‘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.