The Bullet That Missed

1

‘I don’t need make-up,’ says Ron. He’s in a straight-backed chair because Ibrahim told him you mustn’t slouch on television.

‘Do you not?’ replies his make-up artist, Pauline Jenkins, taking brushes and palettes from her bag. She has set up a mirror on a table in the Jigsaw Room. It is framed by lightbulbs, and the glow bounces off her cerise earrings as they bob back and forth.

Ron feels the adrenalin pumping a little. This is the stuff. A bit of TV. Where are the others though? He told them they could come along ‘if they fancied, no big deal’, and he will be gutted if they don’t show.

‘They can take me as they find me,’ says Ron. ‘I’ve earned this face, it tells a story.’

‘Horror story, if you don’t mind me saying?’ says Pauline, looking at a colour palette, and then at Ron’s face. She blows him a kiss.

‘Not everyone has to be beautiful,’ says Ron. His friends know the interview starts at four. They’ll be here soon surely?

‘We’re agreed there, darling,’ says Pauline. ‘I’m not a miracle worker. I remember you back in the day though. Handsome bugger, weren’t you, if you like that sort of thing?’

Ron grunts.

‘And I do like that sort of thing if I’m honest with you, right up my street. Always fighting for the working man, weren’t you, throwing your weight around?’ Pauline opens a compact. ‘You still believe in all that, do you? Up the workers?’

Ron’s shoulders go back a touch, like a bull preparing to enter a ring. ‘Still believe in it? Still believe in equality? Still believe in the power of labour? What’s your name?’

‘Pauline,’ says Pauline.

‘Still believe in the dignity of a day’s work for a fair day’s pay, Pauline? More than ever.’

Pauline nods. ‘Good oh. Then shut your mush for five minutes and let me do the job I’m paid to do, which is to remind the viewers of South East Tonight what a looker you are.’

Ron’s mouth opens, but, unusually for him, no words come out. Pauline starts on his foundation without further ado. ‘Dignity, my arse. Haven’t you got gorgeous eyes? Like Che Guevara if he worked on the docks.’

In his mirror, Ron sees the door to the Jigsaw Room open. Joyce walks in. He knew she wouldn’t let him down. Not least because she knows Mike Waghorn will be here. This whole thing was her idea, truth be told. She chose the file.

Ron notices that Joyce is wearing a new cardigan. She just can’t help herself.

‘You told us you weren’t going to have make-up, Ron,’ says Joyce.

‘They make you,’ says Ron. ‘This is Pauline.’

‘Hello, Pauline,’ says Joyce. ‘You’ve got your work cut out there.’

‘I’ve seen worse,’ says Pauline. ‘I used to work on Casualty.’

The door opens once again. A camera operator walks in, followed by a sound man, followed by a flash of white hair, the quiet swoosh of an expensive suit and the perfect, masculine yet subtle scent of Mike Waghorn. Ron sees Joyce blush. He would roll his eyes if he wasn’t having his concealer applied.

‘Well, here we all are, then,’ says Mike, his smile as white as his hair. ‘The name’s Mike Waghorn. The one, the only, accept no substitutes.’

‘Ron Ritchie,’ says Ron.

‘The same, the very same,’ says Mike, grasping Ron’s hand. ‘Haven’t changed a bit, have you? This is like being on safari and seeing a lion up close, Mr Ritchie. He’s a lion of a man, isn’t he, Pauline?’

‘He’s certainly something or other,’ agrees Pauline, powdering Ron’s cheeks.

Ron sees Mike turn his head slowly towards Joyce, slipping off her new cardigan with his eyes. ‘And who, might I ask, are you?’

‘I’m Joyce Meadowcroft.’ She practically curtsies.

‘I should say you are,’ says Mike. ‘You and the magnificent Mr Ritchie a couple, then, Joyce?’

‘Oh, God, no, my goodness, the thought, no, heavens no. No,’ says Joyce. ‘We’re friends. No offence, Ron.’

‘Friends indeed,’ says Mike. ‘Lucky Ron.’

‘Stop flirting, Mike,’ says Pauline. ‘No one’s interested.’

‘Oh, Joyce’ll be interested,’ says Ron.

‘I am,’ says Joyce. To herself, but just loud enough to carry.

The door opens once again, and Ibrahim pokes his head around. Good lad! Only Elizabeth missing now. ‘Am I too late?’

‘You’re just in time,’ says Joyce.

The sound man is attaching a microphone to Ron’s lapel. Ron is wearing a jacket over his West Ham shirt, at Joyce’s insistence. It is unnecessary, in his opinion. Sacrilegious, if anything. Ibrahim takes a seat next to Joyce and looks at Mike Waghorn.

‘You are very handsome, Mr Waghorn. Classically handsome.’

‘Thank you,’ says Mike, nodding in agreement. ‘I play squash, I moisturize, and nature takes care of the rest.’

‘And about a grand a week in make-up,’ says Pauline, putting the finishing touches to Ron.

‘I am handsome too, it is often remarked upon,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I think perhaps, had my life taken a different turn, I might have been a newsreader too.’

‘I’m not a newsreader,’ says Mike. ‘I’m a journalist who happens to read the news.’

Ibrahim nods. ‘A fine mind. And a nose for a story.’

‘Well, that’s why I’m here,’ says Mike. ‘As soon as I read the email, I sniffed a story. A new way of living, retirement communities, and the famous face of Ron Ritchie at the heart of it. I thought, “Yup, viewers will love a bit of that.”’

It’s been quiet for a few weeks, but Ron is delighted that the gang is back in action. The whole interview is a ruse. Designed by Joyce to lure Mike Waghorn to Coopers Chase. To see if he could help them with the case. Joyce sent an email to one of the producers. Even so, it still means that Ron is going to be on TV again, and he is very happy about that.

‘Will you come to dinner afterwards, Mr Waghorn?’ asks Joyce. ‘We’ve got a table for five thirty. After the rush.’

‘Please, call me Mike,’ says Mike. ‘And, no, I’m afraid. I try not to mix with people. You know, privacy, germs, whatnot. You understand, I’m certain.’

‘Oh,’ says Joyce. Ron sees her disappointment. If there is a bigger fan of Mike Waghorn anywhere in Kent or Sussex, he would like to meet them. In fact, now he really thinks about it, he wouldn’t like to meet them.

‘There is always a great deal of alcohol,’ says Ibrahim to Mike. ‘And I suspect many fans of yours will be there.’

Mike has been given pause for thought.

‘And we can tell you all about the Thursday Murder Club,’ says Joyce.

‘The Thursday Murder Club?’ says Mike. ‘Sounds made up.’

‘Everything is made up, when you really think about it,’ says Ibrahim. ‘The alcohol is subsidized by the way. They tried to stop the subsidy, but we held a meeting, a number of words were exchanged, and they thought better of it. And we’ll have you out by seven thirty.’

Mike looks at his watch, then looks at Pauline. ‘We could probably do a quick supper?’

Pauline looks at Ron. ‘Will you be there?’

Ron looks at Joyce, who nods firmly. ‘Sounds like I will, yeah.’

‘Then we’ll stay,’ says Pauline.

‘Good, good,’ says Ibrahim. ‘There’s something we’d like to talk to you about, Mike.’

‘Which is?’ asks Mike.

‘All in good time,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I don’t wish to pull focus from Ron.’

Mike sits in an armchair opposite Ron and starts counting to ten. Ibrahim leans into Joyce.

‘He is testing the microphone level.’

‘I had worked that out,’ says Joyce, and Ibrahim nods. ‘Thank you for getting him to stay for dinner – you never know, do you?’

‘You never do know, Joyce, that is true. Perhaps the two of you will marry before the year is out. And, even if not, which is an outcome we must prepare for, I’m sure he will have plenty of information about Bethany Waites.’

The door opens once more, and Elizabeth enters the room. The gang is all here. Ron pretends he is not touched. Last time he had a gang of friends like these, they were being hospitalized by police riot shields at the Wapping print-workers’ strike. Happy days.

‘Don’t mind me,’ says Elizabeth. ‘You look different, Ron, what is it? You look … healthy.’

Ron grunts, but sees Pauline smile. That’s a cracking smile, to be fair to her. Is Pauline in his league? Late sixties, a bit young for him? What league is he in these days? It’s been a long time since he’d checked. Either way, what a smile.

2

It can be hard to run a multimillion-pound drugs gang from a prison cell. But it is not, as Connie Johnson is discovering, impossible.

Most of the prison staff are on side, and why wouldn’t they be? She throws enough money around. There are still a couple of guards who won’t play ball, however, and Connie has already had to swallow two illegal SIM cards this week.

The diamonds, the murders, the bag of cocaine. She had been very skilfully set up, and her trial date has been set for two months’ time. She is eager to keep things ticking over until then.

Perhaps she will be found guilty, perhaps she won’t, but Connie likes to err on the side of optimism in all things. Plan for success, her mum used to say, although soon afterwards she died, having been hit by an uninsured van.

Above all it’s good to keep busy. Routine is important in prison. Also, it is important to have things to look forward to, and Connie is looking forward to killing Bogdan. He’s the reason she’s in here and, eyes like mountain pools or not, he is going to have to go.

And the old guy too. The one who helped Bogdan set her up. She has asked around, and found his name is Ron Ritchie. He’ll have to go as well. She’ll leave them until after the trial – juries don’t like witnesses being murdered – but then she will kill them both.

Looking down at her phone, Connie sees that one of the men who works in the prison admin block is on Tinder. He is balding and standing next to what appears to be a Volvo of all things, but she swipes right regardless, because you never know when people might come in handy. She sees immediately that they are a match. Quelle surprise!

Connie has done a bit of research into Ron Ritchie. He was famous apparently, back in the seventies and eighties. She looks at the picture of him on her phone, his face like an unsuccessful boxer, shouting into a megaphone. Clearly a man who enjoyed the limelight.

Lucky you, Ron Ritchie, thinks Connie. You’ll be famous again by the time I’ve finished with you.

One thing is for sure: Connie will do anything she can to remain in prison for as short a time as possible. And, once she is out, the mayhem can really begin.

Sometimes in life you simply have to be patient. Through her barred window Connie looks out over the prison yard, and to the hills beyond. She switches on her Nespresso machine.

3

Mike and Pauline have joined them for dinner.

Ibrahim loves it when the whole gang is together. Together, and with a mission in mind. Joyce had been adamant that they were to investigate the Bethany Waites case. Ibrahim was quick to agree. Firstly because it is an interesting case. An unsolved case. But mainly because Ibrahim has fallen in love with Joyce’s new dog, Alan, and he is worried that if he upsets her, Joyce might restrict his access.

‘You want a drop of red, Mike?’ Ron asks, bottle raised.

‘What is it?’ asks Mike.

‘How do you mean?’

‘What wine is it?’

Ron shrugs. ‘It’s a red, I don’t know the make.’

‘OK, let’s live dangerously, just this once,’ says Mike, and lets Ron pour.

They have been very keen to talk to Mike Waghorn about the murder of Bethany Waites. It is assumed that he will have information that was not in the official police files. Mike doesn’t know that yet, of course. He is just enjoying free wine with four harmless pensioners.

Ibrahim will be patient before he starts asking about the murder, because he knows that Joyce is excited to meet Mike, and she has lots of other questions for him first. She has written them down in a notebook, which is in her handbag, in case she forgets any of them.

Now that Mike has a glass of unidentified red in front of him, Joyce clearly feels able to begin. ‘When you read the news, Mike, is it all written down, or are you allowed to put it in your own words?’

‘That’s an excellent question,’ says Mike. ‘Perceptive, gets right to the heart of things. It is all written down, but I don’t always stick to the script.’

‘You’ve earned that right over the years,’ says Joyce, and Mike agrees.

‘Gets me into trouble from time to time though,’ says Mike. ‘They made me go on an impartiality course in Thanet.’

‘Good for you,’ says Elizabeth.

Ibrahim sees Joyce take a sneaky peek at the notebook in her handbag.

‘Do you ever wear any special clothes when you read the news?’ asks Joyce. ‘Special socks or anything?’

‘No,’ says Mike. Joyce nods, a little disappointed, then takes another look at her book.

‘What happens if you need the loo during a show?’

‘For heaven’s sake, Joyce,’ says Elizabeth.

‘I go before the show starts,’ says Mike.

Fun though this is, Ibrahim wonders if it isn’t time to kick off this evening’s proceedings himself. ‘So, Mike, we have a –’

Joyce places a hand on his arm. ‘Ibrahim, forgive me, just a couple more things. What is Amber like?’

‘Who’s Amber?’ says Ron.

‘Mike’s co-host,’ says Joyce. ‘Honestly, Ron, you’re embarrassing yourself.’

‘I do that,’ says Ron. He says this directly to Pauline, who, in Ibrahim’s opinion, had very deliberately sat next to Ron at the start of dinner. Ibrahim usually sits next to Ron. No matter.

‘She’s only been there three years, but I am already starting to like her,’ says Joyce.

‘She’s terrific,’ says Mike. ‘Goes to the gym a lot, but terrific.’

‘She has lovely hair too,’ says Joyce.

‘Joyce, you should judge news presenters on their journalism,’ says Mike. ‘And not their appearance. Female presenters, particularly, have to put up with that a lot.’

