‘OK, folks, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’
Another early morning and Chris Hudson’s murder squad is assembled, in various stages of dishevelment. Chris has brought in Krispy Kremes from the garage and they are doing brisk business. Chris goes through what he’d discovered from the Thursday Murder Club and what Donna had told him about the file, after she’d buzzed on his door at 11 p.m. They’d talked about it over and over and then watched the first episode of Narcos season two with a bottle of red. Donna had invited herself over and Chris had wondered if this was just what constables were like in London these days. You had to hand it to her, she knew how to make a quick impression.
‘Ian Ventham, Tony Curran’s business partner, broke some bad news to Curran less than two hours before the murder. He was cutting him out of a development that would extend Coopers Chase, a retirement village out near Robertsbridge. This would have cost Curran a lot of money, and his death has made Ventham even more money. Over twelve million. The two men were seen having an argument shortly before Curran returned home. Did he threaten Ventham? Did Ventham decide it was better to be safe than sorry and send someone round? We know that Curran was killed at 3.32 last Tuesday, but when did Ventham leave Coopers Chase that day?’
‘Where’s this info from?’ asks a young DI, Kate something.
‘Sources,’ says Chris. ‘Where are we on traffic cameras, Terry? You’ve got Ventham’s reg number?’
Donna’s phone buzzes and she looks down at a message.
Good luck at the briefing this morning. Love, Elizabeth x.
Donna shakes her head.
‘Got the number, but nothing yet. Still looking,’ says DI Terry Hallet, shaven-headed, muscles bulging from underneath a white T-shirt. ‘There’s a lot of traffic. It’s a fun job.’
‘That’s why you get doughnuts, Terry,’ says Chris. ‘Keep it up. And where are we on our other friend in the photograph, Bobby Tanner?’
‘They’ve talked to the police in Amsterdam,’ says Kate something. ‘Bobby was working for some Scousers there after he did a runner. It didn’t end well, as far as we can tell, and no one’s heard of him since. No records, no bank details, nothing. We’re still asking around, to see if he’s come back under a different name, but it was a long time ago, there’s not many of the old faces left.’
‘It’d be nice to chat to him, rule him out at least. Anyone with anything positive for me?’
A junior DS puts up her hand. She’s been sent over from Brighton and is eating carrot sticks instead of a doughnut.
‘Yes, DS Grant,’ says Chris, taking a punt on her name.
‘DS Granger,’ says DS Granger.
So close, thinks Chris. There are too many officers on this team.
‘I’ve been looking at Tony Curran’s phone records. He gets three calls on the morning of the murder, all from the same number, doesn’t pick them up. A mobile, untraceable, probably a burner.’
Chris nods. ‘OK, good work DS Granger, email me everything you’ve got and get on to the phone company, in case they can help. I know they won’t, but one of these days they will.’
‘Of course, sir,’ says DS Granger and treats herself to a carrot baton.
Donna’s phone buzzes again.
We are having a little Thursday Murder Club road trip, in case there was anything you wanted to pass on?
‘OK, gang, let’s get back to it. Terry, anything from the traffic cams, let me know straight away. Kate, can I team you up with DS Granger and see what you can learn about the phone calls. And keep tracing Bobby Tanner, wherever he is, alive or dead, someone must know. Anyone who feels they’ve got nothing to do, come and knock at my door and I’ll find something boring for you. One way or another, let’s get Ventham.’
There is a final buzz on Donna’s phone.
PS, my sources saw Chris buying doughnuts this morning. You lucky thing. Also, Joyce says hello xx
40
Bernard Cottle finishes the Codeword puzzle in the Express and puts his pen back in the pocket of his jacket. It is beautiful up here this morning. On the bench, on the hill. Too beautiful, a cruel trick, played on those not still here to see it.
He had seen Joyce and her friends driving off somewhere this morning. How happy they had looked! But, then, Joyce seems to make everyone happy.
Bernard knows he has gone too far inside himself. Knows he is out of reach, even to Joyce. Bernard is not going to be saved and he doesn’t deserve to be saved.
Still, what he wouldn’t give to be in that car right now. Looking out at the view, as Joyce nattered away, perhaps picking the loose thread from the cuff of his jacket.
