won’t be any trouble, Mr Ritchie,’ says Chris. ‘I guarantee it. It’s just that you might have important information.’ ‘Red Ron’ is a shadow of his former self and Chris is very aware that he must play this carefully. Certainly don’t mention Jason yet. The possibility of a pub lunch is also rapidly vanishing. ‘Mr Arif is right, you can tell me anything.’ Ron looks at Chris, then back to Ibrahim for signs of reassurance. Ibrahim squeezes his friend’s arm and Ron looks at Chris again, then leans forward. ‘I think I’d be happier talking to the lady.’ Chris is taking his first sip of the mint tea Ibrahim has made for him. ‘The lady?’ He looks at Ron and then at Ibrahim. Ibrahim helps him out. ‘Which lady, Ron?’ ‘The lady, Ib. The one who comes and talks to us. The woman copper.’ ‘Oh yes!’ says Ibrahim. ‘PC De Freitas! She often comes to talk to us, Detective Chief Inspector. Window locks. Do you know her?’ ‘Of course. Yes, she is one of my team.’ Chris is trying to remember if the young PC with the non-existent shoelaces was Donna De Freitas. He was fairly sure she was. She’d come from the Met and no one knew why. ‘We work very closely together.’ ‘So she is part of the investigation? This is excellent news.’ Ibrahim beams. ‘We love PC De Freitas here.’ ‘Well, she’s not officially part of the investigation team, Mr Arif,’ says Chris. ‘She’s on other important duties. Catching criminals and … so on.’ Ron and Ibrahim don’t say a word, they just look expectantly at Chris. ‘But it is a terrific idea. I would love her to be on the team,’ says Chris, trying to work out who he would need to speak to. Surely someone owed him a favour? ‘She is a fine officer,’ says Ibrahim. ‘She does you credit.’ Ibrahim becomes serious again and turns to Ron. ‘So, if the handsome detective here and our friend PC De Freitas came to talk to you together? Would you be happy, Ron?’ Ron takes his first sip of tea. ‘That’d be perfect, Ib. I’d like that. I’ll talk to Jason too.’ ‘Jason?’ asks Chris, on alert. ‘Do you like boxing, son?’ asks Ron. Chris nods. ‘Very much, Mr Ritchie.’ ‘My boy is a boxer. Jason.’ ‘I know, sir,’ says Chris. ‘You must be very proud.’ ‘Only, he was with me, so he should be here. He saw the row too.’ Chris nods. Well, that was very interesting. The trip has not been wasted. ‘Well, I’m sure I can come back and talk to you both.’ ‘And you’ll bring PC De Freitas with you? How wonderful!’ says Ibrahim. ‘Of course,’ says Chris. ‘Whatever gets us to the truth.’ 20 Joyce So it seems we are investigating a murder. And, better still, I have been in a police interview room. This diary is bringing me luck. It was interesting watching Elizabeth in action. She is very impressive. Very calm. I wonder if we would have got along if we’d met thirty years ago? Probably not, we are from different worlds. But this place brings people together. I do hope I’ll be of some help to Elizabeth in the investigation. Help to catch Tony Curran’s killer. Perhaps I will, in my own way. I think that if I have a special skill, it is that I am often overlooked. Is that the word? Underestimated perhaps? Coopers Chase is full of the great and the good, people who have done something or other with their lives. It’s really a lot of fun. There’s someone who helped design the Channel Tunnel, someone who has a disease named after them and someone who was the ambassador to Paraguay or Uruguay. You know the type. And me? Joyce Meadowcroft? What do they make of me, I wonder. Harmless, certainly. Chatty? Guilty, I’m afraid. But I think they know, deep down, that I’m not one of them. A nurse, not a doctor, not that anyone would say that to my face. They know that Joanna bought my flat here. Joanna is one of them. Me, not so much. And yet, if there’s a row at Catering Committee, or if there’s a problem with the lake pumps, or if, as happened very recently, one resident’s dog impregnates another and all hell breaks loose, then who is there to fix it? Joyce Meadowcroft. I am very happy to listen to the grandstanding, watch the chests puffing out, hear the furious threats of legal action and wait for them to blow themselves out. Then I step in and suggest that maybe there’s a way through, and perhaps there is a compromise to be reached, and perhaps dogs will be dogs. Nobody here feels threatened by me, nobody sees me as a rival, I’m just Joyce, gentle, chatty Joyce, always has her nose in everything. So everyone calms down through me. Quiet, sensible, Joyce. There is no more shouting and the problem is fixed, more often than not in a way that advantages me. Which is something no one ever seems to notice. So I am very happy to be overlooked and always have been. And I do think perhaps that will be helpful in this investigation. Everyone can look at Elizabeth and I’ll just get on with being me. The ‘Meadowcroft’, by the way, is from my late husband, Gerry, and I have always liked it. I had many reasons to marry Gerry and his surname was another to add to a long list. A friend of mine from nursing married a Bumstead. Barbara Bumstead. I think I might have found an excuse and called it off. What a day! I think I’ll watch an old Prime Suspect and then bed. Whatever Elizabeth needs me to do next, I’ll be ready. 21 It is another beautiful morning. Bogdan Jankowski is sitting on a swing chair on Ian Ventham’s patio and is taking some time to think things through. Tony Curran has been murdered. Someone broke into his home and killed him. There were plenty of suspects and Bogdan is going over a few of them in his head. Thinking about reasons they might have for wanting Tony Curran dead. Everyone seems shocked by Tony’s death, but nothing surprises Bogdan. People died all the time of all sorts of things. His father had fallen from a dam, near Krakow, when Bogdan was a child. Or jumped, or was pushed, it didn’t matter. It didn’t change the fact that he had died. Something will always get you in the end. Ian’s garden is not to Bogdan’s taste. The lawn, which stretches down to a line of trees in the far distance, is orderly and English and striped. Down towards the trees, off to the left, there is a pond. Ian Ventham calls it a lake, but Bogdan knows lakes. It has a small wooden bridge crossing its far end as it narrows. Children would love it, but Bogdan has never seen children in this garden. Ian had bought a family of ducks, but foxes killed the ducks and then a guy Bogdan knew from the pub had killed the foxes. Ian didn’t buy any more ducks after that, because what would be the point? There will always be foxes. Sometimes wild ducks still visited. Good luck to them, was Bogdan’s view. The swimming pool is directly on Bogdan’s right. You could take a few steps down from the patio and dive straight in. Bogdan had tiled the swimming pool. Bogdan had painted the little bridge duck-egg blue and Bogdan had laid the patio he was sitting on. Ian had come good on his offer and had asked him to oversee the building of the Woodlands development. So he was taking over from Tony, which some people might now see as bad luck, a jinx perhaps. But to Bogdan it was just something that was happening, and he would do it as well as he was able. Good money. The money doesn’t really interest Bogdan, but the challenge does. And he likes being around the village, he likes the people. Bogdan had seen all the plans now, studied everything. They were complicated at first but, once you’d seen the patterns, simple enough. Bogdan had enjoyed working on smaller jobs for Ian Ventham, he had liked the order of it, but he understands that things change and that he needs to step up. Bogdan’s mother had died when he was nineteen. She had come into some money when Bogdan’s father had died. From somewhere, it hadn’t been a time for details. The money paid for Bogdan to take up a place at the Technical University in Krakow, to study engineering. And that’s where he had been when his mother suffered a stroke and collapsed at home. If he had still been at home then he would have saved her, but he wasn’t, and so he didn’t. Bogdan came home, buried his mother and left for England the next day. Nearly twenty years later he is looking at a stupid lawn. Bogdan is thinking that he will maybe close his eyes for a moment when, from the other side of the house, comes the deep sound of the front-door chimes. A rare visitor to this big, quiet house, and the reason Ian has asked Bogdan to be here today. Ian slides back the patio door of his study. ‘Bogdan. Door.’ ‘Yes, of course.’ Bogdan gets to his feet. He goes in via the conservatory he designed, through the music room he’d soundproofed and into the hallway he had once sanded in his underpants on the hottest day of the year. Whatever you needed him to do. Father Matthew Mackie is regretting asking his cabbie to drop him at the bottom of the drive. It had been quite the walk from the front gates to the front door. He fans himself a little with his file, then, quickly using the camera on his phone to check his dog collar is straight, rings the bell. He is relieved to hear noises from within the house, because you never know, even when you’ve made arrangements. He was happy to meet here, it makes things easier all round. He hears footsteps on a wooden floor and the door is opened by a broad, shaven-headed man. He wears a tight, white T-shirt and he has a cross tattooed on one forearm and three names on the other. ‘Father,’ says the man. Good news, a Catholic. And, judging by the accent, Polish. ‘Dzie? dobry,’ says Father Mackie. The man smiles back, ‘Dzie? dobry, dzie? dobry.’ ‘I have an appointment to see Mr Ventham. Matthew Mackie.’ The man takes his hand and shakes it. ‘Bogdan Jankowski. Come in please, Father.’ ‘We understand, believe me, that you have no legal imperative to help us,’ says Father Matthew Mackie. ‘We disagree with the council’s ruling, of course, but we must accept it.’ Mike Griffin from the Planning Committee had done his job well, thinks Ian. Feel free to dig up the graveyard, Ian, he’d said, be our guest. Mike Griffin is addicted to online casinos and long may that continue. ‘However, I do think you have a moral obligation to leave the Garden of Eternal Rest, the graveyard, exactly where it is,’ continues Father Mackie. ‘And I wanted to meet you face to face, man to man and see if we can come to a compromise.’ Ian Ventham listens closely, but, in honesty, is really thinking about how clever he is. He is the cleverest person he knows, that’s for certain. That’s how he gets what he wants. It feels almost unfair sometimes. He’s not even one step ahead of you, he’s on an entirely different path. Karen Playfair had been an easy one. If he can’t persuade Gordon Playfair to sell his land, then he knows she will. Dads and daughters. And she’d see a chunk of the money, surely? An old man can only turn down a seven-figure sum for a big hill for so long. Ian would always find a way. But Father Mackie is trickier than Karen Playfair, he sees that. Priests weren’t like divorcees in their early fifties who could stand to lose a few pounds, were they? You had to pretend to have some respect, and maybe you actually should have some respect. After all, what if they were right? Open mind. Which was another example of cleverness being useful. That’s why Ian has asked Bogdan to join them. He knows this lot like to stick together, and quite right, who doesn’t? He realizes he should probably speak. ‘We’re only moving the bodies, Father,’ says Ian. ‘It will be done with the greatest of care and the greatest of respect.’ Ian knows that this is not strictly true. Legally he had had to put the job out for public tender. Three bids had come in. One was from the University of Kent Forensic Anthropology Department, who would certainly do the job with the greatest care and respect. One was from a firm of ‘Cemetery Specialists’ in Rye, who had recently moved thirty graves from the site of a new Pets at Home and included pictures of solemn men and women in dark blue overalls, digging out graves by hand. The last was from a company set up two months ago by Ian himself, with a funeral director from Brighton he had met playing golf and Sue Banbury from Ian’s village, who rented out diggers. That final pitch was extremely competitive and had won the business. Ian had looked into the excavation of cemeteries online and it wasn’t rocket science. ‘Some of these graves are nearly one hundred and fifty years old, Mr Ventham,’ says Father Mackie. ‘Call me Ian,’ says Ian. Ian hadn’t strictly needed to have this meeting, but he feels it’s better to be safe than sorry. A lot of the residents can get quite ‘churchy’ when it suits them and he wouldn’t want Father Mackie stirring up trouble. People get funny about corpses. So hear the man out, reassure him, send him happily on his way. Donate to something? There’s a thought to keep in the back pocket. ‘The company you’ve employed to relocate the cemetery,’ Mackie looks at his file, ‘Angels in Transit – the Cremoval Specialists, they know what they’re going to find, I hope? There won’t be many intact coffins, Ian, just bones. And not skeletons; loose bones, broken down, scattered, half-rotted, sunk through the earth. And every single fragment of every bone, in every single grave, needs to be found, needs to be documented and needs to be respected. That’s basic decency, but don’t forget that it is also the law.’ Ian nods, though he is actually wondering if it is possible to paint a digger black. Sue will know. ‘I am here today,’ continues Father Mackie, ‘to ask you to think again, to leave these ladies where they are, to leave them in peace. Man to man. I don’t know what it would cost you to do that, that’s your business. But you have to understand, as a man of God, that it’s my business too. I don’t want these women moved.’ ‘Matthew, I appreciate you coming to see us,’ says Ian. ‘And I see what you’re saying about angels. Souls in torment et cetera, if I’m reading you right? But you said it yourself, all we’ll find now is bones. That’s all there is. And you can choose to be superstitious, or religious in your case, I see that, but I can choose not to be. Now, we’ll take care of the bones, and I’m happy for you to be there and watch the lot if that’s what floats your boat. But I want to move the cemetery, I’m allowed to move the cemetery and I’m going to move the cemetery. If that makes me whatever I am then so be it. Bones don’t mind where they are.’ ‘If I can’t change your mind then I will make this as difficult as I possibly can for you. I need you to know that,’ says Father Mackie. ‘Join the queue, Father,’ says Ian. ‘I’ve got the RSPCA up in arms about badgers. I’ve got the Kent Forestry Something banging on about protected trees. With you, it’s nuns. I’ve got to comply with EU regulations on heat emissions, on light pollution, on bathroom fittings and a hundred other things, even though I seem to remember we voted to leave. I’ve got residents bleating about benches, I’ve got English Heritage telling me my bricks don’t qualify as sustainable and the cheapest cement guy in the entire south of England has just gone to prison for VAT fraud. You are not my biggest problem, Father, not even close.’ Ian finally draws breath. ‘Also, Tony died, so is difficult time for everyone,’ adds Bogdan, crossing himself. ‘Yeah, yep. Also, Tony died. Difficult time,’ agrees Ian. Father Mackie turns to Bogdan, now he has broken his silence. ‘And what do you think, my son? About moving the Garden of Eternal Rest? You don’t think we’re disturbing souls? You don’t think there will be penance for this?’ ‘Father, I think God watches over everything and judges everything,’ says Bogdan. ‘But I think bones is bones.’ 22 Joyce is having her hair cut. Anthony comes in every Thursday and Friday and appointments at his mobile salon are like gold dust. Joyce always books the first appointment, because that’s when you get the best stories. Elizabeth knows this and so is sitting outside by the open doorway. Waiting and listening. She could just walk in, but waiting and listening are old habits she can’t break. In a lifetime of listening you pick up all sorts. She looks at her watch. If Joyce isn’t out in five minutes she will make her presence known. ‘One day I’m just going to dye the whole thing, Joyce,’ says Anthony. ‘Send you out of here bright pink.’ Joyce giggles. ‘You’d look like Nicki Minaj. You know Nicki Minaj, Joyce?’ ‘No, but I like the sound of her,’ says Joyce. ‘What do we think about this fella they killed?’ asks Anthony. ‘Curran? I’ve seen him round here.’ ‘Well, it’s very sad, obviously,’ says Joyce. ‘They shot him, that’s what I heard,’ says Anthony. ‘I wonder what he’d done?’ ‘I think he was bludgeoned to death, Anthony,’ says Joyce. ‘Bludgeoned, was he? You really do have lovely hair, Joyce. You have to promise you’ll leave it to me in your will.’ Outside, Elizabeth rolls her eyes. ‘I heard they gunned him down on the seafront,’ says Anthony. ‘Three guys on motorbikes.’ ‘No, just bludgeoned in his kitchen, apparently,’ says Joyce. ‘No motorbikes.’ ‘Who’d do that?’ says Anthony. ‘Bludgeon someone in their kitchen?’ Who indeed? thinks Elizabeth, and looks at her watch again. ‘I bet he had a lovely kitchen too,’ says Anthony. ‘What a shame. I always had a bit of a thing for him. Like you could tell he was a wrong ’un, but you still would?’ ‘Well, we’re agreed there, Anthony,’ says Joyce. ‘I hope they catch whoever did it.’ ‘I’m sure they will,’ says Joyce, and takes a sip of her tea. Elizabeth decides enough is enough, stands and walks into the room. Anthony turns and sees her. ‘Ooh, here she is. Dusty Springfield.’ ‘Good morning, Anthony. I’m afraid you’re going to have to release Joyce. I need her.’ Joyce claps her hands. 23 Joyce So that was a day I wasn’t expecting when I was having my muesli this morning. First the nun business and now this. If you think I have muesli every morning you’ve got the wrong idea, but this morning I did and, as things turned out, I was glad of the energy. It has gone 10 p.m. now and I have only just put my things down. At least I had a snooze on the train home. I was having my hair cut this morning, with Anthony. We were nearly done and were just having a lovely gossip when who should arrive but Elizabeth. With a tote bag and a flask, both of which were out of character. She told me a taxi was on its way and to get ready for a day out. I have learned to be spontaneous since I moved to Coopers Chase, so I didn’t bat an eyelid. I asked her where we were going, so I would have an idea about the weather etc., and she said London, which surprised me, but explained the flask. I know exactly how cold London can be, so I popped home and put on a nice coat. And thank goodness I did! We still use the Robertsbridge taxis, even though they once took Ron’s granddaughter to the wrong station, and to their credit they have got better. The driver, Hamed, was Somalian, and Somalia sounds very beautiful. Surprise, surprise, Elizabeth has been there and they had a right old chat. Hamed has six children and the eldest is a GP in Chislehurst, if you know it? I once went to a car boot there, so was at least able to chip in. All this time Elizabeth was waiting for me to ask where we were going, but I didn’t crack. She likes to be in charge and, don’t get me wrong, I like her to be in charge too, but it doesn’t harm to make your presence felt every now and again. I think she rubs off on me, and in a good way. I have never really thought that I was a pushover, but the more time I spend with Elizabeth, the more I think I probably am. Maybe if I’d had Elizabeth’s spirit then I would have been to Somalia too? That’s just an example of what I mean. We got on the train at Robertsbridge (the 9.51 stopper) and she’d cracked by Tunbridge Wells and let me in on it. We were off to see Joanna. Joanna! My little girl! You can imagine my questions. Elizabeth had me back exactly where she wanted me. So why were we going to see Joanna? Well, this is what it seems had transpired. Elizabeth explained, in that way she has that makes everything sound so reasonable, that we knew as much as the police did about many things in this case, which was a good thing for everyone. However, it would also be good if there were areas where we knew more than the police. In case we needed to ‘trade’ at any point. This might be useful, according to Elizabeth, because Donna is, unfortunately, a bit too canny to tell us everything. After all, who are we? The big gap, the way Elizabeth would have it, was the financial records of Ian Ventham’s companies. Might there be a useful connection between Ventham and Tony Curran there? A reason for their row? A motive for murder? It was important we found out. To this end, Elizabeth had, of course, acquired detailed financial records of Ian Ventham’s companies. By hook or, more likely, by crook. It was all in a big, blue file, hence the tote bag, which she put on the empty seat beside her. I haven’t mentioned it yet, but we were travelling First Class. I kept hoping someone would ask to see my ticket, but no one did. Elizabeth had taken a look through all the financial bumf and couldn’t make head or tail of it. She needed someone to take a look and tell her what was what. Was there anything out of the ordinary? Anything we might poke our noses into when we had a spare moment? Hidden in the records would be leads, of that Elizabeth was sure. But hidden where? I asked if the same person who had found her the records in the first place might be the man for the job. Elizabeth had said that unfortunately this person had owed her one favour, not two. She also said she was surprised I had said ‘man’ for the job, given my politics. She was right, it was not best practice, but I told her that I bet it was a man all the same and she confirmed that it was. Somewhere around Orpington I in turn cracked and asked why Joanna? Well, Elizabeth gave her reasons. We needed someone up to speed on modern business accounting and who knows how to value companies, both of which Joanna, apparently, is. Was Ventham in trouble? Did he owe money? Are there any further property developments on the horizon? Are they funded? We needed someone we could trust absolutely and Elizabeth was spot on about Joanna here. Joanna is many things, but she won’t let you down over a secret. Finally, we needed someone we could have quick access to and who owed us a favour. I asked Elizabeth what favour Joanna owed us and she said the universal guilt of a child who doesn’t see their mum often enough. She had Joanna pegged there too. It boiled down, Elizabeth said, to needing someone ‘forensic, loyal and nearby’. Anyway, she had emailed Joanna and not taken no for an answer. She told Joanna not to discuss it with me, so it would be a nice surprise, and here we were. This all looks convincing written down, but then Elizabeth always has the knack of sounding convincing. I didn’t buy it for a moment, though. I don’t doubt she could have found many better people for the job. You want the truth? I think Elizabeth just wanted to meet Joanna. Which, by the way, was fine by me. It was a chance to see Joanna and a chance to show her off to Elizabeth. And all without the embarrassment of trying to arrange it myself. One way or another, if I arrange it, I always get something wrong and Joanna gets exasperated. Also, today I wouldn’t be talking to Joanna about her job, or her new boyfriend or the new house (in Putney; I haven’t been, but she’s sent me pictures and there is talk of Christmas). I would be talking about a murder. Try acting like a cool teenager when someone has been murdered. Good luck, darling, as they say. We arrived at Charing Cross fourteen minutes late due to ‘the slow running of this service’, which Elizabeth had a good mutter about. I didn’t need the loo on the train, which was a blessing. Last time I had been in London was for Jersey Boys with the gang, which was a while ago now. We used to go three or four times a year if we could. There were four of us. We would do a matinee and be back on the train before rush hour. In Marks they do a gin and tonic in a can, if you’ve ever had it? We would drink them on the train home and giggle ourselves silly. The gang has all gone now. Two cancers and a stroke. We hadn’t known that Jersey Boys would be our last trip. You always know when it’s your first time, don’t you? But you rarely know when it’s your final time. Anyway, I wish I had kept the programme. We took a black cab (what else?) and off we set to Mayfair. When we were on Curzon Street, Elizabeth pointed out an office where she used to work. It had been closed down in the 1980s for efficiencies. I have been to Joanna’s offices before, when they first moved in, but they have redecorated since then. There is a table tennis table and you can just help yourself to drinks. There is also a lift where you just say the number, instead of pressing a button. Not for me, but very swish all the same. I know I sometimes go on about her, but really, it was so lovely to see Joanna. She even gave me a proper hug, because we were in company. Elizabeth then excused herself to use the bathroom (I had gone at Charing Cross, in case you were thinking I was superhuman). The second she was out of earshot, Joanna beamed. ‘Mum! A murder?’ she said. Or words to that effect. She looked like the child I remembered from long ago. ‘He was bludgeoned, JoJo. Of all things,’ I replied. These were my exact words and I think the fact she didn’t immediately screw up her face and tell me not to call her ‘JoJo’ speaks volumes. (On a side note, I could feel and see that she was a bit too thin, so I don’t think her new man is good for her. I almost took advantage and said something, but I thought, don’t push your luck, Joyce.) We were in a boardroom and the table was made out of the wing of an aeroplane. I knew not to make a thing of it in front of Joanna, but it was really something. I sat there as if I saw aeroplane tables every day of the week. Elizabeth had emailed all the files over and Joanna had given them all to Cornelius, who works for her. Cornelius is American, by the way, in case you were wondering about his name. He asked Elizabeth where she had got all the documents and she said ‘Companies House’, and he said these are not the sort of documents you can get at Companies House and she said that, well, she wouldn’t know about that sort of thing, she was just a seventy-six-year-old woman. I’ve gone on too long. The long and short was that Ventham’s companies were in very good shape. He knew what he was doing. Though Cornelius had found out two very interesting things, which we’ll be telling the police about when they come and visit. They’ve added it all to Elizabeth’s big blue file. Joanna was funny and bright and engaging and all the things I had worried that she’d lost. There they all were. Perhaps she had just lost them with me? I have talked to Elizabeth about Joanna before. How I feel we’re not as close as we should be, as other mothers and daughters seem to be. Elizabeth has a way of making you want to tell the truth. She knew I had been a bit sad. I hadn’t thought about it until now, but I wonder if the whole trip hadn’t been for my benefit. Really, an awful lot of people could have told us what Cornelius told us. So, perhaps? I don’t know. As we left, Joanna said she would have to come down next weekend for a proper gossip. I told her I would like that very much and that we could do a trip into Fairhaven, which she said she would love. I asked if the new man might come down with her and she gave a little laugh and said no. That’s my girl. We could have got another black cab straight back to the station, but Elizabeth wanted to have a stroll and so we did. I don’t know if you know Mayfair – there are no shops you would actually buy anything in, but it was very pleasant. We stopped for coffee in a Costa. It was in a beautiful building, which Elizabeth said used to be a pub where she and a lot of her colleagues would drink. We stayed there for a while and talked about what we’d learned. If today was anything to go by, this whole murder investigation is going to be the most enormous fun. It has been a long day, and whether it has got us any closer to catching Tony Curran’s killer, I’ll let you decide. I think Joanna saw a different side to me today. Or maybe I saw a different side to myself through her eyes. Either way, it was very pleasant. Also, next time I’ll tell you about Cornelius, who we liked. The village is nearly dark now. In life you have to learn to count the good days. You have to tuck them in your pocket and carry them around with you. So I’m putting today in my pocket and I’m off to bed. I will just finish by saying that, back at Charing Cross, I nipped into Marks and bought a couple of gin and tonics in a can. Elizabeth and I drank them on the train home. 24 With the lights of the village turning out, Elizabeth opens up her appointments diary and attempts today’s question. ‘WHAT WAS THE REGISTRATION NUMBER OF GWEN TALBOT’S DAUGHTER-IN-LAW’S NEW CAR?’ She approves of this question. Not the make of the car, that was too easy. Not the colour, that could be guessed, and guessing proved nothing, but the registration number. Something that required genuine recall. As she has done so often before, in a different life, usually in a different country and a different century, Elizabeth shuts her eyes and zooms in. She sees it immediately, or does she hear it? It is both, her brain is telling her what she sees. JL17 BCH She traces a finger down the page and reads the correct answer. She is spot on. Elizabeth shuts the diary. She’ll write the next question later, she already has a nice idea. For the record, the car was a blue Lexus, Gwen Talbot’s daughter-in-law having done well for herself in bespoke yacht insurance. As for the daughter-in-law’s name, well, that remained a mystery. Elizabeth had only been introduced to her once and had not quite caught it. She was confident that it was just a hearing issue and not a memory issue. Memory was the bogeyman that stalked Coopers Chase. Forgetfulness, absent-mindedness, muddling up names. What did I come in here for? The grandchildren would giggle at you. The sons and daughters would joke too, but keep a watchful eye. Every so often you would wake at night in cold dread. Of all the things to lose, to lose one’s mind? Let them take a leg or a lung, let them take anything before they take that. Before you became ‘Poor Rosemary’, or ‘Poor Frank’, catching the last glimpses of the sun and seeing them for what they were. Before there were no more trips, no more games, no more Murder Clubs. Before there was no more you. Almost certainly you mixed up your daughter’s and granddaughter’s names because you were thinking about the potatoes, but who knows? That was the tightrope. So every day Elizabeth opens her diary to a date two weeks ahead and writes herself a question. And every day she answers a question she set herself two weeks ago. This is her early warning system. This is her team of scientists poring over seismology graphs. If there is going to be an earthquake, Elizabeth will be the first to know about it. Elizabeth walks into the living room. A number plate, from a fortnight ago, is a real test and she is pleased with herself. Stephen is on the sofa, lost in concentration. This morning, before her trip to London with Joyce, they had been talking about Stephen’s daughter, Emily. Stephen is worried about her and thinks she is getting too thin. Elizabeth disagreed, but, all the same, Stephen wished Emily would visit more often, just so they could keep an eye on her. Elizabeth agreed that was reasonable and said she’d talk to Emily. However, Emily is not Stephen’s daughter. Stephen has no children. Emily was Stephen’s first wife and had died nearly twenty-five years ago. Stephen is an expert in Middle-Eastern Art. Perhaps the expert if you were talking about British academics. He had lived in Tehran and Beirut in the sixties and seventies and many years later would go back, to track down looted masterpieces for once-wealthy west-London exiles. Elizabeth had briefly been in Beirut in the early seventies, but their paths had not actually crossed until 2004, when Stephen had picked up a glove she had dropped outside a bookshop in Chipping Norton. Six months later they were married. Elizabeth knocks the kettle on. Stephen still writes every day, sometimes for hours. He has an academic agent in London, whom he says he must get up to see soon. Stephen keeps his work safely locked up, but, of course, nothing is safely locked up from Elizabeth and she reads it from time to time. Sometimes it is just a piece copied from his newspaper, repeated over and over, but most often it is stories about Emily, or for Emily. All in the most beautiful handwriting. There will be no more trains up to London for Stephen, to have lunch with his agent or to see exhibitions, or just look up a little something at the British Library. Stephen is on the brink. He is over the brink, if Elizabeth is honest with herself. She is choosing to manage the situation. She medicates him as best she can. Sedation, to be truthful. With her pills and his, Stephen never wakes in the night. The kettle now boiled, Elizabeth makes two cups of tea. PC De Freitas and her DCI are coming to see them soon. That had all worked out very nicely, but she still has some thinking to do. After today’s trip with Joyce, she now has some information to hand to the police and she would like their information in return. They are really going to have to do a number on Donna and her boss, though. She has a few thoughts. Stephen never cooks, so Elizabeth knows the place won’t burn down while she’s out. He never goes to the shop, or the restaurant, or the pool, so there won’t be an incident. Sometimes she will come home to evidence of a poorly concealed flood and sometimes there is emergency washing, but no matter. Elizabeth is keeping Stephen to herself for as long as she can. At some point he will have a fall, or cough up blood, and he will be exposed to a doctor who won’t be fooled, and that will be that, and off he will go. Elizabeth grinds the temazepam into Stephen’s tea. Then adds milk. Her mother would have had rules on the etiquette of that. Temazepam before milk, or milk before temazepam? She smiles, this is a joke Stephen would have enjoyed. Would Ibrahim like it? Joyce? She supposed no one would. Sometimes they still play chess. Elizabeth once spent a month in a safe house somewhere near the Polish–West German border, babysitting the Russian chess grandmaster and later defector, Yuri Tsetovich. She remembers him crying tears of joy when he saw how well she played. Elizabeth had lost none of her skill, but Stephen beats her every time, and with an elegance that makes her swoon. Though they are playing less and less now she realizes. Perhaps they have played their last game? Has Stephen captured his last king? Please, no. Elizabeth gives Stephen his tea and kisses him on the forehead. He thanks her. Elizabeth returns to her notebook and flicks forward two weeks to write today’s question, a fact she learned from Joanna and Cornelius today. HOW MUCH MONEY DID IAN VENTHAM MAKE FROM THE DEATH OF TONY CURRAN? She writes the answer further down the page, ?12.25 MILLION, and closes her appointments diary for another day. 25 PC Donna De Freitas had got the news the previous morning. Report to CID. Elizabeth was a quick worker. She had been assigned to the Tony Curran case as Chris Hudson’s ‘shadow’. A new Kent Police initiative. Something to do with inclusivity, or mentoring, or diversity, or whatever the guy from HR in Maidstone had said when he rang her. Whatever it was, it meant she was sitting on a bench, overlooking the English Channel, while DCI Chris Hudson ate an ice cream. Chris had given her the Tony Curran file to get her up to speed. She couldn’t believe her luck. Donna had enjoyed the file a great deal at first. It felt like some proper police work. It brought back all the things she loved about south London. Murder, drugs, someone who carried off a ‘no comment’ with a bit of panache. As she read, she felt sure she would stumble across a tiny clue that would crack open some decades-old case. She had role-played it in her head. ‘Sir, I did some digging and it turns out that 29 May 1997 was a bank holiday, which rather blows Tony Curran’s alibi don’t you think?’ Chris Hudson would look dubious, no way has this rookie cracked the case and she would raise an eyebrow and say ‘I ran his handwriting through forensics, sir, and guess what?’ Chris would feign a lack of interest, but she would know she had him. ‘It turns out that Tony Curran was actually left-handed all along.’ Chris would blow out his cheeks. He would have to hand it to her. None of this happened. Donna simply read exactly what Chris had read, a potted history of a man getting away with murder and then being murdered in his turn. No smoking guns, no inconsistencies, nothing to peel back. But she had enjoyed it nonetheless. ‘That’s something you don’t get in south London, eh?’ says Chris, pointing to the sea with his ice cream cone. ‘The sea?’ asks Donna, making sure. ‘The sea,’ agrees Chris. ‘Well, you’re right there, sir. There’s Streatham ponds, but it’s not the same.’ Chris Hudson is treating her with a kindness she senses is genuine and with a respect that could only come with being good at his job. If she was ever to work for Chris permanently, she would have to do something about the way he dressed, but that was a bridge that could be crossed in good time. He really took the expression ‘plain clothes’ seriously. Where does someone even buy shoes like that? Was there a catalogue? ‘Fancy a trip out to see Ian Ventham?’ says Chris now. ‘Have a little chat about his argument with Tony Curran?’ Elizabeth had come good again. She had rung Donna and given a few more details about the row that Ron, Joyce and Jason had witnessed. They would still have to go and visit in person, but it was something to be going on with. ‘Yes please,’ says Donna. ‘Is it uncool to say “please” in CID?’ Chris shrugs. ‘I’m not really the person to ask whether something is cool, PC De Freitas.’ ‘Can we fast forward to the bit where you start calling me Donna,’ says Donna. Chris looks at her, then nods. ‘OK, I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything.’ ‘What are we looking for with Ventham?’ asks Donna. ‘Motive?’ ‘Exactly. He won’t give it to us on a plate, but if we just watch and listen, we’ll pick a couple of things up. Let me ask the questions though.’ ‘Of course,’ says Donna. Chris finishes off his cone. ‘Unless you really want to ask a question.’ ‘OK,’ says Donna, nodding. ‘I probably will want to ask one. Just to warn you.’ ‘Fair enough.’ Chris nods, then stands. ‘Shall we?’ 26 Joyce ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’ That’s what they say isn’t it? That’s why I invited Bernard for lunch. I cooked lamb with rice. The lamb was Waitrose, but the rice was Lidl. That’s the way I do it, you honestly don’t notice the difference with the basics. You see more and more Lidl vans here these days as people catch on. Bernard’s not the sort to notice the difference anyway. I know he eats in the restaurant every day. What he has for breakfast I don’t know, but who really knows what anyone has for breakfast? I usually have tea and toast with the local radio. I know some people have fruit, don’t they? I don’t know when that came into being, but it’s not for me. It wasn’t a date with Bernard, don’t think that, but I asked Elizabeth not to tell Ron and Ibrahim anyway, because they would have a field day. If it had been a date, which it wasn’t, I will say this. This is a man who likes to talk about his late wife a lot. I don’t mind that, and I do understand it, but I’d gone to quite an effort. Anyway, not something I should complain about, I know. Perhaps I feel guilty because I don’t really talk about Gerry. I suppose it’s just not how I deal with things. I keep Gerry in a tight little ball just for me. I think if I let him loose here, it would overwhelm me, and I worry he might just blow away. I do know that’s silly. Gerry would have enjoyed Coopers Chase. All the committees. It feels unfair that he missed out. Anyway, this is exactly my point, I feel the tears prickling, and this isn’t the time or the place. I’m supposed to be writing. Bernard’s wife was Indian, which must have been very unusual back then, and they were married for forty-seven years. They moved in here together, but she had a stroke and was in Willows within six months. She died about eighteen months ago, before I’d arrived. From the sound of her, I do wish I’d met her. They have one daughter, called Sufi. Not Sophie. She lives in Vancouver with her partner and they come over a couple of times a year. I wonder what would happen if Joanna moved to Vancouver. I absolutely wouldn’t put it past her. We talked about other things too, I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. We discussed poor Tony Curran. I told Bernard how excited I was that Tony Curran had been murdered. He looked at me askance, in a way that reminded me I can’t talk to everyone in the same way I talk to Elizabeth, Ibrahim and Ron. But, between you and me and the gatepost, Bernard looks rather handsome with an askance look on his face. He talked a little about his work, though I am still none the wiser, to be honest. If you know what a chemical engineer is, then you are a better woman than me. Don’t get me wrong, I know what an engineer is and I know what chemicals are, but I can’t join the dots. I talked a little bit about my work and told some funny stories about patients. He laughed and, when I told a story about a junior doctor who’d got his bits trapped in a hoover nozzle, I saw a little twinkle in his eye, which gave me cause for optimism. It was nice, I wouldn’t go further than that, but I sensed there was more to learn about Bernard, a gap that needs to be crossed. I know the difference between alone and lonely, and Bernard is lonely. There is a cure for that. I am drawn to strays. Gerry was a stray; I knew it from the moment I met him. Always joking, always clever, but always a stray, needing a home. Which is what I gave him and he gave me back so much more in return. Oh, Joyce, this place would have suited that lovely man down to the ground. I’m banging on like Bernard, aren’t I? Do shut up, Joyce. There are silly, proper tears now. I’ll let them fall. If you don’t cry sometimes, you’ll end up crying all the time. Elizabeth is inviting Donna and her DCI to come to see us later. She is planning to give them the information we found out from Joanna and Cornelius and to see what we might get in return. Because it isn’t Thursday, Elizabeth asked if we can use my front room to meet them. I told her it would be too small for all of us and she said that was perfect for her purposes. Make the DCI uncomfortable and maybe he’ll give something away. That’s her plan. She says it’s an old work trick of hers, though she no longer has access to all the equipment that she used to have. Her express instruction was: ‘No one leaves the room until we’ve made DCI Hudson tell us something we can use.’ She has asked me to bake. I am doing a lemon drizzle, but also a coffee and walnut, because you never know. I have used almond flour because they are so good with it at Anything with a Pulse and I have been looking for an opportunity. I can tell that Ibrahim is tempted by the idea of being gluten-intolerant and this will head him off at the pass. I wonder if I should have a nap? It is 3.15 and my cut-off point for a nap is usually 3 p.m., otherwise I struggle to sleep later. But it has been a busy few days, so perhaps I have earned a bit of rule-breaking? Either way, I will just add that coffee and walnut is Bernard’s favourite, but you mustn’t read anything into that. 27 Donna looks out of the window of the Ford Focus. What do people see in trees? There are just so many of them. Trunk, branches, leaves, trunk, branches, leaves, we get it. Her mind wanders. Chris has shown her the photograph left by the body. Surely it’s a red herring though? It must be. If you’re Jason Ritchie, or Bobby Tanner, or whoever took the photo, it’s asking for too much trouble. It would be idiocy for any of the men to have left the photograph by the body. A hundred different people might have murdered Tony Curran; why do the police’s job for them and narrow it down to three? So someone else must have got hold of a copy of the photograph? But how? Perhaps Tony Curran had had a copy? That would make sense. And perhaps Ian Ventham had seen it one day? Tony showing off? Ian had clocked it and tucked it away for future use? A bit of misdirection to confuse the bungling cops? From what Donna has read, he seems the type who might try to do that. They are passing through a village, which is a respite from the trees, but there is still not enough concrete for Donna. Maybe she’ll grow to love it? Maybe there was more to life than south London? ‘What are you thinking?’ asks Chris, eyes off to the left, trying to find the right road sign. ‘I’m thinking of Atlanta Fried Chicken on Balham High Road. And I’m thinking we should show the photo to Ian Ventham,’ says Donna. ‘Ask him if he’s ever seen it before.’ ‘Look him in the eye when he tells us he hasn’t?’ says Chris, indicates left and turns onto a narrow country road. ‘Good plan.’ ‘I’m also thinking, why don’t you ever iron your shirts?’ says Donna. ‘So this is what it’s like to have a shadow?’ says Chris. ‘Well, I used to iron just the front bit, because the rest was always under a jacket. And then I thought, well I’m wearing a tie too, so why bother at all? Does anyone really notice?’ ‘Of course they notice,’ says Donna. ‘I notice.’ ‘Well, you’re a police officer, Donna,’ says Chris. ‘I’ll start ironing shirts when I get a girlfriend.’ ‘You won’t get a girlfriend until you start ironing your shirts,’ says Donna. ‘It’s a real Catch 22 for sure,’ says Chris and turns onto a long driveway. ‘Anyway, I’ve always found that shirts sort of iron themselves while you’re wearing them.’ ‘Have you now?’ says Donna, as they pull up in front of Ian Ventham’s house. 28 ‘You can hold your breath for three minutes if you really put your mind to it,’ says Ian Ventham. ‘It’s all about controlling your diaphragm. The body doesn’t need as much oxygen as they say. Look at mountain goats, if you need proof.’ ‘That makes sense, Mr Ventham,’ says Chris. ‘But perhaps we can get back to the photograph?’ Ian Ventham looks at the photograph again, and shakes his head again. ‘No, I’m certain, I’ve never seen it. I recognize Tony, of course, God rest his soul, and that’s the boxer, isn’t it?’ ‘Jason Ritchie,’ says Chris. ‘My boxing trainer says I could have turned pro,’ says Ian. ‘Physique plus mentality. There’s some stuff you can’t teach.’ Chris nods again. Donna looks around Ian Ventham’s living room. One of the more extraordinary rooms she has ever seen. There is a bright red grand piano, with golden keys. The piano stool is ebony and zebra-skin. ‘I don’t suppose you and Tony had a falling out, Mr Ventham?’ says Chris. ‘Before he died?’ ‘A falling out?’ asks Ian. ‘Mmm,’ says Chris. ‘Me and Tony?’ asks Ian. ‘Mmm,’ repeats Chris. ‘We never argued,’ says Ian. ‘Arguing is very bad for your wellbeing. You look at the science of it, it thins the blood. Thinner blood, less energy. Less energy, slippery slope.’ Donna is listening to every word, just taking it all in, but her eyes continue to scan the room. There is a large oil painting in a huge gold frame above the fireplace. It is a painting of Ian, carrying a sword. There is a stuffed eagle in front of it. Wings outstretched. ‘Well, we can all agree with that,’ says Chris. ‘But what if I told you I’ve got three witnesses who saw the two of you arguing before he was killed?’ Donna watches as Ian leans forward slowly, puts his elbows on his thighs and rests his chin on his clasped hands. He is giving every impression of pretending to think. ‘Well, listen,’ says Ian, taking his elbows off his thighs and spreading his hands. ‘We had an argument, sure, sometimes you have to, don’t you? Just to release the toxins. I guess that would explain what they saw.’ ‘OK, yes, that would explain it,’ agrees Chris. ‘But I wonder if I could ask what the argument was about?’ ‘Of course, sure,’ says Ian. ‘It’s a valid question and I appreciate you asking it, because, when all’s said and done, Tony died.’ ‘Tony was murdered, actually. Shortly after the argument,’ says Donna, looking at an emerald-encrusted skull and getting bored of being quiet. Ian nods at her. ‘Accurate, yep, he was. You have a bright future. Well, listen, how much do you know about automatic sprinkler systems?’ ‘As much as the next man,’ says Chris. ‘I want to fit them to all the new flats; Tony didn’t want the expense. To me – and listen, this is just me, just how I do business – the safety of my clients is paramount. And I mean paramount. So I said this to Tony, and he’s more laissez-faire about the whole thing, not my style and we, I’m not going to say “argued”, I’m going to say we “bickered”.’ ‘And that was that?’ asks Chris. ‘And that was that,’ says Ian. ‘Just sprinklers. If you want to find me guilty of something, find me guilty of going above and beyond as regards building safety.’ Chris nods, then turns to Donna. ‘I think that’s us done for now, Mr Ventham. Unless my colleague has any questions?’ Donna wants to ask why Ventham is lying about the row, but that’s probably a bit much. What should she ask? What would Chris want her to ask? ‘Just one question, Ian,’ says Donna. She doesn’t want to call him Mr Ventham. ‘Where did you go when you left Coopers Chase that day? Did you come home? Perhaps you visited Tony Curran? To continue discussing the sprinklers?’ ‘I did neither,’ says Ian, and seems on solid ground. ‘I drove up the hill and met with Karen and Gordon Playfair, they own the land up there. They’ll vouch for me, I’m sure. At least Karen will.’ Chris looks at her and nods. Her question was OK. ‘You’re very beautiful, by the way,’ says Ian to Donna. ‘For a police officer.’ ‘You’ll see how beautiful I am if I ever have to arrest you,’ says Donna, remembering, a moment too late, that rolling her eyes was probably unprofessional. ‘Well, not beautiful,’ adds Ian. ‘But attractive enough for round here.’ ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Ventham,’ says Chris, standing. ‘If there’s anything else we’ll be in touch. And if you ever need to tell me that I’m beautiful, you have my number.’ As Donna stands, she takes a final look around the room. The last thing she notices is Ian Ventham’s aquarium. At the bottom of the tank is an exact scale replica of Ian Ventham’s house. A clownfish emerges from an upstairs window as Donna and Chris make their way out. Donna’s phone pings as she and Chris reach the car. A text from Elizabeth. Which doesn’t seem right to Donna at all. Surely a message from Elizabeth should be delivered in Morse code, or by an intricate series of flags? Donna smiles to herself and opens the text. ‘The Thursday Murder Club, asking if we could come over to Coopers Chase, sir? They have some information.’ ‘The Thursday Murder Club?’ asks Chris. ‘That’s what they call themselves. There’s four of them, a little gang.’ Chris nods. ‘I’ve met Ibrahim and poor old Ron Ritchie. Are they in this gang?’ Donna nods. She has no idea why he said ‘poor’ Ron Ritchie, but no doubt Elizabeth will be behind that, somehow. ‘Shall we go and see them? Elizabeth says Jason Ritchie will be there.’ ‘Elizabeth?’ says Chris. ‘She’s their …’ Donna thinks. ‘I don’t know what you’d say. Whatever Marlon Brando was in The Godfather.’ ‘Last time I went to Coopers Chase someone clamped the Ford Focus,’ says Chris. ‘I was charged ?150 to release it, by a pensioner with a high-vis jacket and an adjustable spanner. You reply to Elizabeth and you tell her we’ll visit when we decide, not when she decides. We’re the police.’ ‘I’m not sure that Elizabeth will take no for an answer,’ says Donna. ‘Well, she’s going to have to, Donna,’ says Chris. ‘I’ve been in this job for nearly thirty years and I’m not going to be pushed around by four pensioners.’ ‘OK,’ says Donna. ‘I’ll let her know.’ 29 It turned out that Chris had been wrong and Donna had been right. Chris Hudson finds himself jammed uncomfortably on a sofa, with Ibrahim, whom he has met before, on one side, and tiny, chirpy, white-haired Joyce on the other. It is clearly a two-and-a-half-seater sofa and when Chris had been shown to it, his assumption was that he would be sharing it with only one other person. Then, with a grace and swiftness he hadn’t expected from two people deep into their pensionable years, Ibrahim and Joyce had slid in one either side of him and so here he was. If he had known, he would have declined the invitation and taken one of the armchairs, now occupied by Ron Ritchie, looking sprightlier than when they last met, and the terrifying Elizabeth. Who really doesn’t take no for an answer. More to the point, he could have taken that cosy-looking IKEA recliner that Donna is virtually curled up in, feet tucked underneath her, without a care in the world. Could he move? There is another seat, a hard-backed chair, but Joyce and Ibrahim would surely take offence? They seem oblivious to his discomfort and the last thing he wants to do is seem churlish. He is sitting where he is sitting because of their kindness and because he is to be the centre of attention. He understands and appreciates that. There is a psychology to seating arrangements that any good police officer picks up over the years. He knows they have tried their best to make him feel important and they would be horrified to know that the effect is actually the complete opposite. Chris has just been given a cup of tea on a saucer, yet he is so hemmed in that he fears any attempt to drink it might be physically impossible. So here he is, stuck, but like a professional, he will make the best of it. Look at Donna though, she’s even got a side table for her tea. Unbelievable. They couldn’t have made this more awkward for him if they’d tried. Still, stay professional. ‘Shall we begin?’ says Chris. He attempts to shift his weight forward, but, without realizing it, Ibrahim has his elbow nestling against Chris’s hip and Chris is forced to settle back again. His teacup is too full to safely hold in one hand and too hot to sip. He would feel annoyance, but the kindly, attentive looks on the faces of the four residents make annoyance impossible. ‘As you know, myself and PC De Freitas, over there in the chair, making herself comfortable, are investigating the murder of Tony Curran. He’s a man I believe you all have some knowledge of, a local builder and property developer. As you also know, Mr Curran tragically passed away last week, and we have certain questions pertaining to this event.’ Chris looks at his audience. They are nodding with such innocence, taking it all in. It makes him glad he’s adopted a slightly more formal way of speaking. Saying ‘pertaining’ had been a good call. He attempts a sip at the tea, but it is still scalding hot and any blowing would send a wave over the brim. It would also suggest to whoever made the tea that he would have preferred it to be less scalding, which would look rude. Joyce has more bad news for him. ‘We have forgotten our manners, Detective Chief Inspector. We haven’t offered you any cake.’ She produces a lemon drizzle, already cut into slices and offers it across. Chris, unable to raise a hand to say no thank you, says ‘I won’t, I had a big lunch.’ No such luck. ‘Just try a slice. I made it specially,’ says Joyce, in a voice so proud that Chris has no choice. ‘Go on then,’ he says, and Joyce balances a slice of the cake on his saucer. ‘So perhaps you have a suspect by now?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Or are you only looking at Ventham?’ ‘Ibrahim says it’s better than MandS lemon drizzle,’ says Joyce. ‘He will have a number of suspects,’ says Ibrahim. ‘If I know DCI Hudson. He is very thorough.’ ‘If you notice anything unusual, that’s the almond flour,’ says Joyce. ‘Is that right, son? You got any suspects?’ Ron asks Chris. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be …’ ‘Narrowing it all down. Bet you got forensics?’ says Ron Ritchie. ‘I always watch CSI with Jason. He’ll love all this. What you got? Fingerprints? DNA?’ Chris remembers Ron as being more confused than this the other day. ‘Well, that’s why I’m here, as you know. I know you and Joyce were having a drink with your son, Mr Ritchie, and I think he may be joining us? It would be good to talk to him too.’ ‘He just texted,’ says Ron. ‘He’ll be ten minutes.’ ‘I bet he’d love to know the circumstances,’ says Elizabeth. ‘He’d love that,’ confirms Ron. ‘Well, again, it’s not really in my …’ says Chris. ‘MandS lemon drizzle cake is oversugared, Inspector, that’s my opinion,’ interrupts Ibrahim. ‘Not just my opinion either, if you look at the discussion boards.’ Chris is struggling further now, because the slice of cake is slightly too big for the gap between the bottom of the cup and the edge of the saucer and it is taking all his efforts to keep it balanced. Still, he has had a career of interviewing killers, psychopaths, con artists and liars of every sort, so he ploughs on. ‘We really just need to talk to Mr Ritchie and his son – and Joyce, I think you also saw …’ ‘CSI is too American for me,’ interrupts Joyce. ‘Lewis is my favourite. It’s ITV3. I’ve got them backing up on my Sky Plus. I think I’m the only one in the village who can work Sky Plus.’ ‘I like the Rebus books,’ adds Ibrahim. ‘If you know them? Rebus is from Scotland and, goodness me, he has a terrible time of it.’ ‘Patricia Highsmith for me,’ says Elizabeth. ‘They’ll never top The Sweeney though and I’ve read all the Mark Billinghams,’ says Ron Ritchie, again with more confidence than Chris remembers. Elizabeth, meanwhile, has opened a bottle of wine and fills up the glasses that have suddenly appeared in her friends’ hands. Chris cannot even attempt to sip his tea now, as lifting it to his lips would unbalance the cake and lifting the cup off the saucer would tip the cake in the saucer’s centre and make it impossible to put the cup back down again. He feels sweat start to trickle down his back, reminding him of the time he interviewed a twenty-five-stone Hell’s Angels enforcer with ‘I KILL COPPERS’ tattooed around his neck. Fortunately, Elizabeth is on hand to help him out. ‘You look a little hemmed-in on that sofa, Detective Chief Inspector.’ ‘We normally meet in the Jigsaw Room, you see,’ says Joyce. ‘But it’s not Thursday and the Jigsaw Room is being used by Chat and Crochet.’ ‘Chat and Crochet is a fairly new group, Detective Chief Inspector,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Formed by members who had become disillusioned with Knit and Natter. Too much nattering and not enough knitting, apparently.’ ‘And the main lounge is off limits,’ says Ron. ‘The Bowls Club have got a disciplinary hearing.’ ‘To do with Colin Clemence and his defence of medicinal marijuana,’ says Joyce. ‘So why don’t we sit you on the upright,’ says Elizabeth, ‘and you can talk us through the whole thing?’ ‘Ooh yes,’ says Joyce. ‘Talk slowly because it’s not really our area, but that would be lovely. And there’s some coffee and walnut where the lemon drizzle came from.’ Chris looks over at Donna. She simply shrugs and holds out her palms. 30 Father Matthew Mackie walks slowly up the hill, through the avenue of trees. He had hoped Tony Curran’s death might be the end of all this. No need for any further action on his behalf. But he had visited Ian Ventham to put his case and he had been disappointed. The Woodlands was continuing as planned. The cemetery was to go. Time to conjure up a plan B. And quickly. As the path curves to the left, then straightens, the Garden of Eternal Rest comes into view, further and higher up the path. From here Father Mackie can see the iron gates, wide enough for a vehicle, set into the red-brick wall. The gates look old, the wall looks new. In front of the gates is a turning circle, once for hearses and now for maintenance vehicles. He reaches the gates and pushes them open. There is a central path, leading to a large statue of Christ on the cross at the very far end. He walks silently towards Christ, through the sea of souls. Beyond the statue, beyond the Garden, are tall beech trees, reaching further up the hill to the open farmland. Father Mackie crosses himself, by the plinth at Christ’s feet. No kneeling for him these days though, arthritis and Catholicism being an uneasy mix. Matthew Mackie turns and looks back across the Garden, squinting into the sun. Either side of the path are the gravestones, neat, ordered, symmetrical, stretching forward in time towards the iron gates. The oldest graves are nearest to Christ, with the newest joining the line when their time had come. There are around 200 bodies high on the hill, a spot so beautiful, so peaceful, so perfect, Mackie thinks it could almost make him believe in God. The first grave is dated 1874, a Sister Margaret Bernadette and this is where Mackie eventually turns and starts his slow walk back. The older gravestones are more ornate, more showy. The dates of death flick slowly forward as he walks. There are the Victorians all neatly in a line, probably furious about Palmerston or the Boers. Then it’s the women who sat in the convent and heard about the Wright brothers for the first time. Then the women who nursed the blind and the broken who flooded through their gates, as they prayed for brothers to return safely from Europe. Then there were doctors and voters and drivers, women who had seen both wars and still kept the faith, the inscriptions getting easier to read now. Then television, rock and roll, supermarkets, motorways and moon landings. Father Mackie steps off the path sometime around the 1970s, the headstones clear and simple now. He walks along the row, looking at the names. The world was changing in the most extraordinary ways, but the rows are still neat and orderly and the names are still the same. He reaches the side wall of the Garden, waist height and much older than the wall at the front. He takes in the view that hasn’t changed since 1874. Trees, fields, birds, things that were permanent and unbroken. He walks back to the path, clearing a leaf off one of the headstones as he passes. Father Mackie continues to walk, until he reaches the final gravestone. Sister Mary Byrne, dated 14 July 2005. What a lot Mary Byrne could tell Sister Margaret Bernadette, just a hundred yards up the path. So much had changed, yet, here at least, so much had stayed the same. Behind Sister Mary Byrne there is room for many more graves, but they had not been needed. Sister Mary was the last of the line. So here they all lay, this sisterhood, with the walls still around them, the blue skies above them and the leaves still falling on the headstones. What could he do? Exiting through the gates, Mackie turns back for a final look. He then begins the walk downhill, back through the avenue of trees towards Coopers Chase. A man in a suit and tie is sitting on a bench set just off the path, enjoying the same view that Father Mackie had been enjoying. The view that never changed. Through wars and deaths and cars and planes, to Wi-Fi and whatever was in the papers this morning. There was something to be said for it. ‘Father,’ acknowledges the man, a folded copy of the Daily Express by his side. Matthew Mackie nods back, keeps walking and keeps thinking. 