Joyce nods, knocks back half a glass of white, then nods again. ‘I do take your point, Mike. I just think that you can be very talented and have lovely hair. Perhaps I’m shallow, but both of those things are important to me. Claudia Winkleman is a good example. You also have lovely hair.’

‘I’ll have the steak please,’ says Mike to the waiter now taking their orders. ‘Rare-to-medium rare, err on the side of rare. Though if you err on the side of medium, I’ll live.’

‘I had read you were a Buddhist, Mike?’ Ibrahim spent the morning researching their guest.

‘I am,’ says Mike. ‘Thirty-odd years.’

‘Ah,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I had been under the impression that Buddhists were vegetarian? I was almost sure.’

‘I’m Church of England too,’ says Mike. ‘So I pick and choose. That’s the point of being a Buddhist.’

‘I stand corrected,’ says Ibrahim.

Mike has started on his second glass of red, and seems ready to hold court. This is perfect.

‘Tell me about this Thursday Murder Club, then,’ he says.

‘It’s fairly hush-hush,’ says Ibrahim. ‘But we meet up, once a week, the four of us, to look over old police files. See if we can solve anything they were unable to.’

‘Sounds like a fun hobby,’ says Mike. ‘Looking into old murders. Keeps you busy I bet? The old grey cells ticking over? Ron, should we get another bottle of this red?’

‘It’s mainly been new murders recently,’ says Elizabeth, laying the bait still further.

Mike laughs. He clearly doesn’t think Elizabeth is being serious. Which is probably for the best. Don’t want to frighten him off just yet.

‘Sounds like you don’t mind a bit of trouble here and there,’ says Mike.

‘I’ve always been a magnet for trouble,’ says Ron.

Pauline tops up Ron’s glass. ‘Well, watch yourself, Ron, because I’ve always been trouble.’

Ibrahim sees Joyce give a tiny, secret smile at this. Ibrahim decides that, before they try to move the conversation, gently and slowly, on to Bethany Waites, he has a question of his own. He turns to Pauline.

‘Are you married, Pauline?’ he asks.

‘Widow,’ says Pauline.

‘Ooh, snap!’ says Joyce. Ibrahim notes that this evening’s combination of wine and celebrity is making her quite the giddy goat.

‘How long have you been on your own?’ asks Elizabeth.

‘Six months,’ says Pauline.

‘Six months? That’s no time at all,’ says Joyce, placing her hand on Pauline’s. ‘I was still putting an extra slice in the toaster at six months.’

Was it time? Here goes, thinks Ibrahim. Time to make small, subtle shifts in the conversation so they can start talking about Bethany Waites. A delicate dance, with Ibrahim as master choreographer. He has his first move all planned. ‘So, Mike. I wonder if you –’

‘I’ll tell you this for nothing,’ says Mike, ignoring Ibrahim, wine glass circling the air. ‘If you want a murder to solve, I’ve got a name for you.’

‘Go on?’ says Joyce.

‘Bethany Waites,’ says Mike.

Mike is on board. The Thursday Murder Club always get their man. Ibrahim notes, and not for the first time, that people often seem very willing to walk into their traps.

Mike takes them through the story they already know from the police files. They nod along, pretending it’s all new to them. The brilliant young reporter, Bethany Waites. The big story she was investigating, a massive VAT fraud, and, then, her unexplained death. Her car driving off Shakespeare Cliff in the dead of night. But there is nothing new. Mike is currently showing them the final message Bethany sent him, the night before she died: I don’t say this often enough, but thank you. Touching, certainly. But also nothing they don’t already know. Perhaps the biggest revelation they are going to get from this evening is that Mike Waghorn goes to the toilet before he goes on air. Ibrahim decides to chance his arm.

‘What about messages in the few weeks before that? Anything out of the ordinary? Anything the police haven’t seen?’

Mike scrolls back through his messages, reading some highlights. ‘Do I fancy a pint? Have I watched Line of Duty? There’s one about the story she was working on here, but from a couple of weeks before. Interested?’

‘One never knows what might help,’ says Elizabeth, pouring Mike another glass of red.

Mike reads from his phone.

‘Skipper … that’s what she used to call me.’

‘Among other things,’ says Pauline.

‘Some new info. Can’t say what, but it’s absolute dynamite. Getting closer to the heart of this thing.’

Elizabeth nods. ‘And did she ever tell you what the new information was?’

‘She did not,’ says Mike. ‘I’ll tell you what, this red is half decent.’

4

PC Donna De Freitas feels like someone has just punched a hole through the clouds.

She is flooded with heat and warmth, alive with a pleasure both utterly familiar but completely new. She wants to weep with happiness, and to laugh with the uncomplicated joy of life. If she has ever felt happier, she cannot immediately bring it to mind. If the angels were to carry her away this very moment – and if her heart rate was anything to go by that was a possibility – she would let them scoop her up, while she thanked the heavens for a life well lived.

‘How was it?’ asks Bogdan, his hand stroking her hair.

‘It was OK,’ says Donna. ‘For a first time.’

Bogdan nods. ‘I think maybe I can be better.’

Donna buries her head into Bogdan’s chest.

‘Are you crying?’ asks Bogdan. Donna shakes her head without lifting it. Where’s the catch here? Perhaps this is just a one-night thing? What if that’s Bogdan’s style? He’s kind of a loner, isn’t he? What if he’s emotionally unavailable? What if there’s another girl in this bed tomorrow night? White and blonde and twenty-two?

What was he thinking? That was the one question she knew not to ask a man. They were almost always thinking nothing at all, so were thrown by the question, and felt compelled to make something up. She’d still like to know though. What was going on behind those blue eyes? Eyes that could nail you to a wall. The pure blue of … wait a minute, is he crying?

Donna sits up, concerned. ‘Are you crying?’

Bogdan nods.

‘Why are you crying? What’s happened?’

Bogdan looks at her through his gentle tears. ‘I’m so happy you’re here.’

Donna kisses a tear from his cheek. ‘Has anyone ever seen you cry before?’

‘A dentist once,’ says Bogdan. ‘And my mother. Can we go on another date?’

‘Oh, I think so, don’t you?’ says Donna.

‘I think so,’ agrees Bogdan.

Donna rests her head on his chest again, comfortably settling on a tattoo of a knife wrapped in barbed wire. ‘Maybe next time we do something other than Nando’s and Laser Quest though?’

‘Agreed,’ says Bogdan. ‘Next time perhaps I should choose instead?’

‘I think that’s for the best, yes,’ says Donna. ‘It’s not my strong point. But you had fun?’

‘Sure, I liked Laser Quest.’

‘You really did, didn’t you?’ says Donna. ‘That children’s birthday party didn’t know what had hit them.’

‘It’s a good lesson for them,’ says Bogdan. ‘Fighting is mainly hiding. It’s good to learn that early.’

Donna looks over at Bogdan’s bedside table. There is a body-builder’s hand-grip, a can of Lilt and the plastic gold medal he won at Laser Quest. What has she found herself here? A fellow traveller?

‘Do you ever feel different from other people, Bogdan? Like you’re outside looking in?’

‘Well, English is my second language,’ says Bogdan. ‘And I don’t really understand cricket. Do you feel different?’

‘Yes,’ says Donna. ‘People make me feel different, I suppose.’

‘But sometimes you like to feel different maybe? Sometimes it’s good?’

‘Sometimes, of course. I’d like to choose those times myself. Most days I just want to blend in, but in Fairhaven I don’t get the chance.’

‘Everyone wants to feel special, but nobody wants to feel different,’ says Bogdan.

Just look at those shoulders. Two questions come to her at once: are Polish weddings like English weddings? And would it be OK if I rolled over and went to sleep?

‘Can I ask you a question, Donna?’ Bogdan suddenly sounds very serious.

Uh oh.

‘Of course,’ says Donna. ‘Anything.’ Anything within reason.

‘If you had to murder someone, how would you do it?’

‘Hypothetically?’ asks Donna.

‘No, for real,’ says Bogdan. ‘We are not children. You’re a police officer. How would you do it? To get away with it?’

Hmm. Is this Bogdan’s downside? He’s a serial murderer? That would be tough to overlook. Not impossible though, given those shoulders.

‘What’s happening here?’ asks Donna. ‘Why are you asking me that?’

‘It’s homework for Elizabeth. She wanted to know my thoughts.’

OK, that makes sense. What a relief. Bogdan is not a homicidal maniac; Elizabeth is. ‘Poison, I suppose,’ says Donna. ‘Something undetectable anyway.’

‘Yes, make it look natural,’ agrees Bogdan. ‘Make it look like not a murder.’

‘Maybe drive a car at them, late at night,’ says Donna. ‘Anything where you don’t have to touch the body, that’s where forensics will get you. Or a gun, nice and simple, one shot, blam, and get out quick, the whole thing away from security cameras. Plan your escape route of course, that’s essential too. No forensics, no witnesses, no body to bury, that’s how I’d do it. Phone off, or leave your phone in a cab, so it’s miles away when you’re committing the murder. Bribe a nurse, maybe get vials of blood from strangers and leave them on the body. Or …’

Bogdan is looking at her. Has she overshared there? Maybe move the conversation on.

‘What’s Elizabeth up to?’

‘She says someone got murdered.’

‘Of course she does,’ says Donna.

‘But murdered in a car, pushed off a cliff. Is not how I’d murder someone.’

‘A car over a cliff? OK, I can see that,’ says Donna. ‘Why is Elizabeth investigating it?’

Bogdan shrugs. ‘Because Joyce wanted to meet someone off the TV, I think. I didn’t really understand.’

Donna nods – that sounds about right. ‘Were there any marks on the body? Like they’d been killed before the car went over the cliff?’

‘No body, just some clothes and some blood. The body was thrown from the car.’

‘That’s convenient for the killer.’ Donna was not used to this type of post-coital talk. Usually you had to hear about someone’s motorbike, or the ex whom they’d just realized they still loved. Or you had to give a reassuring pep-talk. ‘Spectacular though. If the killer wanted to send a message to someone. Difficult to ignore.’

‘I think it’s too complicated,’ says Bogdan, ‘For a murder. A car, a cliff, come on.’

‘And you’re an expert in murder now?’

‘I read a lot,’ says Bogdan.

‘What’s your favourite book ever?’

‘The Velveteen Rabbit,’ says Bogdan. ‘Or Andre Agassi’s autobiography.’

Maybe Bogdan could kill Carl, her ex? She’s fantasized about killing Carl a few times. Could Bogdan push Carl’s stupid Mazda over a cliff? But, even as the thought flashes through her mind, and she stretches like a cat finding a patch of sunshine, she realizes she no longer cares about Carl. Be the bigger person, Donna. Let Carl live.

‘She could have asked me and Chris to help,’ says Donna. ‘We’d have been able to take a look at it. Do you remember the name?’

Bogdan shrugs. ‘Bethany something. But they like to do these things by themselves.’

‘Don’t they just,’ agrees Donna and throws her arm across his endless chest. Rarely has she felt so thrillingly puny. ‘I like talking about murder with you, Bogdan.’

‘I like talking about murder with you too, Donna. Although I don’t think this was murder. Too convenient.’

Donna looks up, one more time, into those eyes. ‘Bogdan, do you promise that’s not the last time we’re ever going to have sex? Because I’d really like to go to sleep now, and then wake up with you and do it again.’

‘I promise,’ says Bogdan, his hand stroking her hair.

This is how you’re supposed to fall asleep, thinks Donna. How has she not known about this before? Safe and happy and sated. And murders and Elizabeth, and tattoos, and being different and being the same, and cars and cliffs and clothes, and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

5: Joyce

I will admit that the murder of Bethany Waites was my idea.

We were all looking through the files for a new Thursday Murder Club case. There was a spinster in Rye in the early eighties, for example, who had died, leaving three unidentified skeletons and a suitcase containing fifty thousand pounds in her cellar. That was Elizabeth’s favourite and, I agree, it would have been quite jolly, but, as soon as I saw the name ‘Bethany Waites’ on another file, my mind was made up. I don’t put my foot down often, but, when I do, it stays down. Elizabeth sulked, but the others knew not to argue. I’m not just here for tea and biscuits you know.

I remembered Bethany Waites, of course, and I had read a piece Mike Waghorn had written in the Kent Messenger about her murder, so I thought to myself, hello, Joyce, this looks suspicious, and you might get to meet Mike Waghorn.

Is that so wrong?

I have been watching Mike Waghorn on South East Tonight for as long as I can remember. If anyone gets murdered or opens a fête anywhere in the South East, Mike will be there, with that big smile on his face. Actually, he doesn’t smile for the murders. Then he does a serious face, which he is also very good at. I actually prefer his serious face, so if there has been a murder, at least that’s a silver lining. He looks a little bit like if Michael Bublé were more my age.

Mike has done South East Tonight for thirty-five years now, but every five years or so they get a new woman to host it with him. Which is where Bethany Waites came in.

Bethany Waites was blonde and Northern and she died in a car that drove over Shakespeare Cliff, near Dover. (It’s just off the A20, I looked it up, because I suspect we’ll be going there at some point.) This must have been almost ten years ago. You would have thought it was just a suicide, cliffs and cars and what have you, but there were all sorts of other things. Someone had been seen in the car with her just beforehand, there were ambiguous messages on her phone, the waters were muddied. So the police called it murder and, looking through their files, we were inclined to agree.