But instead he will stay here, on the hill, where he sits every day, and wait for what’s to come.
41
Ibrahim had wanted to drive the Daihatsu right up to Tony Curran’s front gate, just for the purposes of absolute accuracy. Elizabeth had told him that this was poor fieldcraft, however, and so they are now in a lay-by, about 300 metres from Tony Curran’s house. It will do, he supposes.
Ibrahim has his notebook open on the bonnet and is showing some calculations to Joyce and Elizabeth. Ron is urinating in the woods.
‘So it took us thirty-seven minutes at an average speed of twenty-seven and a half miles per hour, give or take. There was no traffic, because I am very efficient at plotting routes. I have a sixth sense. Other people would have hit traffic, I assure you.’
‘I will recommend you for a gallantry honour,’ says Elizabeth. ‘As soon as we get back. Now, what does this mean for Ventham?’
‘Would you like the detailed answer, or the simple answer?’ asks Ibrahim.
‘The simple answer please, Ibrahim,’ says Elizabeth without hesitation.
Ibrahim pauses. Perhaps he had phrased his question poorly? ‘But I have prepared a detailed answer, Elizabeth.’
Ibrahim lets this hang in the air, until Joyce says, ‘Well, let’s all enjoy the detailed answer shall we?’
‘As you wish, Joyce.’ Ibrahim claps his hands and turns over a page in his notebook. ‘Now, Ventham could have taken one of three routes. He might have taken our route, but I doubt it; I don’t think he has my insight for road networks. Route two, along the A21, looks the most obvious on the map, it’s the straightest line, but here our friend temporary roadworks come into play. I spoke yesterday to a very interesting man at Kent County Council, who says the roadworks are to do with fibre optics. Would you like me to elaborate further on fibre optics, Joyce?’
‘I think I’m OK, if Elizabeth is,’ says Joyce.
Ibrahim nods. ‘Another time. So route three, you could take the London Road, down past Battle Abbey, cut across and then down the B2159. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that seems slower, surely?’
‘I was certainly thinking something, but it wasn’t that,’ says Elizabeth. Ibrahim could swear he senses impatience, but he is going as quickly as he can.
‘So, we take our speed, which you will remember was …?’
‘I’ve forgotten, Ibrahim, forgive me,’ says Joyce.
‘Approximately twenty-seven point five miles per hour, Joyce,’ says Ibrahim, with his trademark patience.
‘Of course,’ nods Joyce.
‘And we will allow an extra three miles per hour for Ian Ventham’s average speed. I was being careful, as you know.’ Ibrahim looks at both Elizabeth and Joyce and is gratified by their quick nods. ‘So, I then took the liberty of aggregating his three possible routes, dividing the answer by his average speed and subtracting a margin of error. I have calculated the margin of error in a rather elegant way. Take a look at my notebook and you’ll see the maths. We take the average speed of route A and then we …’
Ibrahim stops as a noise comes from the woods. It is Ron, emerging and zipping himself up without a care in the world.
‘Better out than in,’ says Ron.
‘Ron!’ says Elizabeth, as if greeting her oldest friend in the world. ‘We were about to enjoy Ibr
ahim showing us some maths, but I imagine you’d have little patience with that?’
‘No maths, Ibrahim old son,’ says Ron. ‘Could Ventham have got here on time?’
‘Well, I can show …’
Ron waves this away. ‘Ibrahim, I’m seventy-five, mate. Could he have done it?’
42
Ian Ventham is on his treadmill, listening to the audiobook of Richard Branson’s Screw It, Let’s Do It: Lessons in Life and Business. Ian doesn’t agree with Branson’s politics, far from it, but you have to admire the guy. Admire what he’s achieved. One day Ian will write a book. He just needs a title that rhymes and then he’ll get to work.
As Ian runs, he is thinking about the graveyard and he’s thinking about Father Mackie. He wouldn’t want anything to get out of hand there. In the good old days he could have sent Tony Curran round to have a quiet word with him. But Tony’s gone and Ian is not going to dwell on that any more than Richard Branson would. Branson would move on and so will Ian.
