Chris and Donna have recently been in to see the Chief Constable of Kent, a man named Andrew Everton. Good copper, sticks up for his troops, but merciless if anyone crosses the line. He writes novels in his spare time too, under a pen-name. The Chief Constable publishes the books himself, and you can get them only on Kindle. Another officer was telling Chris that’s where the real money is these days, but Andrew Everton still drives an old Vauxhall Vectra, so it may not be true.
Andrew Everton told them they are both going to get a commendation at the Kent Police Awards. For their work catching Connie Johnson. Nice to get a bit of recognition. The walls of the Chief Constable’s office were garlanded with portraits of proud police officers. Heroes all. Chris looks at this sort of thing through Donna’s and Patrice’s eyes these days, and had noticed the portraits were all of men, save for one of a woman, and one of a police dog. The police dog had a medal. Chris sees a used condom curled up in a seashell. Life is a miracle.
Another text from Ibrahim. Cutting to the chase, hopefully.
The cases to which I referred in my previous message are the death of Bethany Waites. And the conviction of Heather Garbutt for fraud. Both from 2013. With particular emphasis on where Bethany Waites might have been between 10.15 p.m. and 02.47 a.m. on the night of her death. And who might have been in her car with her. All information gratefully received. Talk soon, my good friend. Love to Patrice, you really have found yourself a fine woman there. Often, in relationships, the key is to …
Chris stops reading. He remembers both cases, Bethany Waites and Heather Garbutt. Will he take a look? Who is he kidding, of course he will take a look. One day the Thursday Murder Club will get him sacked, or possibly killed, but it’s worth the risk. He feels as if someone must have conjured them up just for him, to save him. The Thursday Murder Club brought him Donna, Donna brought him Patrice, Patrice brought him stir-fried tofu. And all of that, it turns out, brought him happiness.
Donna looks up from her phone. ‘Why are you smiling?’
Chris shrugs. ‘Why are you smiling?’
Donna shrugs. ‘You getting texts from my mum?’
‘Can’t open those in public,’ says Chris. ‘Vice Squad would pull me in.’
Donna sticks out her tongue.
‘Ibrahim wants us to look into a case.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ says Donna. ‘Someone called Bethany drove her car off a cliff?’
‘How on earth would you –’
Donna waves this away.
Chris looks out to sea, and Donna joins him. The grey clouds are turning an angry black, and the whipping wind lashes their faces with stinging, salt spray. The smell of burnt metal and plastic from the minibus mixes with the stench of the decaying corpse, and catches in their throats. Two seagulls fight, loudly and angrily, over a plastic shopping bag.
‘So beautiful,’ says Chris.
‘Stunning,’ agrees Donna.
8
Elizabeth has been thinking about the CCTV cameras. How on earth did they not pick up Bethany’s car as she drove through Fairhaven? Before leaving for her walk, she had rung Chris about it, and he had said, ‘Ah, I’ve been expecting you.’
She asked if he might have a look into it, and he said he was rather busy with a corpse of his own, so Elizabeth had congratulated him on the commendation he had just received from the Chief Constable, and reminded him of her part in catching Connie Johnson for him.
So he has agreed to take a look.
Elizabeth and Stephen have started taking a walk at the same time each afternoon. Rain or shine, same route, same time.
They walk through the woods, along the western wall of the graveyard, where Elizabeth had gone digging not so very long ago, and out into the open fields beyond the new buildings, which are beginning to spring up on top of the hill. There they stop, take out a hip flask and talk to the cows.
Stephen has given all the cows their own names and personalities, and, every day, gives Elizabeth a running commentary of all the latest cow developments. Today, Stephen tells her that Daisy has been cheating on Brian with Edward, a younger, more handsome bull from a nearby field, and Daisy and Brian are now trying cow counselling. Elizabeth takes a nip of whisky and says that Daisy is an unimaginative name for a cow.
‘No dispute there,’ agrees Stephen. ‘The blame lies squarely with her mother. Also called Daisy.’
‘Is that so,’ says Elizabeth. ‘And what was her father called?’
‘No one knows, that’s the thing,’ says Stephen. ‘Quite the scandal at the time. Daisy senior had been on holiday to Spain, rumours of a fling.’
‘Mmm hmm,’ says Elizabeth.
‘In fact, if you listen closely, you can hear Daisy has just the slightest hint of a Spanish accent.’
Daisy moos, as if on cue, and they both laugh.
It is time now though to head back through the woods, along the path that she has made herself, quiet, private, all their own. Keeping Stephen away from prying eyes. Away from inconvenient questions about the state of his mind.
Their hands stay clasped together as they walk, arms lightly swinging, hearts beating as one. This routine has quickly become Elizabeth’s favourite time of the day. Her handsome, happy husband. She can pretend for a little while longer that all is well. That his hand will forever be in hers.
‘Nice day for a walk,’ says Stephen, the sun lighting up his face. ‘We should do this more often.’
God willing, thinks Elizabeth, I will take every walk with you that I can.
Bethany’s body had never been found. That worries Elizabeth. She has read enough detective novels to know you must never trust a murder without a corpse. To be fair, she has also faked a number of deaths herself over the years.
Her attention elsewhere, Elizabeth sees the man only for a split-second. But she instantly realizes she has made a mistake.
It happens. Not often, but it happens.
This happy routine of hers, these familiar walks with Stephen, this familiar pleasure, was, of course, Elizabeth’s big mistake. As love so often is.
Routine is the spy’s greatest enemy. Never travel the same route two days in a row. Never leave work at the same time. Don’t eat at the same restaurant every Friday evening. Routine gives your enemy an opportunity.
An opportunity to plan ahead, an opportunity to hide, an opportunity to pounce.
Her split-second is up. Her last thought is ‘Please, please don’t hit Stephen.’ She doesn’t even feel the blow she knows is coming.
9
‘And then, in the late seventies, I went out with a member of UB40, but I think we all did back then,’ says Pauline.
‘Which one?’ asks Ron, trying to eat his soup with a little decorum.
Pauline shrugs. ‘There were so many of them. I think I slept with one of Madness too, or he said he was at least.’
Ron had rung his son, Jason, and asked where might be good for lunch, somewhere that was classy, but wouldn’t make a fuss if he didn’t know what knife to use. Somewhere that did food he would recognize, but would have proper napkins, and nice loos. Somewhere you didn’t have to wear a tie, but you could if you wanted, just hypothetical, say, but to remember he was a pensioner, and not made of money, though, you know, he had a few bob put away, don’t you worry about that.
Jason had listened politely, then said, ‘And what’s her name?’ Ron had said, ‘Whose name?’ Jason had said, ‘Your date,’ and Ron had said, ‘What makes you think …’ and Jason had said, ‘Le Pont Noir, Dad, she’ll love it,’ and Ron had said, ‘Pauline,’ and Jason wished him the best of luck. Then they spoke about West Ham for a bit until Ron asked Jason if he could book the restaurant for him, because he could never work out websites, and was too shy to ask Ibrahim to do it for him.
‘Your mate really going to Darwell Prison today?’ Pauline asks.
‘We have a habit of interfering,’ says Ron. ‘So, what’s your take on this Bethany Waites thing? You were around at the time?’
Le Pont Noir is what they call a gastropub. Ron had to scan the whole menu twice before he saw there was a steak. Even then it said ‘bavette’ of steak, but it came with chips, so he was hoping it was going to be safe.