It was very big news around here at the time. Not an awful lot happens in Kent, so you can imagine. They had a special tribute show and I remember Mike crying, and Fiona Clemence having to put an arm around him on air. Fiona was the new co-host by then.

Fiona Clemence is so famous now, lots of people don’t realize she started on South East Tonight. I asked Mike if he watches her quiz Stop the Clock, but he said he doesn’t. Which must make him the only one in the country who doesn’t. Pauline – she’s the make-up artist, and we will get back to her – said he’s just jealous, but Mike said he doesn’t watch TV.

I will be honest with you. I’d hoped that this evening I would flirt with Mike, and he would tell me how much he liked my necklace, and I would blush and giggle, and Elizabeth would roll her eyes.

But nothing doing, I’m afraid.

‘All wag, no horn,’ was how Ron put it. Mike gave me a peck on the cheek, and at one point he brushed my hand and there was electricity, but I think that was the combination of the deep carpet outside the restaurant and my new cardigan.

He interviewed Ron this afternoon: they’re doing a piece about retirement living on South East Today. This was all Elizabeth’s suggestion; she made me email one of the producers. If you want to lure someone, go to Elizabeth.

I have to admit Ron was actually rather good. He knows when to turn it on. He talked about loneliness and friendship and security, and I was very proud of him for being so open. You can see that Ibrahim rubs off on him. At one point he got distracted and started talking about West Ham, but Mike steered him back on course.

What we really wanted out of this whole plan, though, was information about Bethany Waites, and Mike was certainly happy to chat. He was three sheets to the wind, and he told us a lot of things we already knew from the files, but he was fired up.

The basic facts are these. Bethany had been investigating a huge VAT fraud. To do with importing and exporting mobile phones. The scheme had made millions.

A woman named Heather Garbutt had been behind it. She worked for a man named Jack Mason, a local crook, and it was widely believed that she was managing the operation on his behalf. Heather later went to jail for the fraud, but Jack Mason did not. Lucky Jack Mason.

One March evening, Bethany had sent Mike a text message, and Mike had expected to see her bright and breezy the next morning. But the next morning was never to come for Bethany.

That night she had been seen leaving her apartment building – we used to call it a block of flats, didn’t we – at about ten p.m., and had then gone AWOL for several hours, no one knows where. She next reappeared on a CCTV camera near Shakespeare Cliff at nearly three a.m. She had an unidentified passenger in her car.

The next time the car is seen is at the bottom of Shakespeare Cliff, wrecked, and containing her blood and her clothes but not her body. Which makes me suspicious, but is apparently common, with the tides around there. A year later, without the faintest sign of her, and with her bank accounts having not been touched, a Presumption of Death certificate had been issued. Again, par for the course, but still you must ask yourself, where’s the body? I didn’t say that out loud to Mike, because you can tell Bethany Waites means a great deal to him.

He gave us one new piece of information. A text message Bethany had sent him. She had discovered some new evidence, something important. Mike never found out what it was.

Heather Garbutt was obviously the key suspect, with all the evidence Bethany had been gathering about her, but they couldn’t link her to Bethany’s death in any way. Try as they might, they couldn’t link Jack Mason either. Soon enough, Heather Garbutt was in prison for the fraud, and everyone moved on to something else.

But Mike never moved on. The key questions, as Mike sees them, are:

What was the new evidence Bethany messaged him about? It was nowhere in the court documents, but had she kept a record somewhere? Would it link Jack Mason to the crime maybe? He is still a free man today. A very rich one too.

Why did Bethany leave her apartment at ten p.m. that evening? Was she going to meet someone? To confront someone? And why did it take her more than four hours to reach Shakespeare Cliff? She must have stopped somewhere, but where? Did she meet someone?

And finally, of course, who was the passenger in her car?

There’s enough for us to be getting on with there. I could tell even Elizabeth was taking an interest by the end.

After that we all had a few more drinks. Pauline and Ron shared a dessert, which might sound normal to you, but I’ve never seen Ron willingly share food, let alone a Banoffee Pie. So watch this space.

Before we knew it, it was nearly eight p.m.! Alan was beside himself when I got in. I say ‘beside himself’: he was curled up on the sofa and raised an eyebrow at me that said, ‘What sort of time is this for my dinner, you dirty stop-out?’ You know how dogs can be. I had brought him back some steak though, so that soon changed his tune. He wolfed it down without a backwards glance. Alan is many things, but he is clearly not a Buddhist.

I am Googling Heather Garbutt and listening to the World Service. She is difficult to Google, because there’s also an Australian hockey player called Heather Garbutt, and most of the results are about her. I actually ended up quite interested in the hockey player, and I follow her on Instagram now. She has three very beautiful children.

Heather Garbutt is still in prison (not the hockey player, but you know that). In fact, it turns out she is in Darwell Prison, which might work out very nicely for all concerned. Because, of course, we already know someone in Darwell Prison. I’ve messaged Ibrahim with an idea that he will like very much.

They are talking about cryptocurrency on the World Service now, so I’m going to look that up too. Bitcoin, that’s the big one. It sounds very interesting, and it’s all the rage according to this programme, but quite risky. They just spoke to someone who made a million from it before his sixteenth birthday, and he was all in favour.

Gerry and I used to have some Premium Bonds, but that’s as far as I’ve experimented with money. Maybe I should live a little? Do something different? Be someone different? Different to what, though? Who am I?

Who am I? I’m Joyce Meadowcroft, and that will do me to be getting on with.

Night-time is for questions without answers, and I have no time for questions without answers. Leave that to Ibrahim. I like questions you can answer.

Who killed Bethany Waites? Now that’s a proper question.

6

Morning has broken at Coopers Chase. From the window of Elizabeth’s flat you can see the dog-walkers, and a few latecomers rushing to Over-Eighties Zumba. The air hums with friendly greetings, and the sounds of birdsong and Amazon delivery vans.

‘Why you keep looking at your phone?’ asks Bogdan. He is sitting across the chessboard from Stephen, but has been distracted by Elizabeth.

‘I get messages, dear,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I have friends.’

‘You only get messages from Joyce,’ says Bogdan. ‘Or me. And we are both here.’

Stephen makes a move. ‘There you go, champ.’

‘He’s quite right,’ says Joyce, sipping from a mug. ‘Is this tea Yorkshire?’

Elizabeth gives a ‘How on earth would I know?’ shrug, and goes back to the documents laid out in front of her. Evidence from the trial of Heather Garbutt. Readily available to the public if you’re happy to wait three months or so. Or readily available in a couple of hours if you are Elizabeth. She must stop looking at her phone. The last message had read:

You can’t ignore me forever, Elizabeth. We have a lot to speak about.

She has started receiving threatening messages, from an anonymous number. The first had arrived yesterday, and it read:

Elizabeth, I know what you’ve done.

Well, you could narrow it down a bit, she had thought. More had come through since. Who was sending her these messages? And, more importantly, why? No point worrying about it now though. No doubt all would become clear eventually, and, in the meantime, she has the murder of Bethany Waites to solve.

‘I really think it is Yorkshire.’ Joyce again. ‘I’m almost sure. You must know?’

Elizabeth continues to look through the documents. Financial records, dense and unyielding. Paper trails showing non-existent mobile phones leaving the docks at Dover, and the same non-existent phones coming back weeks later. Reams and reams of VAT claims. Bank statements totalling millions. Money disappearing to offshore accounts, and then nothing. Bethany Waites had uncovered the lot. You had to admire it.

‘Never mind,’ says Joyce. ‘You’re busy. I’ll take a look in the cupboard.’

Elizabeth nods. This paperwork was enough to get Heather Garbutt convicted of fraud. But did it also contain a clue to Bethany Waites’s death? If it did, no one had yet found it. Elizabeth didn’t fancy her own chances either, not really her area, all this. So what to do? She has a thought.

‘Yes, it’s Yorkshire,’ shouts Joyce from the kitchen. ‘I knew it.’

Joyce had been insistent that she was coming round to visit. And it doesn’t matter how high up one might have been in MI5 or MI6, it doesn’t matter how many times you’ve been shot at by a sniper, or met the Queen, you won’t stop Joyce once she has her mind set on something. Elizabeth had acted quickly.

Stephen’s dementia is getting worse, Elizabeth knows that. But the more he slips from her grasp, the tighter she wants to hold him. If she is looking at him, surely he can’t disappear?

Stephen is at his very best when Bogdan comes around to play chess, so Elizabeth has invited Bogdan over, and taken the risk with Joyce. Perhaps he will be on fine form. And perhaps that will be enough to keep the charade going for another few weeks. She has given Stephen a shave and washed his hair. He no longer finds this unusual. Elizabeth looks over to the chessboard.

Bogdan has his chin in his hands, contemplating his next move. There is something different about him.

‘Are you using a different shower gel, Bogdan?’ Elizabeth asks.

‘Don’t put the boy off,’ says Stephen. ‘I have him in a funk here.’

‘I used an unperfumed body scrub,’ says Bogdan. ‘Is new.’

‘Hmm,’ says Elizabeth. ‘That’s not it.’

‘It’s very feminine,’ says Joyce. ‘It’s not unperfumed.’

‘I play chess,’ says Bogdan. ‘No distractions please.’

‘I feel like you’re keeping a secret,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Stephen, is Bogdan keeping a secret?’

‘Lips are sealed,’ says Stephen.

Elizabeth returns to the documents. Something here got Bethany Waites killed. By Heather Garbutt? Elizabeth doubts it very much. Heather Garbutt’s boss, Jack Mason, is ostensibly a scrap-metal dealer, but in reality is one of the most well-connected criminals on the South Coast. Heather Garbutt seems like a soldier, not a general. So was Jack Mason the General? Is his name somewhere in these papers? Time for her plan B.

‘How’s Joanna, Joyce?’ Elizabeth asks. Joanna is Joyce’s daughter.

‘She’s doing a Skydive for Cancer,’ says Joyce.

‘Be lovely to catch up with her,’ says Elizabeth.

Joyce sees straight through this. ‘Do you mean, it would be lovely for her to take a look through those documents, because you don’t understand them?’

‘Wouldn’t do any harm, would it?’ Joanna, and her colleagues, will get through this stuff in no time, Elizabeth is sure. Maybe turn up a name or two.

‘I’ll ask her,’ says Joyce. ‘I’m in her bad books because I said I didn’t see the point of sushi. Why do you keep looking at your phone, by the way?’

‘Don’t be tiresome, Joyce,’ says Elizabeth. ‘You’re not Miss Marple.’

On cue, Elizabeth’s phone buzzes. She doesn’t look. Joyce nails her with the minutest raise of an eyebrow, then turns to Stephen, with a much gentler look.

‘It’s very nice to see you, Stephen,’ says Joyce.

‘Always nice to meet one of Elizabeth’s friends,’ says Stephen, looking up. ‘You pop round any time. New faces always welcome.’

Joyce doesn’t react, but Elizabeth knows what she has heard.

Bogdan makes a move, and Stephen gives a gentle round of applause.

‘He might smell different,’ says Stephen. ‘But he doesn’t play different.’

‘I don’t smell different,’ says Bogdan.

‘You do,’ says Joyce.

Elizabeth takes the opportunity to sneak a look at her phone.

I have a job for you

Elizabeth feels the blood pumping. Things have been too quiet recently. A retired optometrist crashed his moped into a tree, and there has been a row about milk bottles, but that was about it for excitement. The simple life is all well and good, but, in this moment, with a murder to investigate, and threatening texts arriving daily, Elizabeth realizes that she has missed trouble.

7

DCI Chris Hudson is walking along a freezing cold beach, in a howling gale. He is nursing a lukewarm cup of something approximating tea. He has just bought it from a seafront café that refused to give him change, or let him use the staff toilet.

But nothing can ruin his mood. For once, things are going very well for Chris.

The Scenes of Crime Officer pokes her head out from inside the burned-out minibus currently squatting among the seaweed and the pebbles like a dreadful crab.

‘Won’t be a moment.’

Chris gives a ‘no bother’ wave, and means it.

Why is Chris so happy? The answer is simple, but also complicated.

Chris is in love with someone, and that same someone is in love with him.

No doubt it will all implode at some point, but it hasn’t imploded yet. A crisp packet, performing acrobatics in the air, blows into his face. Love, you just can’t beat it.

Perhaps it won’t implode at all? Is that possible? Perhaps this is it now? Chris and Patrice. Patrice and Chris. Chris narrowly avoids stepping on one of the many needles strewn alongside the minibus. Heroin addicts love the beach. Perhaps he will grow old with Patrice? Watching box sets and going to farmers’ markets? One hand, one heart. She has just made him watch West Side Story, and it actually wasn’t bad once you got past the singing and dancing. Wouldn’t that be a thing?

He looks over at PC Donna De Freitas, almost doubled up against the wind, face barely visible through the hood of her waterproof coat. She is his partner – officially still his ‘shadow’, but that doesn’t seem to be how their relationship works – and she is Patrice’s daughter. What a lot he owes her already.