The diggers are due to start in a week. Get the graveyard done first, that’s the tough bit, like eating your vegetables. Everything else will be a breeze.
The diggers are ready to go, the permits are signed off, Bogdan’s lined up a couple of drivers.
In fact, thinks Ian, in fact, what is he waiting for? What would Branson do? What would the one guy he likes on Dragons’ Den do?
They’d get on with it. Screw it, let’s do it.
Ian switches off the audiobook and, without breaking stride, rings Bogdan.
43
Joyce
So, could Ian Ventham have killed Tony Curran? That was today’s big question.
Well, according to Ibrahim, and I do trust him in the area of attention to detail, Ian Ventham would have been cutting it very fine, but it would have been possible. If he had left Coopers Chase at 3 p.m., he would have arrived at Tony Curran’s house (big, and a bit tacky, but still nice) at 3.29. That would have given him two minutes to get out of his car, get into the house and hit Tony Curran with a large object.
So, Ron said that if Ian Ventham had killed Tony Curran, then he’d done it very quickly and Elizabeth had said that that was always the best way to kill someone and that there was never any point faffing around.
I asked Ibrahim if he was certain of the timings and he told me that of course he was and that he had tried to show me his workings, but that he’d been interrupted by Ron returning from urinating. I told him that was a shame and he perked up a bit and suggested that perhaps he could show me the workings later. I told him that I would like that very much, because a white lie harms no one.
So, we had a lot of fun today and it seems that Ian Ventham really could have killed Tony Curran. He had the motive and he had the opportunity and I suppose where bludgeoning is concerned, the means is just something big and heavy, so that wouldn’t be beyond him either. Lewis would have him bang to rights.
What if they arrest Ventham though? And the fun stops?
Let’s see what tomorrow brings.
44
Ian Ventham is having an early night. He sets his alarm for 5 a.m. Tomorrow is the big day. He puts on his blackout goggles and his noise-cancelling headphones and happily drifts off.
Ron shuts his eyes. He liked it the other day, the police coming to see them, and he liked shouting at Ventham in the meeting. In truth he misses the limelight a bit. He misses people listening when he talks. Put him on Question Time. They wouldn’t dare. He’d tell them a thing or two. Thump the table, blame the Tories, raise the roof, like the good old days. Or would he? Maybe not. He’s drifting now. Maybe they’d see through him, maybe his tricks were yesterday’s tricks? He has certainly lost a yard of pace. What if they asked about Syria? Is it Syria? Libya? What if Dimbleby looks him in the eye and says, ‘Mr Ritchie, tell us what you saw.’ But that was the copper wasn’t it? And it’s Fiona Bruce now isn’t it? He likes Fiona Bruce. Who killed Tony Curran though? Ventham. Typical Blairite. Unless he was missing something. Was he missing something?
Across the path, Ibrahim is learning the countries of the world, just to keep his left brain ticking over. He is letting his right brain get on with the job of thinking about who killed Tony Curran. Somewhere between Denmark and Djibouti, he falls asleep.
In her three-bed, in Larkin, the one with the decking, Elizabeth cannot sleep. She is getting used to that these days.
Her arm is around her Stephen in the darkness. Can he feel it? Does Penny hear her? Have they both already disappeared? Or are they only real for as long as she chooses to believe they’re real? Elizabeth clings on a little tighter and holds on to the day for as long as she is able.
Bernard Cottle is online. His daughter, Sufi, had bought him an iPad last Christmas. He had asked for slippers, but Sufi hadn’t considered slippers a proper present, so he’d had to buy himself some in Fairhaven in the sales. He hadn’t known how to use the iPad, but Joyce had told him not to be so silly and had taken it out of the drawer and shown him. By his side, Bernard has a large glass of whisky and the last slice of Joyce’s coffee and walnut cake. A pale, blue glow illuminates his face, as he looks at the plans for The Woodlands for what must be the hundredth time.
One by one, the lights of the village switch off. The only remaining illumination comes from behind the thick hospital blinds of Willows. The business of dying keeping different hours from the business of living.
45
Ellidge had seen them first.