31 Chris has his own chair and his own side table and he now feels like the King of the World. He sometimes forgets the impact a police officer can have on members of the public. The gang in front of him are looking at him with something approaching awe. It’s nice to be taken seriously once in a while and he is happily giving them the benefit of his wisdom. ‘The whole house is wired up with cameras, pretty state-of-the-art stuff too, but we got nothing. On the blink. They often are.’ Elizabeth is nodding with interest. ‘Anyone you were expecting to see, though? Any suspects?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Well, listen, that’s not something I can really share,’ says Chris. ‘So you do have a suspect? How wonderful! What do you make of the coffee and walnut?’ says Joyce. Chris lifts a slice of coffee-and-walnut cake to his mouth and takes a bite. Also better than MandS. Joyce, you wizard! Also, it was a well known fact that there were no calories in home-made cakes. ‘It’s delicious, and look, I didn’t say we had a suspect, but we have persons of interest and that’s normal.’ ‘“Persons of interest”,’ says Joyce. ‘I love it when they say that.’ ‘More than one, then?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘So not just Ian Ventham? I suppose you couldn’t possibly say?’ ‘He couldn’t say, you’re quite right,’ says Donna, deciding enough is enough. ‘Now leave the poor man alone, Elizabeth.’ Chris laughs. ‘I don’t think I need protecting here, Donna.’ Ibrahim turns to Donna. ‘DCI Hudson is a fine investigator, PC De Freitas. You are lucky to have such a good boss.’ ‘Oh, he’s a pro,’ agrees Donna. Elizabeth claps her hands. ‘Well, it feels like this meeting has been all give and no take. You’ve been very kind, Chris. If I can call you Chris?’ ‘Well, I’ve possibly shared more than I was intending, but I’m glad it’s been interesting,’ says Chris. ‘It has. And I think we owe you a favour in return. You might like to take a look at this.’ Elizabeth hands Chris a bright blue binder about a foot thick. ‘It’s a few financials on Ian Ventham. Details of this place, details of his relationship with Tony Curran. Probably all nonsense, but I’ll let you be the judge.’ There is a buzz on Joyce’s intercom and she heads off to answer it, while Chris weighs up the binder. ‘Well, we can certainly take a look through this …’ ‘I’ll look through it, don’t panic,’ says Donna, and gives Elizabeth a reassuring look. The door swings open and Joyce walks in with Jason Ritchie himself. The tattoos, that nose, those forearms. ‘Mr Ritchie,’ says Chris. ‘We meet at last.’ 32 Chris had asked Jason if he wouldn’t mind stepping outside for a photograph, to make use of the natural light. Donna is taking the photo. The two men are smiling happily, arms around each other’s shoulders, leaning against a decorative fountain shaped like a dolphin. Poor Chris, they had really done a number on him. Donna wonders if Chris truly understands that he’s one of the gang now. It had been useful though. They had talked to Ron and Jason, and to Joyce, about what they saw. It had been a row, that much was clear. None of them could shed a light on what the row was about, but they had all thought it significant, and as Ron and Jason were fighting men, Chris and Donna had listened. Ron was very proud of his boy, that much was clear. It was natural, of course, but something to be careful about. Just in case the photo left by the body hadn’t been a red herring. Donna tells Chris to move to his left a little. ‘This is very kind of you, Jason, you must have to do it a lot,’ Chris says, moving to his left a little. ‘Price of whassname, innit?’ agrees Jason. Donna has been doing her homework on Jason Ritchie. Hadn’t needed much, to be honest, her dad had been a boxing fan. Jason has been famous since the late eighties and would now, it seemed, be famous for ever. He had been the hero, sometimes the villain, of a series of iconic fights that captivated the whole country. Nigel Benn, Chris Eubank, Michael Watson, Steve Collins and Jason Ritchie. It was boxing as soap opera. Sometimes Jason was J. R. Ewing and other times he was Bobby. The public loved Jason Ritchie. The brawler, the bruiser, tattoos running up and down each arm, long before that was a mandatory requirement for a professional sportsman. He was charming, he was conventionally handsome, becoming more and more unconventionally handsome as his career took its toll. And, of course, he had his famous firebrand dad, ‘Red Ron’, always good for a quote. The chat shows loved Jason too. He accidentally knocked out Terry Wogan while showing him how he’d knocked out Steve Collins. Donna had read that that clip still brought him in steady royalties. It never got better than the third Benn v Ritchie fight. The body slowed a little, the reflexes dulled. This didn’t matter while he was still fighting the guys who were ageing alongside him, but one by one they started retiring. Jason had found out, many years later, that he’d made less money than the lot of them. Problems with his manager. To this day, a lot of his money was in Estonia. The opponents got younger, the paydays smaller and the training harder, until an Atlantic City night in 1998, fighting a last-minute Venezuelan stand-in, Jason Ritchie hit the canvas for the final time. A few years in the wilderness followed. A few years that were never mentioned in the profiles Donna had read in the papers. A few years where Jason made his money in a very different way. When he was being photographed with Tony Curran and Bobby Tanner. The years that Donna and Chris were interested in. The wilderness years didn’t last, though. As a new century dawned, there was almost endless demand for a man who exuded menace and charm in equal parts. From the lad mags to the mockney film directors to the reality shows and the adverts for gambling companies, Jason started making more money than he ever had in the ring. He came third in I’m a Celebrity, he dated Alice Watts from EastEnders, he starred in a film alongside John Travolta as a washed-up fighter and one alongside Scarlett Johansson, also as a washed-up fighter. This new career fairly quickly followed the same trajectory as his boxing career, however. You only had so many days top of the bill. These days there were no films, fewer adverts, and you’d see him turning up on all sorts of things. But no matter, Jason Ritchie was now famous for ever and he appears to be grateful too. His smile, in front of the fountain shaped like a dolphin, seems, to Donna, entirely genuine. Donna puts down the big blue file Elizabeth has given her and holds up her phone for the photo. ‘Say cheese, or whatever two men are comfortable saying.’ Jason starts, ‘I duck and I dive,’ and then Chris joins him for the shouted, ‘and I always survive!’ The two men both instinctively punch the air with their free arm and Donna takes the photo. ‘That was his catchphrase,’ Chris explains to Donna. ‘I duck and I dive and I always survive!’ Donna pockets her phone. ‘Everyone always survives until they die. It’s meaningless.’ She thought of adding that Rodolfo Mendoza had knocked Jason out in the third round on the East Coast, so he hadn’t exactly survived then. But why upset two middle-aged men unnecessarily? ‘They’ll love that at Fairhaven, Jason; thanks, mate.’ ‘No problem. Hope the old man was useful.’ Donna knows Chris will never show the photo to any of his colleagues. He already has a much more interesting photograph of Jason Ritchie. ‘Very useful,’ says Chris. ‘Anyway, what’s your thinking, Jason? About Tony Curran? You must have known him a bit, from around Fairhaven?’ ‘A bit, yeah. I knew of him. Not really, though. He had plenty of enemies.’ Chris nods, then steals a glance at Donna. Donna steps up and offers Jason her hand. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Ritchie,’ she says. Jason shakes Donna’s hand, ‘My pleasure. Could you send me a copy of the photo? It looked a nice one.’ Jason writes down his number for Donna. ‘I’ll head back up and see Pops.’ ‘Before you head up,’ says Donna, taking Jason’s number. ‘You knew Tony Curran a little better than you’ve suggested, didn’t you, Jason?’ ‘Tony Curran? Nah. Seen him in the pub, know people who know him. Heard gossip.’ ‘You ever drink in the Black Bridge, Jason?’ asks Chris. Jason misses just the slightest beat, as if a punch has slipped through, but won’t again. ‘Near the station? Once or twice. Years ago.’ ‘Twenty-odd years, I’m guessing,’ says Donna. ‘Maybe,’ nods Jason. ‘Who remembers, though?’ ‘You had no dealings with Tony Curran back then?’ asks Chris. Jason shrugs, ‘If I remember something I’ll tell you. I’ll get up to Dad; nice to meet you both.’ ‘I saw a photo recently, Jason,’ says Chris. ‘Group of friends in the Black Bridge. Bobby Tanner, Tony Curran. Nice one of you. All very friendly.’ ‘Lot of weirdos ask me for photos, mate,’ says Jason. ‘No offence.’ ‘You’d recognize it. Table covered in money. You don’t have a copy of it, by any chance?’ asks Chris. Jason smiles. ‘Never seen it.’ ‘You wouldn’t know who took it?’ asks Donna. ‘A photo I’ve never seen? Nope.’ ‘And we’re having trouble tracking down Bobby Tanner, Jason,’ says Chris. ‘I don’t suppose you know where he is these days?’ Jason Ritchie purses his lips for the briefest of moments, then shakes his head, turns and waves over his shoulder as he goes back inside to join his dad. Chris and Donna watch as the automatic doors slide shut behind him. Chris looks at his watch then motions towards the car. He walks and Donna walks alongside him, a smile on her lips. ‘That entire conversation was the most Cockney I’ve ever heard you sound, sir.’ ‘Guilty,’ admits Chris, finally pronouncing a ‘t’. ‘Why does Jason want a copy of that photo of us? What’s that? To blackmail me if he ever needs to?’ ‘Simpler than that, sir,’ says Donna. ‘It’s to get my number. Classic move.’ ‘Either way,’ says Chris. ‘Don’t worry,’ says Donna. ‘He won’t be getting the photo, or my number.’ ‘Good-looking fella,’ says Chris. ‘He’s like forty-six or something,’ says Donna. ‘No thanks.’ Chris nods. ‘Heaven forbid! You’d have to say he didn’t look too worried, though. But he’s definitely lying about not knowing Tony Curran.’ ‘Could be lots of reasons,’ says Donna. ‘Could be,’ agrees Chris. Hearing footsteps behind them, they turn to see Elizabeth and Joyce hurrying after them. Joyce has a Tupperware container with her. ‘I forgot to give you this,’ says Joyce, handing over her Tupperware. ‘It’s the last of the lemon drizzle. I’m afraid the coffee and walnut already has someone else’s name on it.’ Chris takes the cake. ‘Thank you, Joyce, that will go to a good home.’ ‘And Donna,’ says Elizabeth, gesturing to the blue file. ‘Do call me if your bedtime reading gets complicated.’ ‘Thank you, Elizabeth,’ says Donna. ‘I’m sure I’ll struggle through.’ ‘Here, you should probably have my number too,’ says Elizabeth, and hands Chris her card. ‘We’ll have lots to chat about in the weeks ahead. Thank you for coming to see us, we do love visitors.’ Donna smiles as Chris virtually bows to Elizabeth and Joyce. ‘It really was an education,’ says Joyce, with a smile. ‘And you should probably let Donna drive, DCI Hudson. There was an awful lot of vodka in those cakes.’ 33 Elizabeth had come straight over to Willows after meeting with the police. She makes sure that Penny has a wash and a set once a week. Anthony, the hairdresser, comes to Willows at the end of his appointments and always insists on doing it for free. One day, if Anthony ever gets into any sort of trouble, or ever needs help, he will discover how grateful Elizabeth is for this kindness. ‘Mafia, I heard,’ says Anthony, gently running a soaped sponge through Penny’s hair. ‘Tony Curran owed them money, so they cut off his fingers and killed him.’ ‘That’s an interesting theory,’ says Elizabeth. She has a hand cupped under Penny’s neck and lifts her head. ‘And how did the Mafia get into the house?’ ‘Shot their way in, I suppose,’ says Anthony. ‘Without leaving bullet holes?’ asks Elizabeth. Penny’s shampoo smells of rose and jasmine and Elizabeth buys it at the shop on site. They stopped selling it for a while, but Elizabeth paid them a visit and they changed their mind. ‘Well, that’s the Mafia for you, Elizabeth,’ says Anthony. ‘And without tripping any alarms, Anthony?’ says John Gray, from his usual chair. ‘Have you seen Goodfellas, John?’ says Anthony. ‘If that’s a film then I won’t have,’ says John. ‘There you are then,’ says Anthony. He is now combing Penny’s hair. ‘You’re going to need a little trim next week, Penny darling. Get you disco-ready.’ ‘No bullet holes, Anthony,’ says Elizabeth. ‘No alarms, nothing broken, no sign of a struggle. What does that suggest to you?’ ‘Triads?’ Anthony is unplugging his curling tongs. ‘One of these days I’m going to unplug you by mistake, Penny.’ ‘As Penny would be the first to tell you,’ says Elizabeth. ‘It suggests that he let his killer in. So it must have been someone he knew.’ ‘Oh I love that,’ says Anthony. ‘Someone he knew. Of course. You ever killed someone, Elizabeth?’ Elizabeth shrugs. ‘I can just picture it,’ says Anthony, putting on his jacket. ‘There you go, Penny. I’d kiss you, but not with John in the room. Look at those forearms.’ Elizabeth stands and hugs him. ‘Thank you, darling.’ ‘She looks gorgeous,’ says Anthony. ‘If I say so myself. See you next week, Elizabeth. Bye, Penny; bye, handsome John.’ ‘Obliged, Anthony,’ says John. As Anthony leaves, Elizabeth sits by Penny again. ‘Here’s another thing though, Pen. They took young Jason out for a photo afterwards. I know he gets that a lot, but something didn’t seem right. It felt off. Why go outside? Joyce has one of those big picture windows. You know, the ones in Wordsworth? That would be a lovely photo.’ Mentioning Joyce again. Easier every time. ‘Do you think they were asking Jason about something? Are we missing something? We passed him on the stairs coming back up and he was his usual charming self, but who knows?’ Elizabeth sips some water and feels grateful. Then feels guilty for feeling grateful. Then feels weak for feeling guilty. So she carries on talking to Penny. To Penny, or to herself? Who knew? ‘Perhaps it wasn’t Ventham at all? Perhaps we’re just being blinded by what’s in that file? By the twelve million. I mean, where was he when Curran was killed? Do we even know? Could he have done it? Do the timings work?’ ‘Elizabeth, forgive me,’ says John. ‘But have you ever watched Escape to the Country?’ Elizabeth is still not really used to John speaking, but he does seem to be coming out of his shell recently. ‘I don’t believe I have, John, no.’ John is fidgeting a little. Something is clearly on his mind. ‘I mean, it’s rather good. I’m sure it’s nonsense, but even so. There will be a couple on and they will be looking for a new home.’ ‘In the country, John?’ ‘In the country, as you say. And a chap, well sometimes it’s a woman, will show them around some houses. I watch it with the sound down, because it’s not really Penny’s sort of thing. You can really see in the eyes of the couple which one wants to move and which one is just going along with it. For a quiet life, you know?’ ‘John,’ says Elizabeth, leaning forward and staring straight into his eyes. ‘I’ve never known you utter a sentence without a reason. Where is this heading?’ ‘Well, it’s only heading here, I suppose,’ says John. ‘I was watching Escape to the Country, you see, on the day that Curran was killed and they’d just got to the end, where they decide whether to buy the house or not. They never do, but that’s half the fun. I got up and wandered out to get a Lucozade Sport from the machine and I looked out of the window, the one at the front, and saw Ventham’s car driving off.’ ‘The Range Rover?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Yes, the Range Rover,’ says John. ‘Coming down the track from the top of the hill. And I just thought I would mention it to you, as Escape to the Country is on straight after Doctors and it finishes at three on the dot.’ ‘I see,’ says Elizabeth. ‘And I thought that perhaps if you knew exactly when Ventham left Coopers Chase and you knew exactly when Curran had been killed, it might be useful? For the investigation?’ ‘Three p.m.?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Mmm. On the dot.’ ‘Thank you, John. I think I need to send a text message.’ Elizabeth takes out her phone. ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to use your mobile telephone in here, Elizabeth,’ says John. Elizabeth gives a kindly shrug. ‘Well, imagine if we only ever did what we were supposed to, John?’ ‘You have a point there, Elizabeth,’ agrees John, and goes back to his book. 34 Donna is getting ready to go out when her phone pings. A message from Elizabeth. She only left her a few hours ago. It will be trouble, for sure, but she likes seeing the name pop up. What time was Tony Curran killed? Well, that was short and to the point. Donna smiles and composes a reply. Maybe ask how I am, share a bit of gossip, before asking for a favour? And sign off with a kiss. Soften me up a bit x Donna sees the speech bubble, showing that Elizabeth is replying. She is taking her time, so what will it be? A lecture? A reminder of why Donna is investigating a murder, instead of measuring the depth of tyre treads in the car park at Halfords, which is what Mark was doing today? Perhaps it would be something in Latin? There is a ping. How are you Donna? Mary Lennox has just had a new great granddaughter, but she is worried that her granddaughter has been having an affair, because the husband has a very prominent chin and it is nowhere to be seen. What time was Tony Curran killed? X Donna is choosing between lipsticks. She wants something that doesn’t look too obvious, while at the same time looking obvious. She replies. I can’t tell you that. I’m a professional. There is an immediate ping back. LOL! LOL? Where had Elizabeth got that from? Two can play at that game. WTF? This has clearly foxed Elizabeth and Donna has time to look in the mirror and check her interested face, her laughing face and her quietly seductive face before the next ping. I’m afraid I don’t know WTF. I only discovered LOL from Joyce last week. I’m going to assume that it doesn’t refer to the Warsaw Transit Facility, as that was shut down in 1981 when the Russians came sniffing. Donna sends back an emoji of big eyes and an emoji of the Russian flag and then starts to floss. Even though they say you don’t need to floss any more. Ping! That’s the Chinese flag, Donna. Just let me know the time of death. You know we won’t tell a soul and you also know we might just come up with something useful. Donna smiles. What harm could it do, really? 3.32. His Fitbit broke when he fell. There is another ping. Well, I don’t know what a Fitbit is either, but thank you. X 35 Joyce The police came over today and at first I had to feel sorry for DCI Hudson, but I think he rather enjoyed himself by the end. Anyway, Elizabeth gave him and Donna the file, so we’ll see what they make of it. Joanna’s name is not on the file anywhere, which Elizabeth reassured me helps with ‘plausible deniability’ just in case anything we’re doing is against the law. Which I assume it is. I asked Elizabeth to repeat the phrase ‘plausible deniability’ and I wrote it down. She asked me why I was writing it down and I said it was because I’m writing a diary and she rolled her eyes. Though she then asked if she was in the diary and I said of course she was and she then asked if I was using her real name. Which I said I was, though I’ve thought about it since and who knows with Elizabeth? Perhaps she’s really a Jacqueline? We tend to accept what people tell us they’re called. No questions asked. But I’ve been thinking. You must think I’m murder obsessed, it’s all I’ve written about since I started this diary. So perhaps I should tell you some other things. Let’s talk about a few things that aren’t murder. What can I tell you? When I was putting the hoover round after the police had gone, Elizabeth said she thought I would get on with a Dyson. But I said I didn’t think so, not at my age. But perhaps I should take the plunge? And after the hoovering we had a glass of wine. It was a screw top, but you don’t notice these days, do you? It’s just as good. When Elizabeth went home, I asked her to give my love to Stephen and she said she would. Then I said they should both come to dinner one night and she said that would be lovely. But all is not right, there. She will tell me when she’s ready. What else that isn’t murder? Mary Lennox’s granddaughter has just had a baby. He’s called River, which has raised a few eyebrows, but I rather like it. The woman who works in the shop is getting divorced and they’ve started stocking chocolate digestives. Karen Playfair, from up on the hill, is coming to give us a ‘Coopers Chase Breakfast Masterclass’ talk on computers. The last newsletter said she’s coming to give a talk about tablets and that caused some confusion, so they had to print an explanation this week. Apart from that, and the murder, all is peace and quiet. Anyway, I see that it’s getting late, so I will wish you a good night. While I have been writing, Elizabeth has sent me a message. We are off on a road trip tomorrow. No idea when and no idea why, but I shall look forward to it very much. 36 Donna can’t believe she is already in bed at 9.45. She had gone on the date because, frankly, it was about time. A man called Gregor had taken her to Zizzi’s, where he had nibbled at a salad and talked her through his protein-shake regime for ninety minutes. At one point Donna had asked him who his favourite author was. For Donna an acceptable answer would be Harlan Coben, Kurt Vonnegut, or any woman. Gregor had sagely replied that he ‘didn’t believe in books’ and that ‘you only learn in this life through having experiences and keeping your mind open’. When she then raised the thorny philosophical dilemma of whether you could both ‘keep your mind open’ and ‘not believe in books’ he had replied, ‘Well, I think you rather prove my point there, Diana,’ and sipped his water in a manner that suggested great wisdom. Close to tears through boredom, Donna had wondered where Carl was this evening. Donna has recently taken to scrolling through the Instagram feed of her ex-boyfriend and the Instagram feed of his new girlfriend, who appeared to be called Toyota. It has become such a habit now, she will sort of miss it when Carl and Toyota split up. Which they will, because Carl is an idiot and he’s not going to keep a hold of a girlfriend with eyebrows that great. Does Donna still love Carl? No. Did she ever, if she’s being honest? Probably not, now she’s had time to think about it. Does she still feel belittled by his rejection? Yes, that’s showing no signs of going away. It’s sitting like a stone just under her heart. She had arrested a shoplifter in Fairhaven last week, and when he had struggled, she had brought him down with a baton behind the knees. She was aware she had hit him much harder than she should. Sometimes you just had to hit things. Was it a mistake to get as far away from Carl as she could? To transfer to Fairhaven in a frightened huff? Of course it was a mistake. It was stupid. Donna has always been headstrong, always acted quickly and decisively. Which is a fine quality when you are right, but a liability when you are wrong. It’s great to be the fastest runner, but not when you’re running in the wrong direction. Meeting the Thursday Murder Club was the first good thing that had happened to Donna in a long time. That and Tony Curran being murdered. Donna had taken a photo of herself and Gregor just after he’d finished his superfood salad. She posted it to Instagram with the caption ‘This is what you get when you date a personal trainer!’ and added not one but two wink emojis. The only thing men were ever jealous of was good looks, and Carl wasn’t to know that Donna had spent much of the evening surveying the dinner table, idly wondering how she would murder Gregor, if she absolutely had to. She had settled on injecting a dough ball with cyanide. Although she later realized that there was no way she could have got Gregor to eat a carb. Talking of Gregor, she hears the toilet flush. She slips her clothes back on and, as he comes back out of the bathroom, she gives him a peck on the cheek. There is no way she’s staying overnight in the room of a twenty-eight-year-old man who has two posters on his bedroom wall, one of the Dalai Lama and one of a Ferrari. It is still not 10 p.m. and she wonders if she is allowed to text Chris Hudson and see if he fancies a quick drink. Have a little chat about Elizabeth’s file, the bits of it that she had understood. Also, she has finally just watched Narcos on Netflix and wants to discuss it with someone. Gregor had not seen it. Gregor didn’t watch television, due to a long reason that Donna had quickly lost interest in. Maybe she should just head home and ring Elizabeth instead? Talk through what she’d read in the folder? Would 10 p.m. be too late? Who knew with that lot? They had lunch at half eleven. So, it’s either Chris, her boss, or Elizabeth, her … well what exactly was Elizabeth? The word that came to Donna’s mind first was ‘friend’, but surely that wasn’t right. 37 ‘Not too late at all, PC De Freitas,’ says Elizabeth, nearly dropping the phone receiver in the darkness and blindly struggling to switch on the bedside light. ‘I was just watching a Morse.’ Elizabeth manages to flick the light on, sees the gentle rise and fall of Stephen’s ribcage. His faithful heart beating on. ‘And why are you up at this hour, Donna?’ Donna sneaks a look at her watch. ‘Well, it’s quarter past ten. Sometimes I just stay up this late. Now, Elizabeth, the folder was a bit long and a bit complicated, but I think I got some of it.’ ‘Excellent,’ replies Elizabeth. ‘I wanted it to be long and complicated enough for you to need to ring me to talk about it.’ ‘I see,’ says Donna. ‘It keeps me involved, you see, and it reminds you that we can be useful. I wouldn’t want you to feel like we were interfering, Donna, but at the same time I do want to interfere.’ Donna smiles. ‘Why don’t you take me through it?’ ‘Well, firstly, just to note, there are documents in that folder that would take you weeks to track down. You’d need warrants and all sorts. Ventham wouldn’t let you anywhere near some of them. So, I’m not blowing my own trumpet, but even so.’ ‘Feel free to let me know how you got hold of them.’ ‘Ron found them in a skip. Amazing what you can find, a lucky break for us all. Now, do you want the headlines before bed? You want to know why Ian Ventham might have murdered Tony Curran?’ Donna lies back on her pillow, remembering her mum reading her bedtime stories. She is aware that this shouldn’t feel similar, but it does. ‘Mmm hmm,’ she assents. ‘Now, Ventham’s business is very profitable, very well run. But here’s the first headline that’s of interest to us. We discover that Tony Curran owns twenty-five per cent of Coopers Chase.’ ‘I see,’ says Donna. ‘But then we discover that Curran is not a partner in the new company Ventham is using for The Woodlands.’ ‘The new development? OK. And?’ ‘There is an appendix in your folder – 4c, I think. The Woodlands was due to be exactly the same as the rest of Coopers Chase, seventy-five per cent Ian Ventham, twenty-five per cent Tony Curran, until Ventham changed his mind and cut Curran out entirely. Now you know what question to ask next?’ ‘When did Ventham change his mind?’ ‘Precisely. Well, Ventham signed the papers to cut Curran out of the deal the day before the consultation meeting. Which was, of course, the day before their mysterious row. And the day before someone murdered Tony Curran.’ ‘So Curran misses out on The Woodlands,’ says Donna. ‘What would that have cost him?’ ‘Millions,’ says Elizabeth. ‘There are huge projections in the folder. Curran would have been counting on an enormous payday before Ventham cut him out of the deal. That’s the news he received from Ian Ventham the day he was murdered.’ ‘Certainly enough for him to threaten Ventham. Is that your thinking?’ asks Donna. ‘So Curran threatens Ventham. Ventham gets scared and kills Curran? Gets his retaliation in first?’ ‘Exactly. And it would get even worse after the next phase of the development, Hillcrest. That’s what our expert says.’ ‘Hillcrest?’ asks Donna. ‘The real golden goose. Buying the farmland on top of the hill. Doubling the size of the development.’ ‘And when will Hillcrest happen?’ asks Donna. ‘Well that’s a sticking point for Ventham. He doesn’t even own the land yet,’ says Elizabeth. ‘It is still owned by the farmer, Gordon Playfair.’ ‘This is too complicated for me now, Elizabeth,’ admits Donna. ‘Forget Hillcrest for now, and forget Gordon Playfair, they’re red herrings. What that folder tells you are two key things. Firstly, Ventham double-crossed Tony Curran, on the day Curran died.’ ‘Agreed.’ ‘And secondly – listen carefully to this – Tony Curran’s shares have all reverted to Ian Ventham.’ ‘Tony Curran’s shares pass back to Ian Ventham?’ ‘They do,’ confirms Elizabeth. ‘If you want to put a figure on it, something simple to tell Chris Hudson, our expert says Tony Curran’s death just earned Ian Ventham around twelve and a quarter million pounds.’ Donna gives a low whistle. ‘Which sounds an awful lot like a motive to me,’ continues Elizabeth. ‘So I hope this is helpful?’ ‘It is helpful, Elizabeth. I’ll let Chris know.’ ‘Chris, is it?’ says Elizabeth. ‘I’ll let you get back to sleep now, Elizabeth; sorry for ringing so late. And I’m grateful for what you’ve done. And it’s cute you keep saying “our expert” instead of “Joyce’s daughter”. Very loyal. I promise we’ll look into it.’ ‘Thank you, Donna, and no comment. When you’re over next, I would like you to meet my friend Penny.’ ‘Thank you, Elizabeth, I’ll look forward to it. Can I ask why you wanted to know what time Tony Curran died?’ ‘Just idle curiosity. I think Penny will like you very much. Night, night, dear.’ 38 The morning sun is rising in the Kent sky. ‘Ibrahim, if you keep driving at twenty-nine miles per hour, this whole exercise will be moot,’ says Elizabeth, her fingers drumming on the glove box. ‘And if I crash on a sharp bend, the exercise will also be moot,’ says Ibrahim, eyes fixed on the road and intending to remain steadfast. ‘Would anyone like a Mini Cheddar?’ asks Joyce. Ibrahim was tempted, but he liked to have both hands on the wheel at all times. Ten and two. Ron was the only one of them who had a car, but there had still been an argument about who was going to drive. Joyce hadn’t held a licence for thirty years and so was out immediately. Ron had put up a token fight, but Ibrahim knew he had lost his confidence on right-hand turns and would be secretly delighted to be voted down. Elizabeth put up more spirited opposition, mentioning that she still held a fully valid tank licence. She really could play fast and loose with the Official Secrets Act at times. But, in the end it all came down to this: Ibrahim was the only one who understood how the satnav worked. It had been Elizabeth’s idea, he was happy to grant her that. They knew, somehow, that Ian Ventham had left Coopers Chase at exactly 3 p.m. and they knew that Tony Curran had been murdered at 3.32. Ibrahim had had to explain to everyone what a Fitbit was. And so here they were, timing the journey in Ron’s Daihatsu. Ibrahim knew they could have just plotted the journey on the satnav, but he also knew no one else realized that and he had fancied the drive. It had been a long time. So Ibrahim is behind the wheel. Joyce and Ron are happily sharing their Mini Cheddars in the back seat, Elizabeth has stopped drumming her fingers and is now texting someone on her phone and everyone had been to the toilet before they left, as per his instructions. Could Ian Ventham have made it from Coopers Chase to Tony Curran’s house in time to kill him? If he couldn’t, then they were barking up the wrong tree. They were about to find out. 39 ‘OK, folks, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’ Another early morning and Chris Hudson’s murder squad is assembled, in various stages of dishevelment. Chris has brought in Krispy Kremes from the garage and they are doing brisk business. Chris goes through what he’d discovered from the Thursday Murder Club and what Donna had told him about the file, after she’d buzzed on his door at 11 p.m. They’d talked about it over and over and then watched the first episode of Narcos season two with a bottle of red. Donna had invited herself over and Chris had wondered if this was just what constables were like in London these days. You had to hand it to her, she knew how to make a quick impression. ‘Ian Ventham, Tony Curran’s business partner, broke some bad news to Curran less than two hours before the murder. He was cutting him out of a development that would extend Coopers Chase, a retirement village out near Robertsbridge. This would have cost Curran a lot of money, and his death has made Ventham even more money. Over twelve million. The two men were seen having an argument shortly before Curran returned home. Did he threaten Ventham? Did Ventham decide it was better to be safe than sorry and send someone round? We know that Curran was killed at 3.32 last Tuesday, but when did Ventham leave Coopers Chase that day?’ ‘Where’s this info from?’ asks a young DI, Kate something. ‘Sources,’ says Chris. ‘Where are we on traffic cameras, Terry? You’ve got Ventham’s reg number?’ Donna’s phone buzzes and she looks down at a message. Good luck at the briefing this morning. Love, Elizabeth x. Donna shakes her head. ‘Got the number, but nothing yet. Still looking,’ says DI Terry Hallet, shaven-headed, muscles bulging from underneath a white T-shirt. ‘There’s a lot of traffic. It’s a fun job.’ ‘That’s why you get doughnuts, Terry,’ says Chris. ‘Keep it up. And where are we on our other friend in the photograph, Bobby Tanner?’ ‘They’ve talked to the police in Amsterdam,’ says Kate something. ‘Bobby was working for some Scousers there after he did a runner. It didn’t end well, as far as we can tell, and no one’s heard of him since. No records, no bank details, nothing. We’re still asking around, to see if he’s come back under a different name, but it was a long time ago, there’s not many of the old faces left.’ ‘It’d be nice to chat to him, rule him out at least. Anyone with anything positive for me?’ A junior DS puts up her hand. She’s been sent over from Brighton and is eating carrot sticks instead of a doughnut. ‘Yes, DS Grant,’ says Chris, taking a punt on her name. ‘DS Granger,’ says DS Granger. So close, thinks Chris. There are too many officers on this team. ‘I’ve been looking at Tony Curran’s phone records. He gets three calls on the morning of the murder, all from the same number, doesn’t pick them up. A mobile, untraceable, probably a burner.’ Chris nods. ‘OK, good work DS Granger, email me everything you’ve got and get on to the phone company, in case they can help. I know they won’t, but one of these days they will.’ ‘Of course, sir,’ says DS Granger and treats herself to a carrot baton. Donna’s phone buzzes again. We are having a little Thursday Murder Club road trip, in case there was anything you wanted to pass on? ‘OK, gang, let’s get back to it. Terry, anything from the traffic cams, let me know straight away. Kate, can I team you up with DS Granger and see what you can learn about the phone calls. And keep tracing Bobby Tanner, wherever he is, alive or dead, someone must know. Anyone who feels they’ve got nothing to do, come and knock at my door and I’ll find something boring for you. One way or another, let’s get Ventham.’ There is a final buzz on Donna’s phone. PS, my sources saw Chris buying doughnuts this morning. You lucky thing. Also, Joyce says hello xx 40 Bernard Cottle finishes the Codeword puzzle in the Express and puts his pen back in the pocket of his jacket. It is beautiful up here this morning. On the bench, on the hill. Too beautiful, a cruel trick, played on those not still here to see it. He had seen Joyce and her friends driving off somewhere this morning. How happy they had looked! But, then, Joyce seems to make everyone happy. Bernard knows he has gone too far inside himself. Knows he is out of reach, even to Joyce. Bernard is not going to be saved and he doesn’t deserve to be saved. Still, what he wouldn’t give to be in that car right now. Looking out at the view, as Joyce nattered away, perhaps picking the loose thread from the cuff of his jacket. But instead he will stay here, on the hill, where he sits every day, and wait for what’s to come. 41 Ibrahim had wanted to drive the Daihatsu right up to Tony Curran’s front gate, just for the purposes of absolute accuracy. Elizabeth had told him that this was poor fieldcraft, however, and so they are now in a lay-by, about 300 metres from Tony Curran’s house. It will do, he supposes. Ibrahim has his notebook open on the bonnet and is showing some calculations to Joyce and Elizabeth. Ron is urinating in the woods. ‘So it took us thirty-seven minutes at an average speed of twenty-seven and a half miles per hour, give or take. There was no traffic, because I am very efficient at plotting routes. I have a sixth sense. Other people would have hit traffic, I assure you.’ ‘I will recommend you for a gallantry honour,’ says Elizabeth. ‘As soon as we get back. Now, what does this mean for Ventham?’ ‘Would you like the detailed answer, or the simple answer?’ asks Ibrahim. ‘The simple answer please, Ibrahim,’ says Elizabeth without hesitation. Ibrahim pauses. Perhaps he had phrased his question poorly? ‘But I have prepared a detailed answer, Elizabeth.’ Ibrahim lets this hang in the air, until Joyce says, ‘Well, let’s all enjoy the detailed answer shall we?’ ‘As you wish, Joyce.’ Ibrahim claps his hands and turns over a page in his notebook. ‘Now, Ventham could have taken one of three routes. He might have taken our route, but I doubt it; I don’t think he has my insight for road networks. Route two, along the A21, looks the most obvious on the map, it’s the straightest line, but here our friend temporary roadworks come into play. I spoke yesterday to a very interesting man at Kent County Council, who says the roadworks are to do with fibre optics. Would you like me to elaborate further on fibre optics, Joyce?’ ‘I think I’m OK, if Elizabeth is,’ says Joyce. Ibrahim nods. ‘Another time. So route three, you could take the London Road, down past Battle Abbey, cut across and then down the B2159. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that seems slower, surely?’ ‘I was certainly thinking something, but it wasn’t that,’ says Elizabeth. Ibrahim could swear he senses impatience, but he is going as quickly as he can. ‘So, we take our speed, which you will remember was …?’ ‘I’ve forgotten, Ibrahim, forgive me,’ says Joyce. ‘Approximately twenty-seven point five miles per hour, Joyce,’ says Ibrahim, with his trademark patience. ‘Of course,’ nods Joyce. ‘And we will allow an extra three miles per hour for Ian Ventham’s average speed. I was being careful, as you know.’ Ibrahim looks at both Elizabeth and Joyce and is gratified by their quick nods. ‘So, I then took the liberty of aggregating his three possible routes, dividing the answer by his average speed and subtracting a margin of error. I have calculated the margin of error in a rather elegant way. Take a look at my notebook and you’ll see the maths. We take the average speed of route A and then we …’ Ibrahim stops as a noise comes from the woods. It is Ron, emerging and zipping himself up without a care in the world. ‘Better out than in,’ says Ron. ‘Ron!’ says Elizabeth, as if greeting her oldest friend in the world. ‘We were about to enjoy Ibrahim showing us some maths, but I imagine you’d have little patience with that?’ ‘No maths, Ibrahim old son,’ says Ron. ‘Could Ventham have got here on time?’ ‘Well, I can show …’ Ron waves this away. ‘Ibrahim, I’m seventy-five, mate. Could he have done it?’ 42 Ian Ventham is on his treadmill, listening to the audiobook of Richard Branson’s Screw It, Let’s Do It: Lessons in Life and Business. Ian doesn’t agree with Branson’s politics, far from it, but you have to admire the guy. Admire what he’s achieved. One day Ian will write a book. He just needs a title that rhymes and then he’ll get to work. As Ian runs, he is thinking about the graveyard and he’s thinking about Father Mackie. He wouldn’t want anything to get out of hand there. In the good old days he could have sent Tony Curran round to have a quiet word with him. But Tony’s gone and Ian is not going to dwell on that any more than Richard Branson would. Branson would move on and so will Ian. The diggers are due to start in a week. Get the graveyard done first, that’s the tough bit, like eating your vegetables. Everything else will be a breeze. The diggers are ready to go, the permits are signed off, Bogdan’s lined up a couple of drivers. In fact, thinks Ian, in fact, what is he waiting for? What would Branson do? What would the one guy he likes on Dragons’ Den do? They’d get on with it. Screw it, let’s do it. Ian switches off the audiobook and, without breaking stride, rings Bogdan. 43 Joyce So, could Ian Ventham have killed Tony Curran? That was today’s big question. Well, according to Ibrahim, and I do trust him in the area of attention to detail, Ian Ventham would have been cutting it very fine, but it would have been possible. If he had left Coopers Chase at 3 p.m., he would have arrived at Tony Curran’s house (big, and a bit tacky, but still nice) at 3.29. That would have given him two minutes to get out of his car, get into the house and hit Tony Curran with a large object. So, Ron said that if Ian Ventham had killed Tony Curran, then he’d done it very quickly and Elizabeth had said that that was always the best way to kill someone and that there was never any point faffing around. I asked Ibrahim if he was certain of the timings and he told me that of course he was and that he had tried to show me his workings, but that he’d been interrupted by Ron returning from urinating. I told him that was a shame and he perked up a bit and suggested that perhaps he could show me the workings later. I told him that I would like that very much, because a white lie harms no one. So, we had a lot of fun today and it seems that Ian Ventham really could have killed Tony Curran. He had the motive and he had the opportunity and I suppose where bludgeoning is concerned, the means is just something big and heavy, so that wouldn’t be beyond him either. Lewis would have him bang to rights. What if they arrest Ventham though? And the fun stops? Let’s see what tomorrow brings. 44 Ian Ventham is having an early night. He sets his alarm for 5 a.m. Tomorrow is the big day. He puts on his blackout goggles and his noise-cancelling headphones and happily drifts off. Ron shuts his eyes. He liked it the other day, the police coming to see them, and he liked shouting at Ventham in the meeting. In truth he misses the limelight a bit. He misses people listening when he talks. Put him on Question Time. They wouldn’t dare. He’d tell them a thing or two. Thump the table, blame the Tories, raise the roof, like the good old days. Or would he? Maybe not. He’s drifting now. Maybe they’d see through him, maybe his tricks were yesterday’s tricks? He has certainly lost a yard of pace. What if they asked about Syria? Is it Syria? Libya? What if Dimbleby looks him in the eye and says, ‘Mr Ritchie, tell us what you saw.’ But that was the copper wasn’t it? And it’s Fiona Bruce now isn’t it? He likes Fiona Bruce. Who killed Tony Curran though? Ventham. Typical Blairite. Unless he was missing something. Was he missing something? Across the path, Ibrahim is learning the countries of the world, just to keep his left brain ticking over. He is letting his right brain get on with the job of thinking about who killed Tony Curran. Somewhere between Denmark and Djibouti, he falls asleep. In her three-bed, in Larkin, the one with the decking, Elizabeth cannot sleep. She is getting used to that these days. Her arm is around her Stephen in the darkness. Can he feel it? Does Penny hear her? Have they both already disappeared? Or are they only real for as long as she chooses to believe they’re real? Elizabeth clings on a little tighter and holds on to the day for as long as she is able. Bernard Cottle is online. His daughter, Sufi, had bought him an iPad last Christmas. He had asked for slippers, but Sufi hadn’t considered slippers a proper present, so he’d had to buy himself some in Fairhaven in the sales. He hadn’t known how to use the iPad, but Joyce had told him not to be so silly and had taken it out of the drawer and shown him. By his side, Bernard has a large glass of whisky and the last slice of Joyce’s coffee and walnut cake. A pale, blue glow illuminates his face, as he looks at the plans for The Woodlands for what must be the hundredth time. One by one, the lights of the village switch off. The only remaining illumination comes from behind the thick hospital blinds of Willows. The business of dying keeping different hours from the business of living. 