Donna also seems quite happy despite the weather. She turns her back to the wind and, pulling off a glove with her teeth, starts to reply to a message she has just been sent. Donna had a date last night and is being very coy about the whole thing. Chris is not certain it went well, but he caught her humming ‘A Whole New World’ in the car over here, so he has his suspicions. Perhaps Patrice will be able to find out who the mystery man is.

The minibus, now just a twisted, melted frame, coal-black against the grey of the sea and sky, had belonged to a children’s home. The corpse in the driver’s seat is, as yet, unidentified. Chris has never really thought about how beautiful the sea is before. His foot crunches the broken neck of a beer bottle. The wind picks up still further, blowing icy needles into Chris’s face. Glorious, when you stop to look at it. When you drink it all in.

Chris has also lost a stone and a half in weight. He recently bought himself a t-shirt in size L, instead of his usual XL, or occasional, shameful XXL. He eats salmon and broccoli now. He eats so much broccoli he can spell it without looking it up. When was the last time he had a Toblerone? He can’t even remember.

Chris’s phone buzzes. Donna is not the only one who can be sent mystery messages. Checking the name, he sees it is from Ibrahim. If Elizabeth messages, you know you should worry. When it’s Ibrahim, it’s fifty-fifty. He reads:

Good afternoon, Chris, it is Ibrahim here. I hope I haven’t messaged you at an inconvenient time? One never knows the schedules of others, let alone those working in law enforcement, where hours are irregular at best.

There are dots, indicating Ibrahim is working his way through a second message. Chris can wait. Six months ago none of this was his. There was no Patrice, there was no Donna, there was no Thursday Murder Club. In fact, he realizes, it all started with them. They carried a kind of magic, the four of them. Sure, they recently condemned two men to their death on Fairhaven Pier, and stole an unimaginable amount of money, but they carried a kind of magic all the same.

‘Who are you texting?’ he calls to Donna, over the sound of the wind. Might as well give it a go.

‘Beyoncé,’ shouts Donna, and keeps typing.

Chris’s phone buzzes. Ibrahim again.

I was wondering, and forgive me if this is outside the ambit of our friendship, if you might be able to look into two old cases for me? I believe you might also find them interesting, and I hope you understand that I wouldn’t ask, were it not that the situation in which we find ourselves requires it.

Dots indicate there is a part three.

Chris and Donna have recently been in to see the Chief Constable of Kent, a man named Andrew Everton. Good copper, sticks up for his troops, but merciless if anyone crosses the line. He writes novels in his spare time too, under a pen-name. The Chief Constable publishes the books himself, and you can get them only on Kindle. Another officer was telling Chris that’s where the real money is these days, but Andrew Everton still drives an old Vauxhall Vectra, so it may not be true.

Andrew Everton told them they are both going to get a commendation at the Kent Police Awards. For their work catching Connie Johnson. Nice to get a bit of recognition. The walls of the Chief Constable’s office were garlanded with portraits of proud police officers. Heroes all. Chris looks at this sort of thing through Donna’s and Patrice’s eyes these days, and had noticed the portraits were all of men, save for one of a woman, and one of a police dog. The police dog had a medal. Chris sees a used condom curled up in a seashell. Life is a miracle.

Another text from Ibrahim. Cutting to the chase, hopefully.

The cases to which I referred in my previous message are the death of Bethany Waites. And the conviction of Heather Garbutt for fraud. Both from 2013. With particular emphasis on where Bethany Waites might have been between 10.15 p.m. and 02.47 a.m. on the night of her death. And who might have been in her car with her. All information gratefully received. Talk soon, my good friend. Love to Patrice, you really have found yourself a fine woman there. Often, in relationships, the key is to …

Chris stops reading. He remembers both cases, Bethany Waites and Heather Garbutt. Will he take a look? Who is he kidding, of course he will take a look. One day the Thursday Murder Club will get him sacked, or possibly killed, but it’s worth the risk. He feels as if someone must have conjured them up just for him, to save him. The Thursday Murder Club brought him Donna, Donna brought him Patrice, Patrice brought him stir-fried tofu. And all of that, it turns out, brought him happiness.

Donna looks up from her phone. ‘Why are you smiling?’

Chris shrugs. ‘Why are you smiling?’

Donna shrugs. ‘You getting texts from my mum?’

‘Can’t open those in public,’ says Chris. ‘Vice Squad would pull me in.’

Donna sticks out her tongue.

‘Ibrahim wants us to look into a case.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ says Donna. ‘Someone called Bethany drove her car off a cliff?’

‘How on earth would you –’

Donna waves this away.

Chris looks out to sea, and Donna joins him. The grey clouds are turning an angry black, and the whipping wind lashes their faces with stinging, salt spray. The smell of burnt metal and plastic from the minibus mixes with the stench of the decaying corpse, and catches in their throats. Two seagulls fight, loudly and angrily, over a plastic shopping bag.

‘So beautiful,’ says Chris.

‘Stunning,’ agrees Donna.

8

Elizabeth has been thinking about the CCTV cameras. How on earth did they not pick up Bethany’s car as she drove through Fairhaven? Before leaving for her walk, she had rung Chris about it, and he had said, ‘Ah, I’ve been expecting you.’

She asked if he might have a look into it, and he said he was rather busy with a corpse of his own, so Elizabeth had congratulated him on the commendation he had just received from the Chief Constable, and reminded him of her part in catching Connie Johnson for him.

So he has agreed to take a look.

Elizabeth and Stephen have started taking a walk at the same time each afternoon. Rain or shine, same route, same time.

They walk through the woods, along the western wall of the graveyard, where Elizabeth had gone digging not so very long ago, and out into the open fields beyond the new buildings, which are beginning to spring up on top of the hill. There they stop, take out a hip flask and talk to the cows.

Stephen has given all the cows their own names and personalities, and, every day, gives Elizabeth a running commentary of all the latest cow developments. Today, Stephen tells her that Daisy has been cheating on Brian with Edward, a younger, more handsome bull from a nearby field, and Daisy and Brian are now trying cow counselling. Elizabeth takes a nip of whisky and says that Daisy is an unimaginative name for a cow.

‘No dispute there,’ agrees Stephen. ‘The blame lies squarely with her mother. Also called Daisy.’

‘Is that so,’ says Elizabeth. ‘And what was her father called?’

‘No one knows, that’s the thing,’ says Stephen. ‘Quite the scandal at the time. Daisy senior had been on holiday to Spain, rumours of a fling.’

‘Mmm hmm,’ says Elizabeth.

‘In fact, if you listen closely, you can hear Daisy has just the slightest hint of a Spanish accent.’

Daisy moos, as if on cue, and they both laugh.

It is time now though to head back through the woods, along the path that she has made herself, quiet, private, all their own. Keeping Stephen away from prying eyes. Away from inconvenient questions about the state of his mind.

Their hands stay clasped together as they walk, arms lightly swinging, hearts beating as one. This routine has quickly become Elizabeth’s favourite time of the day. Her handsome, happy husband. She can pretend for a little while longer that all is well. That his hand will forever be in hers.

‘Nice day for a walk,’ says Stephen, the sun lighting up his face. ‘We should do this more often.’

God willing, thinks Elizabeth, I will take every walk with you that I can.

Bethany’s body had never been found. That worries Elizabeth. She has read enough detective novels to know you must never trust a murder without a corpse. To be fair, she has also faked a number of deaths herself over the years.

Her attention elsewhere, Elizabeth sees the man only for a split-second. But she instantly realizes she has made a mistake.

It happens. Not often, but it happens.

This happy routine of hers, these familiar walks with Stephen, this familiar pleasure, was, of course, Elizabeth’s big mistake. As love so often is.

Routine is the spy’s greatest enemy. Never travel the same route two days in a row. Never leave work at the same time. Don’t eat at the same restaurant every Friday evening. Routine gives your enemy an opportunity.

An opportunity to plan ahead, an opportunity to hide, an opportunity to pounce.

Her split-second is up. Her last thought is ‘Please, please don’t hit Stephen.’ She doesn’t even feel the blow she knows is coming.

9

‘And then, in the late seventies, I went out with a member of UB40, but I think we all did back then,’ says Pauline.

‘Which one?’ asks Ron, trying to eat his soup with a little decorum.

Pauline shrugs. ‘There were so many of them. I think I slept with one of Madness too, or he said he was at least.’

Ron had rung his son, Jason, and asked where might be good for lunch, somewhere that was classy, but wouldn’t make a fuss if he didn’t know what knife to use. Somewhere that did food he would recognize, but would have proper napkins, and nice loos. Somewhere you didn’t have to wear a tie, but you could if you wanted, just hypothetical, say, but to remember he was a pensioner, and not made of money, though, you know, he had a few bob put away, don’t you worry about that.

Jason had listened politely, then said, ‘And what’s her name?’ Ron had said, ‘Whose name?’ Jason had said, ‘Your date,’ and Ron had said, ‘What makes you think …’ and Jason had said, ‘Le Pont Noir, Dad, she’ll love it,’ and Ron had said, ‘Pauline,’ and Jason wished him the best of luck. Then they spoke about West Ham for a bit until Ron asked Jason if he could book the restaurant for him, because he could never work out websites, and was too shy to ask Ibrahim to do it for him.

‘Your mate really going to Darwell Prison today?’ Pauline asks.

‘We have a habit of interfering,’ says Ron. ‘So, what’s your take on this Bethany Waites thing? You were around at the time?’

Le Pont Noir is what they call a gastropub. Ron had to scan the whole menu twice before he saw there was a steak. Even then it said ‘bavette’ of steak, but it came with chips, so he was hoping it was going to be safe.

‘She was a terrier, that’s for sure,’ says Pauline. ‘In a good way. Mike was very cut up when she died. They looked out for each other. Rare in this business.’

‘A looker too,’ says Ron. ‘If you like blondes, which I don’t. Not my type, not that I have a type. I’m not fussy. Well, I’m fussy, but –’

Pauline puts a finger to Ron’s lips to help him out of his cul-de-sac of a sentence. He nods gratefully.

‘She’d just started dating a new fella too,’ says Pauline. ‘Some cameraman, as always. In telly, the women all date their cameramen, and the men all date their make-up artists.’

‘Oh, really,’ says Ron, eyebrow raised. ‘So you and Mike Waghorn? You ever –’

Pauline laughs. ‘You’ve no worries there, darling. Mike dates cameramen too.’

‘There go Joyce’s chances,’ says Ron, as his ‘bavette’ of steak arrives. He is mightily relieved to see it is just a normal steak that someone has already cut up for him. Bingo. ‘You reckon the story got her killed?’

Pauline is pretending to look enthusiastic about a dish of braised cauliflower that has just been put in front of her.

‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Let’s talk about something else; I get enough of this from Mike.’

Ron is trying to work out who Pauline looks like. A bit Liz Taylor maybe? The new head judge on Strictly? He has decided, on reflection, that she is definitely out of his league. And yet here she was. ‘How’s your cauliflower?’

‘Take a wild guess.’

Ron smiles.

‘You enjoy yourself last night, then?’ says Pauline. Ron had stayed over at hers for the first time. If you can eat braised cauliflower suggestively, then that’s what she’s doing.

Ron feels his cheeks flush. ‘I, look, yeah, it’s been a while for me, so maybe I’m not what you’re used to. It’s been a long time. It was nice, just staying up talking. I hope that was OK?’

‘Lover, it’s been a long time for me too,’ says Pauline. ‘It was perfect. You’re a gent. And a handsome, funny gent at that. Let’s just go at our own pace, shall we?’

Ron nods, and eats some more of his steak. They hadn’t brought any ketchup, but other than that he couldn’t fault Le Pont Noir at all. Thank you, Jase.

‘You fancy a walk along the front after this?’ says Pauline. ‘While the sun’s still in the sky? Get an ice cream on the pier?’

Ron thinks about his knees. How much they hurt when he doesn’t use that blasted stick Jason bought for him. How they make him feel like an old man. Every step will hurt, all the more so for hiding it from Pauline. He’ll be laid up in bed all day tomorrow.

‘I’d love to,’ says Ron. ‘I’d love to.’ Perhaps he doesn’t need to hide anything from Pauline?

‘And I know your knee gives you gip,’ says Pauline. ‘So let’s get you a stick for goodness’ sake. I don’t need a tough guy slowing me down. I just want an ice cream and a kiss from Ron Ritchie on the pier.’

Ron smiles again. He still won’t be using a stick – he’s got standards – but it’s nice to hear.

Pauline gestures to her bag. ‘I’ve got a couple of spliffs in here too. They’ll help.’

10

How long has Elizabeth been unconscious? Impossible to tell.

So what does she know?

She is lying on the cold, metal floor of a speeding vehicle. Her hands are cuffed behind her, and her feet are bound. A blindfold covers her eyes, and white noise is being played at deafening volume through a pair of headphones. A familiar torture technique.

But, on the plus side, she is not dead. Which at least gives her options.

All she can control right now is her breathing, and so she does just that. Slow, deep and steady. Nothing to be gained by panicking. She suspects she is going to need all her energy when she finally discovers where she is being taken.

Would they have hit Stephen too? Or not seen the need? Is he here with her?

Elizabeth wriggles backwards across the floor of the vehicle – she has now deduced it must be a van – until she brushes up against another body. They are back to back. She knows it is Stephen, she can tell by the electricity.

