The second option, just as difficult, but at least something Elizabeth could help with, was to find the grave that Jack Mason has spoken about. The general consensus is that it could be anywhere. But Elizabeth rarely lives her life by the general consensus.
A question that had been troubling her for a while has risen to the surface again. Why had Jack Mason bought Heather Garbutt’s house? The proceeds had gone straight to the government in lieu of the laundered money, so he hadn’t been buying Heather’s silence. He hadn’t lived in it, hadn’t rented it out, hadn’t renovated it and hadn’t sold it at a profit.
So it seemed that Jack Mason must have bought the house simply to stop anyone else from living there. From living there and, let’s say, re-laying the patio or deciding on a whim to dig a pond or two? Elizabeth wonders if it wouldn’t be fruitful to have a little dig in Heather Garbutt’s garden? Bogdan will have a spade to hand somewhere.
But how do you just dig up someone’s garden without permission? Jack Mason certainly won’t be inviting them onto the property if the body is there.
As Elizabeth lies in bed, Stephen’s hand interlaced with hers, she thinks of someone who might be able to help.
And now she really thinks about it, the same person might be able to help with her other problem too. Stopping the Viking. Stephen wakes and takes her in his arms. He says he is off to see his friend Kuldesh tomorrow, will probably take the car if she isn’t using it? Elizabeth agrees that sounds lovely and strokes his hair until he falls asleep again.
56
‘They must have gossiped on the way back?’ Donna says. Her head is in Bogdan’s lap. He wants to watch the International Biathlon on Eurosport, because someone he went to school with is in it. Biathlon is skiing followed by rifle shooting. She is getting into it.
‘They swore me not to tell,’ says Bogdan. He then gestures at the television. ‘Jerzy is having a nightmare here.’
‘But you can tell me,’ says Donna.
‘No police,’ says Bogdan.
‘I’m not police,’ says Donna. ‘I’m your girlfriend.’
‘You never said you were my girlfriend before,’ says Bogdan.
Donna turns her head to look up at him. ‘Well, get ready to hear it a lot.’
‘So I am your boyfriend?’
‘I honestly don’t know why people think you’re some sort of genius,’ says Donna. ‘Yes, you’re my boyfriend.’
Bogdan gives a smile of delight. ‘We are Donna and Bogdan.’
‘We are,’ says Donna, reaching up to touch his face. ‘Or Bogdan and Donna, I don’t mind.’
‘Donna and Bogdan sounds better,’ says Bogdan.
Donna props herself up and kisses him. ‘Donna and Bogdan it is, then. So, tell me what Ron and Viktor found out.’
‘No,’ says Bogdan. He is then distracted by the television again. ‘This Lithuanian guy is a cheat.’
‘Just tell me something,’ says Donna. ‘Throw me a bone.’
‘OK,’ says Bogdan. ‘Ron didn’t go home tonight. He is staying at Pauline’s.’
‘Oooh,’ says Donna. ‘That’s good. You’re forgiven.’
Bogdan is shaking his head at the screen. ‘If Jerzy doesn’t finish in the top four, he doesn’t qualify for the European Shootout in Malm?.’
‘Poor Jerzy,’ says Donna. ‘Pull your finger out, mate. Where does she live?’
‘Huh?’ Bogdan is distracted.
‘Pauline,’ says Donna sleepily. ‘She live round here?’
Bogdan nods. ‘Off Rotherfield Road, that big block. Juniper Court.’
‘Juniper Court?’
‘Yes. You heard of it?’
Donna certainly has heard of it. Pauline lives in the building Bethany Waites visited on the night of her murder.
57
The office is warm oak, and deep-red carpet. Elizabeth’s eye is drawn to the large painting of a dog wearing a Police Bravery Medal. Also, a framed sign saying CRIME DOESN’T PAY. She has learned over the years that this is nonsense. Look at Viktor’s penthouse for example.
It can be difficult to get an appointment with a chief constable. They are busy people, their diaries are carefully controlled. Try ringing 999 and asking to speak to a chief constable. See where that gets you.
Elizabeth had rung Andrew Everton’s office that morning, saying she was a literary agent, who had read and loved all the Mackenzie McStewart novels, and would he have a moment to spare for her?
The call came back within a minute, saying that a window had magically opened up in his diary that very afternoon. Whatever it was that Andrew Everton had planned on doing then, catching a serial killer perhaps, could be put on the back burner.
Elizabeth had seen the disappointment in his eyes when she walked in. He recognized her from the reading. There was a brief moment of regrouping hope, as he considered that, yes, this was the old woman from the reading the other day, but she might also actually be an agent, some grande dame of the literary world. But, as soon as she had said, ‘I haven’t actually read your books, though I know Joyce is enjoying one,’ she saw the wind depart his sails. By this point she had sat down, however, and she knew that common politeness would allow her a couple of questions.
‘Bethany Waites,’ says Elizabeth. ‘You remember the case?’
‘I remember the case,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘I don’t remember asking you to come in and talk to me about it?’
Elizabeth waves this away. ‘We’re all taxpayers, aren’t we? Anything you can tell me? Any suspects at the time?’
‘Mmm,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘Are you familiar with police procedure?’
‘Very,’ says Elizabeth.
Andrew Everton starts to tap a pen on his desk. ‘And does this conversation feel like it tallies with police procedure? Given what you know?’
‘Here’s what I think,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I think you’re the Chief Constable of Kent. I think you could probably tell me all sorts of things if you chose to. I also think you failed to close the Bethany Waites case –’
‘Not me personally,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘To be fair. I was a smaller cog in those days.’
‘Quite so,’ agrees Elizabeth. ‘But a high-profile case, still unsolved. I’m offering you some help, and it feels only fair that you offer me help in return.’
‘What help are you offering me?’
‘We’ll get to that in good time,’ says Elizabeth. ‘You’ll know that Heather Garbutt is dead. Was she your prime suspect?’
‘She was a suspect,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘Again, what help can you give me? What do you know that I might not?’
‘And Jack Mason?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Another suspect?’
‘We spoke to him,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘He had an alibi, but he’s not the type of man to do the deed himself, so it was fairly meaningless. I don’t quite understand why we are having this conversation?’
‘Anyone else?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Anyone we’re missing?’
‘Who is we?’
‘My friends and I,’ says Elizabeth. ‘People you would like. I believe you’ve met Ibrahim, for instance.’
‘Ah, yes,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘Ibrahim Arif. A friend of Connie Johnson?’
‘A professional acquaintance of hers,’ says Elizabeth. ‘We have fingers in pies, Chief Constable. I am sure you would find us useful.’
Andrew Everton is weighing her up. Elizabeth has seen it countless times before. People trying to get the measure of her. It’s a fruitless endeavour.
‘OK,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘I’ll bite. Does Connie Johnson have anything to say about Heather Garbutt’s death? Is that information that you have?’
‘She thinks Heather Garbutt was frightened of someone,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Well, with respect we could gather that much from the note; that’s not new information,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘I’ll need better than that. Did she say who?’
‘I’m afraid that is information I don’t have. But you’ll be delighted to hear I can help you with the note,’ says Elizabeth. ‘It wasn’t real.’
‘Wasn’t real?’ Elizabeth sees Andrew Everton think this through, working the angles. Experience tells her he is no fool. He might actually be useful to them.
‘She didn’t write it?’ Andrew Everton still looks confused. ‘Then who did?’