Does she trust Elizabeth and Joyce? No. Do they really know who killed Bethany Waites? Fiona doubts that very much. But will she help them? For reasons she can’t quite access at the moment, yes, she probably will.
Fiona is filming an advert for yoghurt this morning. Or for breakfast cereal. She forgets which. She knows she has to lick her famous lips and say, ‘It’s delicious,’ but she hasn’t looked into it beyond that. She sits on a plastic chair in a cavernous studio as lights are adjusted, and groups of men in glasses congregate, scratching their beards, while much younger people hand them coffees.
Fiona is scrolling through her Instagram. Three point five million followers now. She has promised her Instagram adviser, Luke, that she will post a story today. He is very strict with her, but, seeing as he can get her twenty-five thousand pounds a time to post about a free holiday to the Maldives, she lets him be. But it’s all very regimented and boring. She is a brand now, and everyone wants to tell her what to do. And, worse, what not to do. Maybe she should push back against that a little? Next to her, a man dressed as a banana is eating a banana. She looks at the time. Just gone eleven a.m. It’s make-your-mind-up time, Fiona.
Elizabeth isn’t asking for much, in the grand scheme of things, but, even so, Fiona has a number of objections. At first she had told Elizabeth to speak to her agent (‘Oh, I don’t think we’ll be doing that, dear, do you?’). Elizabeth did her very best to persuade her. What’s the worst that could happen, Elizabeth had said. Well, plenty, is the truth. That’s why Fiona remains in two minds.
A woman dressed as a yoghurt pot walks past, so it probably is an advert for yoghurt. Fiona doesn’t eat yoghurt, ever since Gwyneth Paltrow once said something or other about it on TikTok.
Was Fiona walking into some sort of trap? Should she just say no and have done with it? Why is she even entertaining the idea?
Elizabeth and Joyce had fired all sorts of questions at her when they first met, and, truth be told, Fiona had quite enjoyed it. Quite enjoyed being accused of murder by a woman who had pretended to faint, and another woman with a revolver in her handbag.
So, if they want her help, sure. Perhaps. Maybe. It will make a splash at the very least. Everything is about new content. Something new. Fiona wonders what the Mail Online headline will be this time.
One of the men with glasses and a beard approaches her.
‘Hi, Fiona, I’m Rory, we’ve just done the tiniest rewrite, and I wanted to check you’d be OK with us putting a dab of yoghurt on your nose? We think it could really work. You know, for humour?’
Fiona gives Rory her full-beam smile. ‘I won’t be putting yoghurt on my nose, Rory.’
Rory nods. ‘Yep, yep, great. Let’s do it without the yoghurt on the nose. Love it.’
He disappears. The man dressed as a banana asks her for a selfie, and Fiona lets him know, very gently, that he is being unprofessional.
She goes back to her phone, and types out the information that Elizabeth has asked for. For the final time she asks herself why? For fun, perhaps? For something new and interesting to do? To see how it all plays out, certainly.
And, maybe – maybe – for Bethany?
Fiona shakes her head. She is not the sentimental type. She is doing it for followers. That must be the explanation.
She presses send. The deed is done.
69
Chris is having trouble hearing what Andrew Everton is saying. The room is very busy, and there is excited chatter all around. People are drinking on a weekday evening, and the air is heavy with that heady thrill. As they make their way to the table, Andrew Everton speaks directly into his ear.
‘Suicide?’
‘Looked like it,’ says Chris.
‘I don’t trust anything connected with this case,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘A friend of yours came to visit me.’
‘Oh, yes?’ says Chris, back into Andrew Everton’s ear.
‘A woman named Elizabeth,’ says Andrew Everton.
No surprises there.
‘Sorry about her,’ says Chris, as they reach their table.
‘Not at all,’ says Andrew Everton. Chris searches for his name card. He is next to Patrice, thank goodness. Sometimes they split couples up at these things. ‘She has a job for me.’
‘That sounds like Elizabeth,’ says Chris.
‘I can trust her?’ he asks.
‘God, no,’ says Chris, but his laugh says otherwise, and Andrew Everton nods.
Chris pulls Patrice’s chair out for her and she sits.
‘I could get used to this,’ says Patrice to Andrew Everton. ‘Who does Chris have to arrest to get invited back next year?’
Andrew Everton laughs.
Chris and Donna will both be receiving a ‘Highly Commended in the Line of Duty’ medal. They are gold-plated. Terry Hallet has one and has shown Chris pictures.
Andrew Everton addresses Chris and Patrice. ‘Do you want to see the medal?’
‘Go on, then,’ says Patrice. ‘Teachers don’t see medals very often.’
Andrew Everton reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small velvet pouch. He opens a drawstring and pulls out the gold medal inside.
‘Worth a few bob on eBay, that,’ says Patrice. She squeezes Chris’s hand.
Across from them are two empty chairs. Donna is bringing Bogdan. She had to come clean in the end. Polish cinema indeed. Patrice has yet to meet him, but she has just seen photos, and, as far as Chris is concerned, is a little too enthusiastic.
Bogdan is making Donna very happy though, and that is Chris’s only concern.
Patrice kisses him. ‘You excited?’
‘Never won anything before,’ says Chris.
‘My heart?’ says Patrice.
‘I can’t put your heart in my downstairs loo to show off to visitors, can I?’ says Chris. ‘You excited about meeting Bogdan?’
‘Oh my God,’ says Patrice. ‘So excited.’
Again, a little over-enthusiastic. Chris suspects that Bogdan would be a tough stepson-in-law to match. A lot of weddings needed before that happened though. Well, two weddings. Stop thinking about weddings, Chris. Say something to impress Andrew Everton.
‘I haven’t had a Toblerone for three months now.’
‘Is that so,’ says Andrew Everton. Jesus, Chris.
The compère, a comedian Chris has seen on TV, Josh something, kicks things off with a monologue. He’s very funny, ripping into everyone, and dealing with the drunken heckles that come his way. Chris sees Donna making her way through the side door of the Grand Ballroom. She is alone. Uh oh. Both he and Patrice watch as she makes her way over, and sits, her face like a cliff in a dark storm. An empty chair beside her.
‘No Bogdan?’ asks Chris.
‘Elizabeth needed him,’ says Donna.
Well, quite a theme was developing.
Was something going on they didn’t know about?
Part Three
* * *
CATCH UP ON ALL THE NEWS
70
Joyce
I am in Staffordshire. We all are, pretty much. Everyone who needs to be, at least.
Elizabeth and Stephen are here: they are down the hallway, though they haven’t emerged yet this morning. Ron and Pauline are in the East Wing. This house has wings. Ibrahim drove them, and he is staying at the gatehouse at the end of the drive.
Henrik is here, naturally, it is his house. It’s like Downton Abbey, but with a pinball machine, and a hot tub.
Mike Waghorn is also here. I suggested he join us for a brandy in the library last night, but he wanted an early night as we have given him a job to do today. He is taking it seriously.
In the end it was just me and Ibrahim, sitting up, drinking and chatting. He is feeling very perky because he has cracked the identity of ‘Carron Whitehead’. He worked it out in the car on the way up here. When he told me, I double-checked and triple-checked, but he was quite right.
He really can be very clever. I’m still taking credit for ‘Michael Gullis’ though. That’s what really cracked the case.
I told Joanna I had worked it out and she said, ‘Well done’ and sounded like she meant it. There was even a thumbs-up emoji.