With her hands behind her back, she feels for his hands. He is doing the same and their hands clasp, like those of sleepy, waking lovers. She squeezes Stephen’s hand, then worries that that is perhaps emasculating. Should he be squeezing her hand? In the circumstances it is probably right that she is being the reassuring presence. Stephen has not been in this sort of position before.

She puts her finger on his wrist, in what could easily be a sign of affection, but really she is checking his pulse. She is seeing if he is panicking.

His pulse is rock-steady: sixty-five beats per minute. Of course it is. Stephen will also be controlling his breathing, trusting that his wife will get him out of this.

But will she? Well, it very much depends on what this is, Elizabeth supposes. It’s the man sending her the texts certainly. Finally made good on his threats. But who is it? And what job does he have for her?

The van is beginning to slow down. As if it has left a major road and joined a minor one. Elizabeth takes note.

She will be missed in Coopers Chase, that’s a good thing. Joyce will spot that her light is not on this evening. Or will she? Will she be busy looking into Heather Garbutt? Will Ibrahim be thinking about Connie Johnson? Will Ron be busy with … well, that goes without saying. Will they even notice her absence? Will they raise the alarm?

Elizabeth knows she is already too far from home anyway. There will be no cavalry to save her this time. She has got herself into this mess, and she will have to get herself out of it.

The van comes to a halt. Elizabeth waits and breathes. She feels a hand on her shoulder, roughly dragging her up.

But whose hand?

11

‘So you’re not from the Sunday Times?’ asks Connie Johnson, not unreasonably in Ibrahim’s view. She is chewing gum. Again, fine by Ibrahim, good for dental health so long as it is sugar-free.

‘No, I lied,’ says Ibrahim, crossing his legs, then tugging down the hem of his trouser leg. ‘I thought you might be more likely to speak to me if you thought I was a journalist.’

They are sitting in a visiting room at Darwell Prison. Tables are spread out, but close enough that everyone can hear everyone else’s heartbreak if they choose to. Ibrahim is listening to every conversation, while conducting his own with Connie. That is his habit.

‘Then who are you?’ asks Connie. She is in a prison jumpsuit, but is surprisingly well made-up for someone with no obvious access to high-end cosmetics.

‘My name is Ibrahim Arif. I’m a psychiatrist.’

‘Well, that’s fun,’ says Connie, and she sounds like she means it. ‘Who sent you? Prosecution lawyer? See if I’m batshit?’

‘I already know you’re not batshit, Connie. You are a very controlled, intelligent, motivated woman.’

Connie nods. ‘Mmm, I’m very goal-oriented. I scored ninety-six on a Facebook quiz about it. That’s a nice suit. Someone’s doing all right.’

‘You set goals, Connie, and then you achieve those goals. Am I right?’

‘I do,’ says Connie, then looks around her. ‘Though I am in prison, aren’t I, Ibrahim Arif? So I’m not perfect.’

‘Who among us is?’ asks Ibrahim. ‘It is healthy to admit that to ourselves. I wonder if you might like a task, Connie?’

‘A task? You need coke? You don’t look like you need coke. You want someone murdered? You look like you could afford it.’

‘Nothing illegal at all,’ says Ibrahim. He absolutely loves talking to criminals, he can’t deny it. It’s the same with famous people too. He loved talking to Mike Waghorn. ‘Quite the opposite.’

‘The opposite of illegal, OK. And what’s in it for me?’

‘For you, nothing at all,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I just suspect it’s something you’d be rather good at. And therefore you’d rather enjoy.’

‘I mean, I’m quite busy,’ says Connie, smiling.

‘I see that,’ says Ibrahim, smiling back. Connie’s smile looks real, and so his is real in return.

‘OK, what’s the task?’ says Connie. ‘I like your cheek, and I like your suit – let’s talk business.’

Ibrahim quietens a little, keeps his voice flat and under the radar. ‘There’s an inmate here called Heather Garbutt. Do you know her?’

‘Is she the Pevensey Strangler?’

‘I don’t think so, no,’ says Ibrahim.

‘There’s a Heather on D-Wing,’ says Connie. ‘Older, looks clever. Like a teacher who robbed a bank?’

‘Let’s assume that’s her for now,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Do you think you could befriend her? Perhaps find something out for me?’

‘Sounds like the sort of thing I could do,’ says Connie. Ibrahim can already see her mind is in motion. ‘What do you need to find out?’

‘I need to find out if she murdered a television reporter called Bethany Waites in 2013. By pushing her car over a cliff.’

‘Cool,’ says Connie, a small grin creeping onto her face. ‘I’ll just ask her. Nice cup of tea, isn’t it mild for the time of year, and did you murder someone?’

‘Well, I’ll leave it up to you how you approach the question,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Your area, not mine. And maybe she didn’t do it – that would also be useful information.’

‘I bet she did, though,’ says Connie. ‘I’ve never pushed a car off a cliff, always wanted to.’

Ibrahim raises his palms. ‘There’s still time, I’m sure.’

‘And there’s really nothing in it for me?’ asks Connie. ‘You can’t smuggle in a SIM card for me or something?’

‘I don’t think I could,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I could Google how to do it, though, and give it a go.’

‘Don’t stress, I’ve got plenty. And you don’t want to know how they get smuggled in.’

Ibrahim thinks he will Google it anyway. He is really enjoying himself. He hasn’t been out much since his mugging, but, bit by bit, he is regaining his confidence, and bit by bit he is feeling his old self return. There are scars, yes, but that at least means the bleeding has stopped. And it’s nice to remember he’s good at this sort of thing. At reading people. At understanding trouble, and redirecting it. He likes Connie, and she likes him. Although one has to be careful: she is a ruthless killer and, without wishing to be judgemental about it, that is fairly bad. He will have good news to report back to the gang later though. He starts thinking about SIM cards. They are very small, Ibrahim knows that, so he wonders how you … Ibrahim realizes that Connie has just said something, and that he has missed it. That is unlike him. Very unlike him. Time to sharpen up.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I didn’t catch that?’

‘You were off in dreamland, Ibrahim,’ says Connie. ‘Let me ask you again. As a psychiatrist, what do you think motivates me?’

This is easy meat for Ibrahim. Sure, we are all different, all unique snowflakes leading unique lives, but we are all the same under the bonnet.

‘Momentum, I would say. A desire for movement and change.’ Ibrahim steeples his fingers. ‘Some people need everything to stay the same – I am a little like that. If they changed the music on the Shipping Forecast, for example, I would hyperventilate. But some people need everything to change. You need everything to change. That chaos is where you are able to hide yourself.’

‘Hmm,’ says Connie. ‘How wise, Mr Ibrahim Arif. But do you think honesty is important to me?’

Where’s this going? Ibrahim has a sinking feeling. ‘I imagine so. In your line of work, honesty is, ironically, paramount.’

‘You imagine so, do you?’ asks Connie. ‘Where did you get my name, mate? How did you hear about Connie Johnson? Who sent you?’

‘A client,’ says Ibrahim. He is a bad liar, and tries to avoid lies whenever he can. But he’s had to lie more and more often since he met Elizabeth, Joyce and Ron.

‘Because I’ve heard your name before,’ says Connie. ‘Ibrahim Arif. Do you know where I heard that name?’

Ibrahim is all out of lies, as Connie leans over and whispers in his ear, ‘From your mate Ron Ritchie, the day I got arrested.’

She settles back in her chair. Your move, Ibrahim.

‘He told you to come here, did he?’ asks Connie. ‘You’re working for him?’

‘No, I’m working for Elizabeth Best, of MI5. Or MI6. One of them.’

Connie takes this in. ‘So MI5, or 6, want me to talk to Heather Garbutt?’

‘Indirectly, yes,’ says Ibrahim.

‘And will this help me in court? Can a gang of men in balaclavas bust me out of the dock?’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ says Ibrahim. Though it occurs to him that they probably could. Elizabeth would know. Best not to promise anything.

‘Ibrahim,’ says Connie, ‘I don’t like being lied to.’

‘No,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I apologize.’

‘And,’ continues Connie, ‘it’s important that you know that the moment I’m out, I’m going to kill your friend Ron Ritchie for landing me in here.’

‘Noted.’

Connie thinks for a moment. ‘And do you know Bogdan?’

‘I do,’ admits Ibrahim.

‘I’m going to kill him too. Will you tell them both for me?’

‘I will pass on the message, yes.’

‘Is Bogdan seeing anyone, do you know?’

‘I don’t think so,’ says Ibrahim.

Connie nods. A prison warder approaches the table.

‘Time’s up, Johnson, that’s your twenty.’

Connie turns to him. ‘Five more minutes.’

‘You don’t run this jail,’ says the warder. ‘We do.’

‘Five more minutes, and I’ll get your son an iPhone,’ says Connie.

The warder thinks for a moment. ‘Ten minutes, and he wants an iPad.’

‘Thank you, Officer,’ says Connie and turns back to Ibrahim. ‘I’m so bored here, let’s do it. Give me everything you’ve got on Heather Garbutt. I’m still going to kill your friends, but until that happens let’s all agree to get along and have a bit of fun.’

Ibrahim nods. ‘You know you could just choose not to kill my friends, Connie?’

‘How do you mean?’ asks Connie, genuinely confused.

‘All that happened here is that they outsmarted you. Is that such a bad thing? They took advantage of your greed. Is your self-esteem so fragile that you can’t be outsmarted once in a while?’

Connie laughs. ‘But it’s my job, Ibrahim, it’s how I make my money. Surely you get that, you’re a bright man.’

‘Thank you,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I once took an IQ test, and –’

‘Say I didn’t kill Ron and Bogdan,’ Connie cuts across. ‘Let’s workshop that. Every chancer in Fairhaven would think they can take me on. Do you know my company slogan?’

‘I wasn’t even aware you had one,’ says Ibrahim.

‘Immediate and brutal retaliation,’ says Connie.

‘That makes sense,’ admits Ibrahim. ‘Are there no ethical drug dealers?’

‘In Brighton there’s a fair-trade cocaine dealer. He gets all his wraps stamped and everything. Cocaine from family-run farms, no pesticides.’

‘Well, that seems like a start,’ says Ibrahim.

‘He still threw someone off a multi-storey car park for stealing money from him.’

‘Small steps,’ says Ibrahim. ‘You know, perhaps I could bring Ron in to see you? You might not want to kill him quite so much if you really got to know him.’ Ibrahim thinks this through for a moment. Actually, Ron often has the opposite effect on people.

Connie considers this. ‘You’re interesting. Would you like a job?’

‘I have a job,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I’m a psychiatrist.’

‘A proper job though?’ says Connie.

‘No, thank you,’ says Ibrahim. Though it would be fun to work for a crime organization. All that planning, smoky backrooms, men wearing sunglasses indoors.

‘Then would you like to be my psychiatrist?’

Ibrahim takes this in for a moment. That would actually be a lot of fun. And interesting. ‘What would you want from a psychiatrist, Connie? What do you think you need?’

Connie thinks. ‘Learn to exploit weaknesses in my enemies, I guess. How to manipulate juries, how to spot an undercover police officer?’

‘Umm …’

‘Why I always pick the wrong men?’

‘That’s more my sort of thing,’ says Ibrahim. ‘If someone asks for my help, I always start with one question. Are you happy?’

Connie thinks. ‘Well, I’m in prison.’

‘But that aside?’

‘I mean. Maybe I could be happier? You know, five per cent. I’m OK.’

‘I can help with that. Five per cent, ten, fifty, whatever it might be. That’s my job. I can’t fix you, but I can make you run a little better.’

‘You can’t fix me?’

‘Humans can’t be fixed,’ says Ibrahim. ‘We’re not lawnmowers. I wish we were.’

‘Might be fun, mightn’t it?’ says Connie. ‘Unburden all my secrets. What do you charge? To buy suits like that?’

‘Sixty pounds an hour. Or less if someone can’t afford it.’

‘I’ll pay you two hundred an hour,’ says Connie.

‘No, it’s just sixty.’

‘If you charge less for someone who can’t afford it, then charge more for someone who can. You’re a businessman. How often can we meet?’

‘Once a week is best at first. And my schedule is pretty flexible.’

‘OK, I’ll sort it here. They lap this sort of thing up, mental health. And I’ll look into Heather Garbutt in the meantime. Girly chat, what’s your star sign, did you push a car off a cliff.’

‘Thank you. I shall look forward to speaking with you,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And seeing if I can persuade you not to murder Ron.’

‘Great,’ says Connie. ‘Let’s do Thursdays.’

‘Actually,’ says Ibrahim, ‘can we do Wednesdays? Thursdays are the one day I have something on.’

12

The last time Elizabeth had a bag and blindfold pulled from her head was in 1978. She was in the harshly lit administration block of a Hungarian abattoir, and was about to be questioned and tortured by a Russian Army general with a chest of bloodstained medals. As events transpired, there was to be no torture, as the General had left his tool bag in the car, and the car had driven off for the evening. So, in the end, she had got away with light bruising and an anecdote for dinner parties.

What had he wanted, the General? Elizabeth forgets. Something which no doubt seemed terribly important at the time. She knew people who had died for the blueprints to agricultural machinery. Very few things are so important you would risk your life for them, but all sorts of things are important enough to risk somebody else’s life.

