‘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.’