Every morning, Edwin Ellidge wakes at 6 a.m. and walks slowly, but with purpose, to the bottom of the drive at Coopers Chase. Once across the cattle grid and onto the main road, he looks both ways, looks again for good measure, then turns and walks slowly back up the drive. Job done, he is back in his flat by 6.30 a.m., whereupon he is not seen for the rest of the day.
Coopers Chase being Coopers Chase, no one has ever asked him why. After all, a woman in Tennyson walks a dog she doesn’t have. Whatever gets you out of bed.
Elizabeth, being Elizabeth, once decided to casually intercept him on his walk back. As she approached him, the early mist, her frozen breath and the trudging figure of a man in an overcoat all reminded her of happy times in East Germany. He raised his gaze to meet hers, gave a reassuring shake of the head and said, ‘No need, I’ve already checked.’ Elizabeth replied ‘Thank you, Mr Ellidge.’ She turned back and the two of them walked together up the drive in a very pleasant silence.
Ibrahim says Ellidge was once a head teacher and latterly a beekeeper, and Elizabeth had detected a buried hint of Norfolk in his voice, but that was all the information they had on file for Mr Edwin Ellidge.
Ian Ventham’s Range Rover was first. This was at 6 a.m. Ellidge saw it veer off the road before it reached him, taking the track which led up the hill to the Playfair farm. The diggers passed Ellidge at around 6.20 a.m., as he was walking home. He didn’t even give them a glance. Evidently these were not the vehicles he had been looking for. They were set, nose to nose, on a low-loader that slowly ground its way up the drive.
A dawn raid is all well and good for catching drug dealers, or armed gangs, but at Coopers Chase it is next to useless. If such things were logged, the first phone call would have been recorded at 6.21. Diggers are here, coming up the drive, two of them. I mean I don’t know, do you? That beacon lit, the news was across the whole village by 6.45 a.m. at the very latest, the news spread by landline alone – Ibrahim had tried to set up a WhatsApp group in February, but it hadn’t caught on. Residents began to emerge and discuss what could be done.
At 7.30 a.m. Ian Ventham comes back down the hill and turns into the drive to discover the whole village is out. Except for Edwin Ellidge, who has had enough excitement for one day. Karen Playfair is in Ian Ventham’s passenger seat. She has a breakfast lecture to give at Coopers Chase this morning.
The low-loader has continued its slow growl up the drive and is now being carefully driven through the car park. Bogdan jumps from the passenger seat and unbolts t
he heavy wooden gate, so the journey can continue upwards on the narrow path towards the Garden of Eternal Rest.
‘Hold up, son.’ Ron approaches Bogdan and shakes his hand. ‘Ron. Ron Ritchie. What’s all this?’
Bogdan shrugs. ‘Diggers.’
‘I’ll give you diggers, son. What are they doing?’ says Ron, quickly adding, ‘Don’t say digging.’
More residents have reached the gate now and they begin to crowd around Ron, all waiting for an answer.
‘Well, son? What are they for?’ asks Ron.
Bogdan sighs. ‘You said to not say digging. I don’t have other answer.’ He looks at his watch.
‘Son, you just opened this gate and this gate only leads one place.’ Ron sees he has a crowd and this is an opportunity he is not going to waste. He turns towards the gathering. He spies his gang among them. Ibrahim has his swimming stuff under one arm, Joyce has just arrived with a flask and is looking out for someone. Bernard, no doubt. Elizabeth is at the back and there’s a rare sighting of Stephen by her side. He’s in a dressing gown, but he’s not the only one. Ron feels a pang of guilt as he sees Penny’s husband, John, in his suit, as ever, stopped on his way over to Willows. Ron hasn’t visited Penny in a long time and knows he must put that right before the chance is gone. It frightens him, though.
Ron clambers onto the first bar of the gate to address his crowd. He then almost loses his balance, thinks the better of it and returns to solid ground. No matter, he’s in business here.
‘Well, this is nice. Just us, a couple of Polish lads and some diggers. All enjoying the morning air. Ventham’s little gang. Crawling in at six thirty in the morning to dig up our nuns. No warning, no consultation. Coming into our village and digging up our nuns.’ He turns to Bogdan. ‘That’s your game, is it, son?’
The Thursday Murder Club Page 12