As her blindfold is removed this time, there is no glare of strip lights, no grinning General and no blood-smeared filing cabinets. She is in a library, in a soft leather chair. The room is lit by candles, the kind Joyce buys. The man who removed her blindfold and uncuffed her has silently left the room and is out of her sight.

Elizabeth looks over to Stephen. He arches an eyebrow at her, and says, ‘Well, this is a to-do.’

‘Isn’t it?’ she agrees. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Right as rain, darling, you just keep your wits about you. I’m out of the old comfort zone here. Bash on the bonce, but no harm done. Probably knocked some sense into me.’

‘Your back all right?’

‘Nothing a Panadol won’t fix. Any idea what’s afoot here? Anything I can do to help?’

Elizabeth shakes her head. ‘This might be one for me.’

Stephen nods. ‘I’ll look after morale, and follow your lead. I don’t suppose we’d be in such comfortable chairs if they meant to kill us? You’d know better than me?’

‘I suspect they want to speak to me about something or other.’

‘And decide whether to kill us based on what you have to say?’

‘Possibly.’

They are both silent for a minute.

‘I love you, Elizabeth.’

‘Don’t be so sentimental, Stephen.’

‘Well, either way, there’s never a dull moment,’ says Stephen.

The door to the library opens, and a very tall, bearded man stoops through the doorway.

‘Viking, is it?’ Stephen whispers to Elizabeth.

The man takes his place in an armchair opposite Elizabeth and Stephen. His frame overflows the chair, like a teacher sitting on a classroom chair.

‘So you are Elizabeth Best?’ he asks.

‘That rather depends on who you are,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Have we met?’

The man takes something from his pocket. ‘Do you mind if I vape?’

Elizabeth holds out her palms in invitation.

‘Terribly bad for you,’ says Stephen. ‘I read a thing.’

The man nods, takes a drag on his vape and turns to Stephen.

‘And you must be Stephen? Sorry to drag you into this.’

‘Not a bit of it. Par for the course with this one. Afraid I didn’t catch your name?’

The man ignores Stephen’s question, and returns his attention to Elizabeth.

‘You have been very busy for an old woman.’

What is the accent? Swedish?

Elizabeth notices that Stephen is scanning the shelves of the library, eyes opening in wonder from time to time.

‘Now, Elizabeth,’ says the Viking. ‘To business. I believe you stole some diamonds?’

‘I see,’ says Elizabeth. At least she knows where she is now. No ancient history, simply their last little adventure. It felt like she had wrapped the whole thing up with a pretty little bow, but no good deed goes unpunished. ‘Am I to take it that I stole them from you, and not from Martin Lomax after all?’

‘No, no,’ says the Viking. ‘You stole them from a man named Viktor Illyich.’

‘Viktor Illyich?’ Elizabeth takes it all back. Ancient history at its very finest. ‘The most dangerous man in the Soviet Union’, they used to call him. She has to hand it to herself, however. Whatever jolt of electricity passed through her body at the mention of the name ‘Viktor Illyich’, no outside observer would have guessed she had ever heard it before.

‘And you work for this Viktor Illyich?’

The Viking laughs. ‘Me? No. I work for no one. I am a lone wolf.’

‘We all work for someone, old chap,’ says Stephen, eyes still scanning the books. He’s up to something, God bless him.

‘Not me,’ says the Viking. ‘I’m the boss.’ He howls like a wolf, for an uncomfortably long time. Elizabeth waits, patiently, for his howl to end.

‘So why am I here?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Not your diamonds, not your boss’s diamonds, not your business.’

‘I don’t care about diamonds. You think I care about twenty million? It’s nothing.’

The Viking leans forward in his chair, tilts his head and looks Elizabeth straight in the eyes.

‘You are here because, for some time now, I have been looking into the possibility of killing Viktor Illyich.’

‘I see,’ says Elizabeth.

‘And it isn’t easy,’ says the Viking.

‘I’m sure,’ says Elizabeth. ‘If murder were easy, none of us would survive Christmas.’

‘And, so,’ says the Viking, ‘I want you to kill Viktor Illyich for me.’

The Viking leans back, his cards on the table now. Elizabeth is thinking at speed. What has she found herself in the middle of here? Only this morning she had been thinking about traffic cameras and missing bodies. Now she is being threatened by a Viking. Or propositioned. Often the same thing in her line of work.

Whatever it is, at least it seems that she and Stephen will live to see another day. Let this new game begin, then. She sits back in her chair and clasps her hands together.

‘I don’t kill people, I’m afraid.’

The Viking settles back into his chair, and smiles. ‘We both know that’s not true, Elizabeth Best.’

Elizabeth concedes the point. ‘Here’s your problem though. I’ve only ever killed people who wanted to kill me.’

The Viking reaches for a laptop from a side table, and gives a broad smile. ‘Then we are in luck. Because I am shortly to send an email to Viktor Illyich, with two photographs attached. One photograph of you at Fairhaven train station, opening a locker, and one of you at Fairhaven Pier on the day of the shootout. A situation that has caused Viktor Illyich a great deal of inconvenience.’

‘Banged to rights there, darling,’ says Stephen.

Elizabeth hadn’t known that Viktor was involved with Martin Lomax and the business with the diamonds. But it made sense. Viktor was freelance these days.

‘So you see,’ says the Viking, ‘as soon as he receives these photographs, Viktor Illyich will want to kill you. He will be consumed with revenge. It is very neat. All you need to do now is kill him first.’

‘Kill him yourself, old chap,’ says Stephen. ‘Look at the size of you.’

‘Much easier for me if somebody else does it,’ says the Viking. ‘And who better than a former spy, a little old lady, a woman who knows how to kill, and who has just pulled off one of the thefts of the century? Who better, Stephen?’

‘It’s cowardly,’ says Stephen. ‘Never taken the Swedes for cowards.’

Elizabeth is mulling. Pretending to mull at least. Just arranging her cards in order before playing the first one. She doesn’t have a great hand, though she does have an ace. She will have to proceed with care.

‘Still not for me, I’m afraid,’ says Elizabeth to the Viking. ‘If I refuse, the worst you can do is kill me, which is a nuisance for you, and, honestly, I’ve had a fairly good run. And this would be a nice room to die in. Very cosy.’

The Viking smiles. ‘I think your husband might not agree with that. Perhaps he might like you to stay alive.’

Stephen shrugs. ‘We all go at some point, my Viking friend. I’d rather she wasn’t killed by a cowardly Swede, but best to bow out doing something decent. I’m sure I’d miss her, but someone else would turn up soon enough. Beautiful spies everywhere you look. Falling out of trees.’

Elizabeth smiles. But what if she really were to die? What then? What then for Stephen? Her heart cracks in two, but her face remains placid. Because she knows something the Viking doesn’t know.

‘I think if it’s all the same to you,’ she says, ‘I’m going to take my husband home and forget this conversation ever happened. Put the bags back over our heads: I don’t need to know where I am, and I don’t have any interest in finding out who you are. I understand your position, and I understand why I’m the perfect woman to kill Viktor Illyich, but I’m not going to do it. Which leaves you with two options. Either you kill me – which would be very messy, an awful lot of admin, probably a lot of heat from MI6 when they realize I’ve vanished – or you simply let us go, no more said about it.’

‘Viktor Illyich will kill you though,’ says the Viking. ‘He will find out where you live. I found out easily enough.’

‘I will take my chances,’ says Elizabeth.

Viktor Illyich will not kill Elizabeth, she knows that. That’s her ace. The Viking has been unlucky here. Elizabeth and Stephen will be home before dawn, and will be quite safe. Depending on where they are, of course. ‘So kill me or let me go. Those are your two options. Which do you choose?’

‘I think I choose option three,’ says the Viking. ‘The option where I send Viktor Illyich the full photos.’

‘The full photos?’

‘Yes, for sure. The photos with your friend Joyce Meadowcroft by your side. Both pictures, both names.’

‘Bit below the belt,’ says Stephen. Elizabeth still feels safe. Viktor won’t go after Joyce either. Not if they’re in the photo together. A friend of Elizabeth is a friend of Viktor.

‘Viktor might not have the heart to kill Joyce, of course,’ says the Viking. ‘She is more of a civilian, I think? So here’s my deal. Just as insurance, if Viktor Illyich isn’t dead within two weeks, I will kill your friend Joyce.’

13

The second date was, if anything, even better than the first. They have just been to Brighton to watch a Polish film. Donna hadn’t realized there were Polish films, though obviously there must be. In a country that size, someone is going to make a film once in a while.

It was an art-house cinema, of course it was, it was in Brighton, and that meant you couldn’t get proper pick ’n’ mix. No chocolate mice, no Kola Cubes, nothing. Just healthy snacks.

But they did let you bring wine into the cinema, so Donna supposed it was OK to put up with a handful of unsalted cashew nuts. Also, everyone stayed quiet during the film, which Donna was not at all used to.

They took the train from Fairhaven. Donna drank a Mojito in a can, and Bogdan drank a large energy drink into which he had mixed a sachet of protein powder.

They walked from the station to the cinema, her arm hooked through Bogdan’s. At one point they walked past a house on Trafalgar Street which Bogdan told her was a crack den, and then past an old forge on London Road where a Lithuanian was buried. Bogdan would make a very good tour guide for a very specific type of tourist.

There were other black people in Brighton, and that was nice to see. Though still few enough for a subtle nod to be exchanged as they passed each other. Donna likes Brighton; she could see herself raiding a few crack dens here before her career was out.

They talked a little about Bethany Waites, and about Heather Garbutt. Donna is putting together a map of all the CCTV cameras in Fairhaven for Chris. It is not an enjoyable job.

Now, not only do people in Poland make films, it turns out they make very good ones. Donna had worried it might be a searing portrayal of love and loss across the generations of a remote farming family, and she would have to keep turning to Bogdan and pretending to nod wisely. But not a bit of it. There was murder, there was fighting, there was a cop in a ripped shirt; it wasn’t bad at all. Every few minutes Bogdan would lean into her and she readied herself for a kiss, but he was just pointing out occasional inconsistencies in the subtitles. She held his hand, her red wine slipped down a treat, the gal got the guy, and someone shot down a helicopter. Eight out of ten, would recommend.

They went back to his, there wasn’t even a question. Where would they have parted? And why?

Bogdan is currently in the bathroom, and Donna is frantically rehydrating, and trying to recall if she has ever been happier.

They had talked a little more about Bethany Waites. Donna had looked into the files on Jack Mason, the businessman. A record as long as a Post Office queue. Charming but dangerous.

Talking of which, Bogdan walks back into the room, and gets into bed. She puts her arm around him, sleepy and safe.

They laugh. God, this feels right. It feels natural, and true, and unforced. It feels like all those things you read about relationships, but assume are lies.

Bogdan’s mobile phone rings on the bedside table. They both look over at it. It is two a.m.

Well, here we go, thinks Donna, her reverie immediately broken. All those things are lies. There’s another woman. Of course. Once again, Donna, nice try. There is always something. She is suddenly not so sleepy, and not so safe.

Bogdan looks at the number, then back at Donna. ‘I have to get this. I’m sorry.’

Donna shrugs. She had been planning to stay until morning, but now she starts scanning for her clothes.

14

Elizabeth and Stephen have been dropped by the side of a small road in a big wood. The moon is high and full, and pale light zigzags through winter’s bare branches above them.

‘You gave quite the start when he mentioned Viktor Illyich,’ says Stephen.

‘I gave a start? I thought I covered it pretty well. Does anything get past you?’

‘That’s a kind thing to pretend. Old friend is he, Viktor?’

‘Old enemy if anything. KGB Head of Station in Leningrad, 1980s,’ says Elizabeth, her breath smoke in the clear air. ‘Then upwards and upwards.’

One of the photos of Viktor in the folder the Viking had given her was of Viktor in his prime. Not prime exactly perhaps: the head was already balding, the thick, pebble-lensed glasses too big for his face. But young at least. The most recent photo brought the shock of age. Old, lined, strands of grey hair clinging to the cliff edges. The glasses still too big, but look behind them and there he was. Viktor. The mischief and intelligence in his eyes. The rival who became her friend. The enemy who became … her lover? Had they? Elizabeth doesn’t recall, but she wouldn’t put it past herself.

Viktor will look at her photograph in the same way, she is sure. Who is this old woman?

Elizabeth’s phone is dead, and Stephen doesn’t have his, so on they walk.

‘Without speaking out of turn,’ says Stephen, ‘you have a look that says you don’t much want to kill him?’

‘No, I don’t,’ says Elizabeth.

‘And do you imagine he will try to kill you?’

‘Goodness, no. He’ll take one look at the photograph and roar with laughter.’

They listen to the owls talk for a while, and hold each other close for warmth as they walk. How often do you walk down a new road with an old lover? Elizabeth looks at the moon, and at her husband, and thinks to herself that this is an unusual time to feel happy.

‘But if you don’t kill him,’ says Stephen, ‘then our Viking friend will kill Joyce?’

‘That’s where we find ourselves.’ This takes the edge off her mood somewhat.

‘Hell of a choice. And, as yet, we have no idea who this Viking is?’