45 Ellidge had seen them first. Every morning, Edwin Ellidge wakes at 6 a.m. and walks slowly, but with purpose, to the bottom of the drive at Coopers Chase. Once across the cattle grid and onto the main road, he looks both ways, looks again for good measure, then turns and walks slowly back up the drive. Job done, he is back in his flat by 6.30 a.m., whereupon he is not seen for the rest of the day. Coopers Chase being Coopers Chase, no one has ever asked him why. After all, a woman in Tennyson walks a dog she doesn’t have. Whatever gets you out of bed. Elizabeth, being Elizabeth, once decided to casually intercept him on his walk back. As she approached him, the early mist, her frozen breath and the trudging figure of a man in an overcoat all reminded her of happy times in East Germany. He raised his gaze to meet hers, gave a reassuring shake of the head and said, ‘No need, I’ve already checked.’ Elizabeth replied ‘Thank you, Mr Ellidge.’ She turned back and the two of them walked together up the drive in a very pleasant silence. Ibrahim says Ellidge was once a head teacher and latterly a beekeeper, and Elizabeth had detected a buried hint of Norfolk in his voice, but that was all the information they had on file for Mr Edwin Ellidge. Ian Ventham’s Range Rover was first. This was at 6 a.m. Ellidge saw it veer off the road before it reached him, taking the track which led up the hill to the Playfair farm. The diggers passed Ellidge at around 6.20 a.m., as he was walking home. He didn’t even give them a glance. Evidently these were not the vehicles he had been looking for. They were set, nose to nose, on a low-loader that slowly ground its way up the drive. A dawn raid is all well and good for catching drug dealers, or armed gangs, but at Coopers Chase it is next to useless. If such things were logged, the first phone call would have been recorded at 6.21. Diggers are here, coming up the drive, two of them. I mean I don’t know, do you? That beacon lit, the news was across the whole village by 6.45 a.m. at the very latest, the news spread by landline alone – Ibrahim had tried to set up a WhatsApp group in February, but it hadn’t caught on. Residents began to emerge and discuss what could be done. At 7.30 a.m. Ian Ventham comes back down the hill and turns into the drive to discover the whole village is out. Except for Edwin Ellidge, who has had enough excitement for one day. Karen Playfair is in Ian Ventham’s passenger seat. She has a breakfast lecture to give at Coopers Chase this morning. The low-loader has continued its slow growl up the drive and is now being carefully driven through the car park. Bogdan jumps from the passenger seat and unbolts the heavy wooden gate, so the journey can continue upwards on the narrow path towards the Garden of Eternal Rest. ‘Hold up, son.’ Ron approaches Bogdan and shakes his hand. ‘Ron. Ron Ritchie. What’s all this?’ Bogdan shrugs. ‘Diggers.’ ‘I’ll give you diggers, son. What are they doing?’ says Ron, quickly adding, ‘Don’t say digging.’ More residents have reached the gate now and they begin to crowd around Ron, all waiting for an answer. ‘Well, son? What are they for?’ asks Ron. Bogdan sighs. ‘You said to not say digging. I don’t have other answer.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Son, you just opened this gate and this gate only leads one place.’ Ron sees he has a crowd and this is an opportunity he is not going to waste. He turns towards the gathering. He spies his gang among them. Ibrahim has his swimming stuff under one arm, Joyce has just arrived with a flask and is looking out for someone. Bernard, no doubt. Elizabeth is at the back and there’s a rare sighting of Stephen by her side. He’s in a dressing gown, but he’s not the only one. Ron feels a pang of guilt as he sees Penny’s husband, John, in his suit, as ever, stopped on his way over to Willows. Ron hasn’t visited Penny in a long time and knows he must put that right before the chance is gone. It frightens him, though. Ron clambers onto the first bar of the gate to address his crowd. He then almost loses his balance, thinks the better of it and returns to solid ground. No matter, he’s in business here. ‘Well, this is nice. Just us, a couple of Polish lads and some diggers. All enjoying the morning air. Ventham’s little gang. Crawling in at six thirty in the morning to dig up our nuns. No warning, no consultation. Coming into our village and digging up our nuns.’ He turns to Bogdan. ‘That’s your game, is it, son?’ ‘Yes, that’s our game,’ concedes Bogdan. Ventham’s Range Rover pulls up alongside the low-loader and he steps out. He looks at the crowd and then at Bogdan, who shrugs. Karen Playfair steps out too and smiles at the scene before her. ‘And here’s the man himself,’ says Ron as he spots Ventham walking over. ‘Mr Ritchie,’ says Ventham. ‘Sorry to disturb your morning, Mr Ventham,’ says Ron. ‘Not at all. Carry on, make a speech,’ replies Ventham. ‘Pretend it’s the fifties, or whenever you were around. But when you’re done I’m going to need to access that path to do some digging.’ ‘Not today, old son, afraid not,’ says Ron, turning back to the crowd. ‘We’re all weak, Mr Ventham, you can see that, right? Look at us, give us a nudge and we’d topple over. That’s the last you’d see of us. We’re feeble, the lot of us, we’re a pushover. A pushover, eh? Should be easy. But, you know, there’s a few people here who’ve done a few things in their life. Am I right?’ Cheers. ‘There’s a few people here who’ve seen off, and no disrespect, better men than you.’ Ron pauses and looks around at his audience. ‘We got soldiers here, one or two. We got teachers, we got doctors, we got people who could take you apart and people who could put you back together again. We got people who crawled through deserts, people who built rockets, people who locked up killers.’ ‘And insurance underwriters!’ shouts Colin Clemence from Ruskin, to happy applause. ‘In short, Mr Ventham,’ says Ron, his arm sweeping, ‘we got fighters. And you, with your diggers at half seven in the morning, have picked a fight.’ Ian waits to make certain Ron has finished, that the bolt has been shot, then steps forward to talk to the same crowd. ‘Thanks, Ron. All rubbish, but thank you. There’s no fight here. You’ve had your consultation, you’ve made your objections, they were all overturned. You’ve got lawyers here, right? Alongside the people you’re telling me have crawled through deserts? You’ve got barristers? Solicitors? Jesus, you’ve got judges here! That was your fight. In court. It was a fair fight and you lost it. So if I want to drive onto land that I own at eight a.m. and carry out work that I’ve planned and that I’m paying for and that, also no disrespect, will keep your service charge at the reasonable level it currently is, then I will. I will and I am.’ The term ‘service charge’ has a noticeable effect on the softer element in the crowd. They might well have four hours to kill until lunch and be looking forward to a show, but this fella does have a point. Joyce and Bernard, who had slipped away together during Ron’s grandstanding, are now returning with garden chairs under their arms. They walk through the crowd and open them out on the path. It is Joyce’s turn to address the crowd. ‘Radio Kent says it’s going to be lovely all morning, if some of you would like to join us? We could make a day of it if anyone’s got a picnic table they’re not using?’ Ron turns to the crowd. ‘Who’s up for a nice sit down and a cup of tea?’ The crowd gets to business, chairs and tables to be collected, kettle on, see what’s in the cupboard, too early for a drink, but let’s see if we can string it out. If nothing else this should be fun. Though, again, he does make a very good point about the service charge. Ibrahim stands by the cab of the low-loader, talking to the driver. He had estimated, by eye, that it was thirteen point five metres in length and is gratified to learn that it is thirteen point three. Not bad, Ibrahim, still got it. Elizabeth leads Stephen home, unscathed. Make him a coffee and she can head back out. 46 The call from Ian Ventham comes through to Fairhaven Police Station at around 7.30 a.m. Donna is drinking a litre carton of cranberry juice as she overhears the words ‘Coopers Chase’. She volunteers her services and sends Chris Hudson a text. He’s off this morning, but he won’t want to miss this. At 7 a.m. Father Matthew Mackie receives a call from a Maureen Gadd. By 7.30 he is up and dressed, dog collar front and centre and waiting for a cab to the station. 47 In front of the gate that leads to the Garden of Eternal Rest there are now twenty chairs. Mainly sun loungers, but also one dining chair because of Miriam’s back. As a barricade it is unorthodox, but effective. Trees crowd in on either side of the gate, so the only way up to the Garden of Eternal Rest is now through a phalanx of pensioners, some of whom are taking the opportunity to stretch out in the morning sun and have a well-earned nap. The diggers are not getting past for a while. Ian Ventham is back in his car, watching the scene. Karen Playfair has stepped outside and is merrily vaping away on an apple and cinnamon e-cigarette. Ian sees picnic tables, ice-coolers and parasols. Tea is being fetched and carried on padded trays. Photographs of grandchildren are being swapped. The Garden of Eternal Rest is a sideshow, for most of the residents this is just a street party in the midsummer sun. No need for Ian to get involved, they will fold like their loungers the moment the police arrive and they’ll wander off to do whatever they do. Ian is sure this little display will blow over, but he hopes the police show up soon. With the amount of tax he hypothetically pays, it’s really not too much to ask. 48 Elizabeth is not at the scene. Instead, after dropping Stephen at home, she has taken a route up through Blunts Wood and, as she clears the treeline, she steps onto the broad path leading up to the Garden of Eternal Rest. She walks up the path until she reaches the wooden bench, Bernard Cottle’s bench, where she sits and waits. She looks down towards Coopers Chase. The path curves towards the bottom, so the barricade is out of sight, but she can hear the polite disturbance at the bottom of the hill. Always look where the action isn’t, because that’s where the action is. A part of her is surprised that Joyce hasn’t made the walk up the hill too. Perhaps she lacks some of Elizabeth’s instincts after all. Elizabeth hears a rustling coming from the trees about twenty metres down on the other side of the path and that rustling very soon turns into the figure of Bogdan emerging from the trees, with a shovel over his shoulder. He heads up the path, nodding to Elizabeth as he passes. ‘Missus,’ he says, nodding to her. If he had a cap, Elizabeth felt sure he would doff it. ‘Bogdan,’ she replies. ‘I know you have work to do, but I wonder if I might ask you a question?’ Bogdan stops his walk, lowers the shovel from his shoulder and rests his weight on the handle. ‘Please,’ he replies. Elizabeth had been thinking things through last night. Really – Ventham arrives, gets inside, makes his way to the kitchen and then kills Tony Curran within two minutes? She’d seen it done before, but not by an amateur. So what was she missing? ‘Did Mr Ventham tell you he wanted Tony Curran murdered?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘After their row? Perhaps he asked you to help? Perhaps you did help?’ Bogdan considers her for a moment. Not fazed. ‘I know that’s three questions, forgive an old woman,’ adds Elizabeth. ‘Well, is only one answer, so is OK,’ begins Bogdan. ‘No, he didn’t tell me and no he didn’t ask, so no I didn’t help.’ Elizabeth gives this her consideration. ‘All the same, it’s worked out nicely for you. You have a lucrative new job, don’t you?’ ‘Yes,’ agrees Bogdan, nodding. ‘Can I ask if you fitted Tony Curran’s alarm system?’ Bogdan nods. ‘Sure, Ian gets me to do all that stuff for people.’ ‘So you could have got in, very easily? Waited for him?’ ‘Sure. Would have been simple.’ Elizabeth hears more cars pulling up at the bottom of the path. ‘I know I’m being rude in asking, but if Ian Ventham had wanted Tony Curran dead, might he have asked you to do it? Is that the sort of relationship you have?’ ‘He trust me,’ says Bogdan, thinking. ‘So I think maybe he would ask me, yes.’ ‘And what might you have said? If he had asked you?’ ‘There are some jobs I do, like fix alarms, tile swimming pools, and there are some jobs I don’t do, like kill people. So, if he ask, I say, “Listen, maybe you have good reason, but I would say kill him yourself, Ian.” You know?’ ‘Well, I agree,’ says Elizabeth, nodding. ‘You’re absolutely sure you didn’t kill Tony Curran though?’ Bogdan laughs, ‘I am absolutely sure. I would remember.’ ‘This has turned into a lot of questions, Bogdan, I’m sorry,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Is OK,’ says Bogdan, looking at his watch. ‘Is still early and I like to talk.’ ‘Where are you from, Bogdan?’ ‘Poland.’ ‘Yes, I’d got that. Which part?’ ‘Near Krakow. You heard of Krakow?’ Elizabeth certainly has heard of Krakow. ‘I have, yes, it’s a very beautiful city. In fact I went there, many years ago.’ It was in 1968 to be exact, to conduct an informal interview, on trade delegation business, with a young Polish army colonel. The Polish army colonel later very happily went on to run a bookmaker’s in Coulsdon and had an MBE for services to the British State, which stayed in a locked drawer until the day he died. Bogdan looks out over the Kent hills. He then holds out a hand. ‘I should work. It is nice to meet you.’ ‘It is nice to meet you too. My name is Marina,’ says Elizabeth, as she shakes his huge hand. ‘Marina?’ repeats Bogdan. His smile returns, once again, like a baby deer attempting to walk. ‘Marina was my mother’s name.’ ‘How lovely!’ says Elizabeth. She’s not proud of herself, but you never know when this sort of thing could come in handy. And really, if someone is going to have so much personal information tattooed on his body, what is she expected to do? ‘I hope to see you again, Bogdan.’ ‘I hope to see you too, Marina.’ Elizabeth watches as he continues up the path, swings open the heavy iron gates and takes his shovel into the Garden of Eternal Rest. There is more than one type of digger, thinks Elizabeth, as she starts to walk back down the hill. She thinks of another question she should have asked. Does Ian Ventham have the same alarm system as Tony Curran? If so, it would have been an easy job for him to get into Tony Curran’s house. Had he needed to. She would bet he does. She will ask Bogdan the next time she sees him. When Elizabeth reaches the barricade, she finds that the gate has been padlocked and that the padlock is being guarded by three women, including Maureen Gadd, who plays bridge with Derek Archer. Very badly, in Elizabeth’s view. Elizabeth climbs the gate and makes the small jump on the other side back into the heart of the action. How many more years of that? Three or four? She spies Ian Ventham climbing out of his car as Chris Hudson and Donna De Freitas approach. Time to join in the fun, she thinks, and taps Joyce on the shoulder. Bernard is asleep in the chair next to her, which at least explains why Joyce hadn’t come snooping. In theory, she approves of chasing after men, if that’s what you wanted to do, but surely Joyce must find it exhausting?