The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club, #3)
Richard Osman
To Ingrid. I was waiting for you.
Bethany Waites understands there is no going back now. Time to be brave, and to see how this all plays out.
She weighs the bullet in her hand.
Life is about understanding opportunities. Understanding how rarely they come along, and then rising to meet them when they do.
‘Come and meet me. I just want to talk.’ That’s what the email had said. She has been playing it over in her mind ever since. Should she?
One last thing to do before she decides: send Mike a message.
Mike knows the story she is working on. He doesn’t know the details – a reporter has to keep her secrets – but he knows it’s a risky one. He’s there if she needs him, but there are some things you have to do alone.
Whatever happens tonight, she would be sad to leave Mike Waghorn behind. He is a good friend. A kind and funny man. That’s why the viewers love him.
But Bethany dreams of more, and maybe this is her chance. A dangerous chance, but a chance all the same.
She writes her message, and presses send. He won’t reply tonight; it’s late. That’s probably for the best. She can hear his voice now: ‘Who texts at ten p.m.? Millennials and sex pests, that’s who.’
Here we go, then. Time for Bethany to spin the wheel of fortune. Will she live, or will she die?
She pours herself a drink, and takes one final look at the bullet. Really, she has no choice at all.
To opportunities.
Part One
* * *
AROUND EVERY CORNER, A FAMILIAR FACE
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.