‘Not yet we don’t,’ agrees Elizabeth, as she spies a public phone box on the roadside ahead. ‘But, first things first, we need to get you home. I don’t suppose you have twenty pence?’

Stephen fishes in his pocket and hands Elizabeth a coin.

‘It’s the middle of the night, dear, don’t forget? Everyone will be asleep.’

Elizabeth dials the number she knows by heart. She knows all her important numbers by heart. It must be two a.m., but the phone is answered before the first ring is completed.

‘Hello, Bogdan,’ says Elizabeth.

‘Hello, Elizabeth,’ says Bogdan. ‘What do you need?’

‘A little help,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Right away if possible.’

‘OK, are you at home?’

‘Bogdan, I hear a noise in the background. Is somebody there?’

‘Is the TV.’

‘Well, it isn’t the TV, but let’s not argue about it now. I’m in a public phone box, I have no idea where but the number is 01785 547541. I wonder if you could possibly find out where that is, and then possibly also come and get me?’

She hears the sound of a laptop being opened.

‘Where is Stephen? You need me to see him?’

‘He’s with me, dear.’ Elizabeth puts the receiver to Stephen’s mouth.

‘Hello, old chap,’ says Stephen. ‘Sorry to be a nuisance. A right pair of waifs and strays you have on your hands.’

‘Is no problem,’ says Bogdan. ‘Put me back to Elizabeth.’

Elizabeth gets back on the call.

‘OK, you’re in Staffordshire,’ says Bogdan. ‘You heard of Staffordshire?’

‘Of course I’ve heard of Staffordshire,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Any chance you could head up? It’s very cold.’

‘Already dressing,’ says Bogdan.

‘Thank you. Any clue how long it will take you?’

Bogdan goes quiet for a moment. ‘Google says three hours and forty-five minutes. So I will be there in two hours and thirty-eight minutes.’

‘I’m almost sure I can hear someone else there, Bogdan.’

‘It’s the sat nav,’ says Bodgan. ‘You hold tight and I get there as soon as I can. Do you need me to bring you anything?’

Elizabeth thinks for moment. Viktor Illyich, the Viking, Joyce. Is a plan forming? She believes it may well be.

‘Yes, please, dear,’ she says. ‘Could you bring me a flask of tea, and a gun?’

15

Mike Waghorn sits in a leather swivel chair, in a darkened edit suite. He holds a pen like the cigarette he would dearly love to smoke. But you can’t smoke now everyone has an HD television. It is very ageing.

There is a row of television monitors in front of him, and, in front of the monitors, a control panel that wouldn’t look out of place on an Airbus 380. Mike has recently flown in an Airbus 380 simulator on a corporate away-day he hosted for Delta Airlines at Gatwick. He crashed it into the Adriatic, trying to show off.

The face of Bethany Waites fills the screens in front of him. Mike is watching the tribute show he had hosted with Fiona Clemence. Fiona, with her game shows, her adverts, her magazine front covers. She has recently brought out her own diet book. But look at the two of them on screen in 2013. Mike Waghorn, the famous one, Fiona Clemence, the producer over-promoted to presenter. Mike hadn’t thought she would last.

Fiona was no fan of Bethany, that was for sure. And vice versa, to be fair. Huge rows, the two of them would have. Mike has thought about this a few times over the years. Could Fiona have killed Bethany? It is an absurd thought, but Bethany’s death had given Fiona her big break, so who knew? Television was a cut-throat business at the best of times. He has looked further back in his texts after the other night. Bethany had been receiving anonymous notes at work. Just leave. No one wants you here. We are all laughing at you. Schoolyard stuff, really. But perhaps not? Were they from Fiona? And, if not, who were they from?

There are clips from Bethany’s time on South East Tonight. It’s mainly action shots, the type of stuff that looks good in montages. Bethany Waites on Kent’s largest rollercoaster, Tom Jones flirting with Bethany Waites backstage at the Brighton Centre, Bethany Waites at the top of a Dubai skyscraper, interviewing a Faversham woman who had made a fortune in plastic surgery, Bethany Waites being pushed into a swimming pool by a group of schoolkids from Deal.

But the real memories are never the ones that make the highlights reel. The real memories were of quiet afternoons watching Bethany work. The skill with which she found and told stories. The small jokes, the private looks, the squeeze of the hand every evening when they were ‘Five seconds to air’. Every day, ‘Anything from the canteen, Mike?’ ‘No, thanks, Beth, my body’s a temple.’ The Twix she would then bring him back.

Not rollercoasters, not skyscrapers, just the accumulation of small moments that turn acquaintance into friendship.

Mike finds it hard to cry, because he started having Botox treatments before they’d really got the hang of them, and his tear ducts are blocked. But he knows the tears are there, and he welcomes them. The tears only exist because Bethany existed.

Can he really trust this ‘Thursday Murder Club’? Mike has the peculiar sensation that he is being manipulated, but in such an enjoyable way that perhaps he will stay on the ride for now? See exactly what they’re capable of.

He freezes the picture in front of him. Bethany’s face. It’s not a smile, or a laugh. He freezes it on a look of calm determination, eyes staring directly into his. He checks the code onscreen and sees this is a week before Bethany died.

When you look backwards, everything is inevitable. Looking at her face, Mike knows that one week later Bethany would be dead. Mike leans forward and looks into those eyes. Did they know? He could swear now that they did. What on earth had she got herself into?

The edit door opens.

‘Thought I might find you here,’ says Pauline, walking in with two cups of tea.

‘Just wanted to remind myself,’ says Mike. ‘That Bethany was a real person, and not just a story.’

Pauline nods. ‘I know you loved her.’

‘She could have done all sorts, couldn’t she?’ says Mike. ‘So full of ambition, full of ideas.’

‘Would have left us behind, wouldn’t she?’ says Pauline.

‘You’d hope so,’ says Mike. ‘Do you remember those notes she was getting? No one wants you here. On her desk, on her windscreen, all of that?’

Pauline shakes her head. ‘Made you a cuppa.’

‘Thanks,’ says Mike. ‘What do you think happened though? I mean really happened?’

Pauline puts her hand on his. ‘You know you might never find out, Mike? You know you have to prepare yourself for that?’

Mike looks at Bethany’s face on his screen once more. Looks into those eyes. He’ll find out all right.

Pauline opens her bag. ‘Let’s watch some more together, shall we?’

Mike nods.

Pauline pulls a Twix out of her bag and puts it next to his cup of tea.

16

Remand prisoners at Darwell Prison are often kept in their cells for up to twenty-three hours a day. Connie Johnson reflects on how inhumane and unproductive that is, as she walks past all the locked cell doors on her evening stroll.

One of the warders doffs his cap to her as she makes her way along the steel walkway to Heather Garbutt’s cell, the clang of her Prada loafers echoing through the cavernous building.

Connie knocks, then swings open the cell door without waiting for a response. This is exactly the Heather she thought it was. Dark hair turning grey, skin loose and pale, but nothing a bit of Botox wouldn’t fix. Connie knows someone who can come in and take a look at her if needs be.

Heather Garbutt, sitting on a plastic chair at a metal desk, gazes up at Connie with unhappy eyes. No shock or surprise. Connie knows the life of a prisoner is one of unexpected visitors and unwanted interruptions. The life of a normal prisoner, at least. Connie has got a doorbell.

‘I don’t have any money,’ says Heather. ‘I don’t have cigarettes. I don’t think I have anything you need.’

Connie sits on the lower bunk of Heather’s bed. ‘You want money? You want cigarettes? I can do that.’

Heather is weighing her up, and Connie knows that is no easy job. On first meeting, people always find Connie affable. Fun even. But Heather has been in prison long enough to smell the danger on her too. So she is wary, and Connie doesn’t blame her one bit. Connie would be terrified in Heather’s shoes.

‘I don’t need anything, thank you. A bit of peace and quiet.’

‘I’ll be gone soon enough. What were you writing?’ asks Connie, tilting her head towards the desk.

‘Nothing,’ says Heather.

‘I’m Connie Johnson,’ says Connie. She gets up, walks behind Heather and starts to knead her shoulders. ‘Good friend, terrible enemy, but you’re in luck, because you and I are going to be friends. You feel very tense, by the way.’

‘Please, I don’t have anything.’ If Heather could make herself any smaller in her chair, she would disappear altogether.

Connie stops the massage, and walks back to the centre of the cell. ‘Everyone has something, Heather. You’re in for fraud, then? Ten years. Must have been a hell of a fraud.’

‘It was,’ says Heather.

‘They make you pay back the money too?’ asks Connie. ‘Knocked a couple of years off? Proceeds of Crime Act?’

‘They asked me to,’ said Heather. ‘But there weren’t any proceeds.’

‘Sure,’ says Connie, laughing. ‘But you’ll be out soon?’

Heather nods.

‘You must be happy about that?’

‘I’m happy when they lock my door at night,’ says Heather.

Connie looks around Heather’s cell. No family photos on the wall. A few prison library books on her desk. One is called Small Pleasures, and it has oranges on the cover. Connie thinks about the flat-screen TV in her own cell. And the mini-bar.

‘What a ball of fun you are,’ Connie says. ‘I can cheer you up. What do you like? Chocolate? Men? Booze? I can get you anything.’

‘Connie, I want to be left alone,’ says Heather. ‘Can you get me that?’

‘I can definitely get you that. I’ll be out of your hair in a heartbeat. I just need you to answer a question.’

‘Where did I hide the money?’

‘No, not where did you hide the money,’ says Connie. ‘Although where did you?’

‘There is no money,’ says Heather. ‘That’s why I’m still here.’

Connie nods. ‘You stick to your story, girl, good for you. No, I need to ask you the other question, Heather.’

Heather looks down at the floor. ‘No.’

‘Chin up, come on, we’re a team. Look at me.’

Heather looks up at Connie.

‘Heather, did you kill Bethany Waites?’

‘I can’t talk to you about that.’

‘Does that mean you did or you didn’t?’

‘It means I can’t talk to you about that. And shame on you for asking.’

Connie looks at Heather Garbutt, eyes back down to the floor, shoulders slumped. Why can’t she charm this woman? It absolutely infuriates Connie when people are resistant to her charms. She simply won’t allow it. Connie starts crying, and that gets Heather looking up all right.

‘Please don’t cry in here,’ says Heather. ‘It’s seen enough tears.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Connie, trying to wipe the tears away. ‘It’s just you remind me so much of my mum. And we lost her last year.’

Heather looks at her, shakes her head the slightest amount and shrugs. ‘Don’t lie about that sort of thing, Connie.’

Connie stops crying immediately and sighs. ‘All right, we don’t have to be friends, but I’ve been given a job, and I want to do it. Just tell me, and we’re done. Bethany Waites was a journalist, she had worked out what you were doing, which was making millions sitting in a nice little office, doing bugger all. She was about to go public and suddenly someone pushes her car off a cliff. What does that look like to you?’

Heather gives the smallest of shrugs.

‘Come on,’ says Connie. ‘You killed her –’

‘No.’

‘Or you know who did?’

Connie notices that Heather does not say no to this question.

‘You know who killed Bethany? You’re covering for someone?’

‘Please,’ says Heather quietly. ‘It’s not safe.’

‘You’re safe with me, princess,’ says Connie. ‘Why would you cover for someone? They got something on you? I could kill them for you, you know?’

Heather is silent for a long moment. She then gets up, walks to the door of her cell and opens it. She shouts down the corridor to a warder. ‘Mr Edwards, there is someone in my cell. I’m being threatened.’

Connie hears footsteps climbing a metal staircase, and Heather walks slowly back into the cell and sits down again.

‘Sorry,’ Heather says. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

The footsteps from outside reach the doorway and a prison warder appears. ‘OK, let’s get you back to … oh, Connie, it’s you.’

‘Hello, Jonathon. Just visiting my friend Heather.’

‘Right you are,’ says Jonathon. ‘I’ll shut the door and give you a bit of peace.’

The door shuts behind him, and Connie turns back to Heather. ‘Listen, it was worth a try. Just tell me, Heather. It looks like you did it. But you don’t seem like a killer. And there was no evidence. So what are we saying? Your boss did it? Jack Mason? I met him at a do once. Someone was trying to stab him in the car park.’

Heather is having a long think.

‘It’s just you and me, Heather,’ says Connie, putting a hand on Heather’s shoulder. ‘No one will ever know. Who are you covering for? Jack Mason? You scared of him?’

‘You said you’ve been given a job?’

Connie nods.

‘By whom?’

‘No one you need to worry about.’

‘Don’t tell me who I need to worry about,’ says Heather. Connie likes this. Heather is showing a bit of heart at last.

‘You’re right, fair point. Heather, listen, I’m a very difficult person.’

Heather nods.

‘And I will be back here every day for the rest of your sentence until you tell me. Who killed Bethany Waites?’

‘You’ll get the same answer every time.’

‘I can be patient. And next time I’ll bring you something. KitKat? Coke Zero? A gun?’

Heather gives her first, small smile. This is more like it, thinks Connie. Finally.

‘I like knitting,’ says Heather. ‘I have a godson who has just had a baby. I’d like to knit something, but –’

‘But they don’t trust you with needles? Don’t blame them. Boy or girl?’

