The whole place is running wild now. Jack Mason might have bought it, but it seems he doesn’t visit it. Ron had rung Jack last night, to see if he could give them the keys, but Jack wasn’t answering. Is he already regretting telling Ron and Viktor about the body? He hadn’t named his co-conspirator, but, other than that, he had come dangerously close to grassing. Ron knows that won’t have come naturally. And, if they do find something, what will that mean for Jack?
Two constables force open the door, pushing it unwillingly back against a pile of mail. Who is still delivering mail, Joyce wonders? Who takes a look at this house, clearly abandoned, returning to nature, and delivers a pizza leaflet? Joyce sees a National Trust magazine on top of the pile. She suspects she might have rather liked Heather Garbutt.
Elizabeth has gone around the side of the building with Chief Constable Andrew Everton, but Joyce goes through the front door because she wants to be nosy. And the lovely thing about investigating a murder is that you can be nosy and call it work. Joyce is disappointed that there is not much to see, however. All traces of Heather Garbutt are gone. The only clue she was ever here are the paler squares of wallpaper where pictures had once hung. At least there is no need to be careful, to tiptoe around and not touch. Joyce has free rein. The house had been searched many years ago, and any evidence there might have been here is long gone.
But no one had searched the garden. Why would you? With a body washed out to sea, what was there to dig for? Joyce walks into the sitting room, lovely patio doors framing the view of a large yellow digger, police tape flapping, and Chief Constable Andrew Everton, in a peaked cap and a hi-vis jacket, taking command of the scene. One of the constables slides open the doors, and Joyce walks out onto the patio decking. Joyce watches her step: decking gets too slippery, you are so much better off with stone. She has to admit, though, that this decking looks in better shape than the rest of the overgrown garden and fading house.
The digger has been here since eight this morning. The garden, and even bits of the woodland beyond, are pocked with holes. Two men in hard hats are just beginning to dismantle the decking. Tiny coloured flags mark where holes have been dug and where they are yet to be dug. Joyce spots Elizabeth. She is, surprise, surprise, monopolizing the Chief Constable.
‘What a lot of holes,’ says Joyce. ‘And I was right about that kitchen, even now it’s very liveable. Lots of storage.’
‘The holes are not all ours,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘Someone, let’s assume Jack Mason, has been doing their own digging over the years. Especially as you get into the woods.’
Joyce looks into the woodland behind the garden. There are uniformed officers digging with shovels.
‘That’s a lot of police officers,’ she says.
‘I’m the Chief Constable,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘People tend to jump when I ask for something. I’m told the only skeleton we’ve found so far was a guinea pig’s.’
‘We were digging in Vladivostok once,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I forget why, a warlord had buried something or other. Anyway, we uncovered a prehistoric moose. Intact, antlers and all. We were all set to fill the hole back in, but the head of the Russian Service at the time was on the board of the Natural History Museum, and in the end we released a Russian spy from Belmarsh Prison in return for the moose. It’s on display if you go there now.’
‘Right,’ says Andrew Everton.
‘You stop listening after a while,’ says Joyce. ‘She’s always digging something up, or upsetting Russia. Do you believe Jack Mason’s story? About the partner?’
Andrew Everton considers the question. ‘It’s an unusual thing to make up. And, if he’s lying, he’s lying for a reason, and I wouldn’t mind finding out what that reason is.’
‘Any news back on Heather Garbutt’s death?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Any forensics?’
Andrew Everton shrugs. ‘Here’s the thing about dusting a prison cell for fingerprints. There are hundreds of them, and most of them belong to people with criminal records.’
Elizabeth snorts.
‘Honestly, ignore her,’ says Joyce.
A woman enters the garden from the side of the house. She wears white coveralls, and plastic sleeves over her shoes. Forensics. Just what Joyce has been looking for. She will let her settle and then go to speak to her. It never hurts to ask, does it?
There is activity in the woodland, and a constable in muddied uniform runs out towards them from the trees.
‘Sir,’ says the constable. ‘We’ve found something.’
Andrew Everton nods. ‘Good work.’ He turns to Elizabeth and Joyce. ‘You two stay here.’
This time they both snort.
64
‘I don’t know if there has ever been so much testosterone in this room,’ says Ibrahim, as he carries in a tray of sweet mint tea for everyone.
Viktor and Henrik are at the dining table, hunched over the financial documents from Heather Garbutt’s trial. Ron is sitting on the sofa, watching something on his phone, and Alan is looking out of the window, wondering when Joyce might be back. Occasionally he spots someone who might look a bit like her, and gets excited.
‘Five boys,’ says Ibrahim, pouring the tea. ‘Henrik, how is your murderous rage? Subsided?’
‘It is forgotten,’ says Henrik. ‘It was tactically naive.’
‘You fellas found anything?’ asks Ron.
‘Nothing,’ says Viktor.
‘Thought Henrik was the best money-launderer in the world?’
‘I am,’ says Henrik. ‘That is provable.’
‘Well, Bethany Waites found something in there that you’re missing,’ says Ron.
‘And it got her killed,’ says Ibrahim.
‘So at the moment you’re just a guy with a beard.’
‘Ron, Henrik is a guest,’ says Ibrahim.
‘A guest?’ says Ron, still not looking up from his phone. ‘Yesterday he wanted to kill Joyce, and now he’s a guest.’
‘And he wanted to kill me too,’ says Viktor.
‘Guys, it was an error,’ says Henrik. ‘I wanted to be tough. I cannot keep apologizing.’
‘No need to apologize if you find out who killed Bethany Waites,’ says Ron.
‘We will find out,’ says Henrik.
‘Did Bethany Waites say anything to anyone?’ asks Viktor. ‘About what she’d found?’
‘Nah,’ says Ron.
‘Nothing about “Carron Whitehead” or “Robert Brown Msc”?’
‘Nothing about anyone,’ says Ron. ‘Far as we know. Henrik, you rich enough to buy a football club?’
‘I already own one,’ says Henrik.
Ibrahim sits at the dining table. ‘Well, she did say something. To someone.’
‘What did she say?’ asks Viktor.
‘She sent a message to Mike Waghorn,’ says Ibrahim. ‘A couple of weeks before she disappeared.’
‘Do you have the message? It might be important,’ asks Viktor.
‘I don’t think there was anything in it,’ says Ibrahim. ‘But we could ask Pauline to ask Mike?’
‘They’re both coming over for lunch in a bit,’ says Ron.
‘You are taken with Pauline, Ron,’ says Viktor.
‘Well, you’re taken with Elizabeth,’ says Ron.
‘I know,’ says Viktor. ‘But I have no chance. You have every chance. What luck.’
Ron shrugs, a little embarrassed. ‘We’re friends.’
‘Love is very precious,’ says Viktor, and takes a sip of his mint tea.
‘I wonder if I could ask you to put a lace doily under your teacup,’ says Ibrahim. ‘To prevent the wood from marking.’
‘Could I use your bathroom?’ asks Henrik. ‘I forgot to moisturize this morning, and I can feel myself drying out.’
Ron looks at Ibrahim. ‘So much testosterone in one room, mate. So much testosterone.’
Alan barks at a chaffinch.
65