‘Boy,’ says Heather. ‘Mason, of all things.’

‘I’ll bring you a package straight away, blue wool, everything,’ says Connie. ‘And we’ll see how you’ve got on tomorrow.’

‘Thank you,’ says Heather. ‘I find it hard to trust people. It takes time.’

‘Well, you must never trust me, but the one thing we’ve both got is time,’ says Connie. ‘I’ll just keep coming back. I like to get a job done.’

Connie stands to leave. She reaches out a hand, and Heather takes it and shakes it.

‘I will quite look forward to seeing you again, Connie,’ says Heather. ‘I still won’t tell you what you want to know though.’

‘We’ll see about that, gorgeous,’ says Connie, and gives a little goodbye wink.

17

Thursday. The Jigsaw Room.

‘But your lights were off all night,’ says Joyce.

‘Don’t fuss,’ says Elizabeth. She will tell Joyce about the kidnapping once she has worked out her plan to deal with the Viking. In the meantime, she is glad of the distraction of the murder of Bethany Waites.

‘I’m not fussing,’ says Joyce. ‘It’s just unusual. Is Stephen all right?’

‘We had a romantic evening in,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Candlelight in the bathroom, and an early night.’

Joyce doesn’t buy this, but Elizabeth thinks she has been fended off for now. She will have to tell her eventually. To business.

‘So what do you have for us, Mr Waghorn?’

Mike Waghorn and Pauline have joined them in the Jigsaw Room. Pauline is topping up Mike’s glass.

‘Just something I remembered,’ says Mike. ‘Someone was sending Bethany notes. Locker-room stuff, really, probably not important.

‘Bullying.’

‘I can’t stand a bully,’ says Ron.

‘And did you find out who sent them?’ asks Ibrahim.

‘No. Bethany just laughed them off,’ says Mike. ‘She sent me a few messages about them, but we never got to the bottom of it.’

‘Do you still have her messages?’ Elizabeth asks.

‘Of course,’ says Mike. ‘I’ll always keep her messages.’

‘I should think so too,’ says Joyce. ‘Gerry once had a letter in the Radio Times, and I’ve always kept it.’

Mike is scrolling through his phone.

‘It was about Cagney & Lacey,’ says Joyce. ‘Which wasn’t like him at all.’

Mike has found Bethany’s messages. ‘Another note today, skipper. Slipped into my bag. “If you don’t leave, I’ll make you leave.” It was always that sort of thing: “Get out. Everybody hates you.” Playground stuff, but you never know. And it was something I didn’t think to tell the police at the time.’

‘Could it have been Fiona Clemence?’ asks Joyce. ‘I do hope not.’

‘Pauline, any idea?’ asks Elizabeth.

‘Don’t even remember the notes,’ says Pauline.

Joyce puts her hand on Mike’s arm. ‘More wine, Mike?’

‘Yes, please,’ says Mike, and Joyce pours him another glass.

‘You reading the news later, Mikey boy?’ asks Ron.

‘You’ll have to do better than three glasses of wine to stop Mike presenting the news,’ says Pauline. ‘Do your trick, Mike.’

Mike sits up, ramrod straight, and looks Ron in the eye. ‘Meanwhile, military manoeuvres are continuing in Bosnia and Herzegovina, as the Serbian secessionist spokesperson initiated interventions with interested intermediaries.’

Ron raises his glass. ‘The lad can take a drink.’

‘Thank you, Ronald,’ says Mike.

‘I’ve trained him well,’ says Pauline.

‘Well, aren’t we all terrific,’ says Elizabeth. ‘But, if we could get on. Let’s go through exactly what we know.’

The Jigsaw Room has recently been repainted. Or one wall of it at least. They call it a ‘signature wall’, and it is duck-egg blue. It was Joyce’s idea: she had seen somebody do it on television, and had then raised it with the Amenities Committee. There had been objections, both in terms of cost and aesthetic, but Elizabeth could have told them to save their breath. If Joyce wants a signature wall, Joyce will have a signature wall.

The wall, which does actually look rather good, is currently covered in photographs and documents. There are pictures of Bethany Waites, and the wreck of a car at the foot of Shakespeare Cliff. There are grainy CCTV shots. The photos are surrounded by financial documents, and by timelines meticulously constructed, printed out and laminated by Ibrahim. They used to lay this sort of thing out on the jigsaw table itself, but Joyce has recently come across some sticky hooks you can peel on and off the wall without leaving any marks. Elizabeth much prefers it this way. It reminds her of a Serious Incident Room, the type of place where she has spent many happy hours.

‘For reasons known only to herself,’ says Elizabeth, ‘or to her killer, Bethany decides to leave her flat. CCTV in the lobby of her building captures her at ten fifteen p.m., and, minutes later, we see her car pass by the front of the building.’

‘The car then seems to disappear,’ says Ibrahim. ‘It goes missing for several hours, until it is finally captured again at two forty-seven a.m., approximately a mile from Shakespeare Cliff.’

‘Meaning it has taken her more than four hours to complete a forty-five-minute car journey,’ says Elizabeth.

‘Telling us,’ says Ibrahim, ‘that she must have stopped somewhere on the way. To meet someone, to do something, perhaps to die. And when the CCTV picks up the car again near the cliff, there appear to be two figures in it, not one.’

‘Very blurry though,’ says Pauline. ‘To be fair.’

‘The next morning,’ says Elizabeth, while registering Pauline’s intervention, ‘Bethany’s car is found at the bottom of the cliff. Her body is no longer in it, which is not altogether unsurprising. I once had to push a Jeep with a corpse sitting in the front seat into a quarry, and it popped out almost immediately.’

‘Why did you have to push a –’ says Mike.

‘No time, Mr Waghorn, sorry,’ says Elizabeth. ‘The Conversational French class will scream blue murder if we’re out of this room as much as a minute late. Traces of Bethany Waites’s blood, and fragments of the clothing she was last seen wearing, were found in the wreckage of the car. A houndstooth jacket, and yellow trousers.’

‘Well, that’s another thing,’ says Pauline. ‘Who wears a houndstooth jacket with yellow trousers?’

Elizabeth glances at Pauline. Two interventions now.

‘Her body has never been found,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Usually it would wash up at some point, but not always. Her bank cards and bank accounts have never been used since, nor was there significant activity in her accounts before this incident. She wasn’t squirrelling money away for a disappearance.’

‘The secret might lie in Heather Garbutt’s financial records,’ says Elizabeth. ‘We’ll know more as soon as we’ve spoken to our consultant.’

‘When she says “consultant”, she means my daughter,’ says Joyce.

‘And that’s pretty much where we are,’ finishes Elizabeth.

‘You heard back from Connie Johnson?’ Ron asks Ibrahim.

‘Nothing useful yet,’ says Ibrahim. ‘She said something about knitting, but her Wi-Fi is quite patchy. She has complained to the Home Office about it.’

There is a knock at the door. The Conversational French class which uses the Jigsaw Room after them is early. Elizabeth resolves to give them a piece of her mind.

18

Chris and Donna are looking at a map of Fairhaven on the wall in their Incident Room.

There is a pin in the map, showing Bethany’s apartment, and further pins showing the location of the CCTV cameras that had been checked on the night of her death. Her car hadn’t triggered a single one until she got to Shakespeare Cliff. They are trying to plot her route out of Fairhaven, to see where she might have stopped. Once she was out of Fairhaven, a camera-free route was pretty easy. Just take the back roads. But in the town itself? Much harder.

Where on earth had she been for those missing hours? And who had she met?

‘It’s impossible,’ says Chris. ‘There are so many cameras in Fairhaven, and she could only take Rotherfield Road or Churchill Road. No other way out of town that takes you towards Shakespeare Cliff.’

Strictly speaking, they are supposed to be investigating the death of the man in the burned-out minibus, but they are still waiting for a forensics report, so they thought they might spend the morning looking at the Bethany Waites case. Also, Elizabeth had asked them to. Elizabeth has access to many things, but not the exact position of every CCTV camera in Fairhaven.

Donna starts to plot a course from Bethany’s apartment, avoiding the cameras. At every corner she turns, there is a camera. It’s like a maze, with no way out. ‘And the cameras were all working?’

‘For once,’ says Chris.

‘Whatever happens,’ says Donna, tracing a finger along the map, ‘I can’t get past Foster Road. She must have driven down it, but I can’t take a left out of it, and I can’t take a right out of it without hitting a camera. So how does she do it?’

Chris goes over to his computer and opens the Google Street View of Foster Road. ‘Let’s see if there are any little cut-throughs we can’t see on the map.’

They scroll along Foster Road. It is largely residential, some big apartment blocks, some Victorian terraced houses, a small parade of shops. No obvious cut-throughs.

‘Stop there,’ says Donna. She takes control of the mouse now, and she revolves the image on the screen. It shows a large, modern apartment building called Juniper Court. On the left-hand side of the building is a ramp, leading down to the security grille of an underground car park.

‘Worth seeing if there’s an exit at the back of the building,’ says Donna. She navigates the arrows along Foster Road, up Rotherfield Road, past the CCTV camera, and then right into Darwell Road, which runs along the back of Juniper Court.

‘You’re very quick at this,’ says Chris.

‘I spend a lot of time on Rightmove,’ says Donna. ‘Looking at houses I can’t afford.’

And there it is. The back of Juniper Court. Another ramp leading underground, this one with a NO ENTRY sign on it. The exit of the underground car park.

‘If she’d driven through the car park, she could have taken the right turn onto Rotherfield Road and missed the cameras,’ says Chris. ‘It’s the only way.’

‘Two possibilities, then,’ says Donna. ‘Either she’s deliberately trying to avoid the cameras. Which is unlikely, given she wouldn’t know where all of them were.’

‘Or …’ starts Chris.

‘Or …’ continues Donna, ‘the person Bethany Waites went to meet that night lived in Juniper Court.’

‘And that could be our killer,’ says Chris.

‘So Bethany leaves her building at ten fifteen, drives five minutes to Foster Road and into the underground car park at Juniper Court. Several hours later …’

‘With somebody else now in the car with her …’

‘… she drives out of the exit onto Darwell Road, then right onto Rotherfield Road and heads towards Shakespeare Cliff.’

‘We’re geniuses,’ says Chris. ‘Let’s take a little trip down to Juniper Court, see who lives there.’

‘I ag–’

The door opens, and DI Terry Hallet walks in, a sheet of paper in his hand.

‘Thought you’d be interested in this, Guv,’ says Terry Hallet. ‘Given who you were asking about the other day?’

Terry shows the piece of paper to Chris. Juniper Court will have to wait for now. He looks at Donna.

‘Change of plan. We’re going to see some old friends of ours.’

19

‘Well this is a pleasant surprise,’ says Joyce, ushering Chris and Donna into the Jigsaw Room. ‘Don’t you look well?’

‘Hello, all,’ says Chris.

‘We have wine and biscuits,’ says Joyce. ‘There’s red to go with the bourbon creams and white for the Jaffa cakes.’

‘No Jammie Dodgers, even though I asked,’ says Ron.

‘Not now, Alan,’ says Donna. Alan has a particular fondness for her.

Chris pulls up a chair, and Donna does the same.

‘What a look you have on your face, Detective Chief Inspector,’ says Ibrahim. ‘You seem quite troubled.’

‘We need to have a very serious conversation,’ says Chris. ‘Wait, you’re Mike Waghorn!’

‘Guilty as charged,’ says Mike Waghorn, offering his wrists for mock handcuffs.

‘How do you know this lo–’ starts Chris. ‘No, don’t worry, of course you know them.’

Ron reluctantly reaches for a Jaffa cake.

‘You ever done any TV, Chris?’ says Mike. ‘You’ve really got the bone structure for it.’

‘I … uh … no, I haven’t,’ says Chris.

‘Leave it with me,’ says Mike.

‘Uh … sure,’ says Chris, as he takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of his chair. ‘Really?’

Mike nods. ‘Great hair.’

Chris snaps back to the matter at hand. ‘We need to have a serious conversation.’

‘A serious conversation about what, Chris?’ says Elizabeth. ‘We have seven and a half minutes.’

‘You’re investigating the death of Bethany Waites,’ says Donna.

‘We’re dipping our toe in, yes,’ says Elizabeth. ‘With your help.’

Chris looks around each of them in turn. ‘Been making enquiries into Heather Garbutt too?’

‘Not really,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Minor enquiries. She’s in jail you know.’

‘Nothing else you want to tell me?’ asks Chris.

‘Nothing else to tell,’ says Ibrahim.

‘For goodness’ sake, Chris,’ says Elizabeth, ‘why do I feel we’re being told off? I can practically hear Conversational French on the stairway, and I guarantee you won’t want to keep them waiting.’

Chris takes a moment. Composes himself.

‘At six this morning,’ says Chris, ‘Heather Garbutt was found dead in her cell.’

The gang share shocked looks. Pauline puts her hand on Mike’s arm.

‘There was a note,’ says Chris. ‘In one of the drawers of her desk.’

‘Suicide?’ says Joyce. ‘Why would she –’

Donna looks down at her notebook.

‘It reads,’ says Donna, ‘THEY ARE GOING TO KILL ME. ONLY CONNIE JOHNSON CAN HELP ME NOW.’