Always a front, always drugs, thought Chris as he closed the passenger door of his Focus. Which seemed apt, given who Chris and Donna were here to see.
They walk through the front doors, across the sticky, carpeted foyer and into the arena. At this time of day it is mostly empty, except for an elderly man hoovering up popcorn from rows of plastic seats and two figures out on the ice.
Anyone who had seen Jason Ritchie in his prime would tell you the same. He had a fluid strength, his feet simply gliding around the ring. Those powerful arms arcing through the air, or flicking forwards in rib-rattling jabs. His tiny feints and dips, eyes never leaving his opponent, his whole body ready to pounce and strike. He wasn’t a slugger, a big plank of wood, a zombie. He was an athlete, strong and brave, a magnificent, flowing machine, everything given, nothing wasted. With his grace and his poise and his movement, Jason Ritchie was beautiful to watch.
However, as Chris and Donna sip on coffees, watching, it becomes apparent that Jason Ritchie cannot ice dance.
The session seems to be over, as Jason is gingerly skating towards the side of the rink, his elbow being supported by a small woman in a purple leotard. Even so, about a metre from the sweet safety of the side, Jason’s left skate disappears from underneath him, slices into his right skate and his tumbling weight is too much for the lady in the leotard to save. The big man is down again. Chris and Donna have been watching for only a matter of minutes, but have already lost count of his falls.
Chris leans over the board and offers a hand. It is the first time Jason clocks the two officers. He has been preoccupied. He looks Chris in the eye as he takes the proffered hand and finally reaches dry land.
‘Have you got five minutes, Jason?’ asks Chris. ‘We’ve come ever such a long way.’
‘Are you OK, Jason?’ asks the lady in the leotard.
Jason nods and gestures for her to go on ahead. ‘Yeah, couple of mates. I’m going to stop for a chat.’
‘Well, look, I’m going to write this all up and send it to the producers,’ says the skater. ‘You’re not a lost cause, I promise!’
‘Darling, you’re a superstar, thanks for putting up with me and picking me up off my arse.’
‘Hopefully see you on the show!’ says the skater and waves as she disappears up the steep stairs on her narrow blades.
Jason collapses onto a moulded plastic chair, which bends a little under his weight. He starts to unlace his skates.
‘Thought I might see the two of you again. You got another photo for me?’
‘Well, shall we dive straight in?’ starts Chris. ‘What were you doing at Tony Curran’s house on the day he was murdered?’
‘None of your business,’ says Jason. He nearly has the first skate off, though it’s a struggle.
‘But you agree you were there?’ asks Donna.
‘Am I under arrest?’ asks Jason.
‘Not yet,’ says Donna.
‘Then it’s none of your business if I was or I wasn’t.’ The first skate is finally off. Jason puffs like he’s gone three rounds.
‘Just so you have the full picture,’ says Chris, pulling out his phone from his pocket and swiping it into life. ‘We’d been trying to find Ian Ventham’s car on the traffic cameras near Tony Curran’s house. A nice open-and-shut case. Ian Ventham didn’t visit Tony Curran that afternoon, but we found something even more interesting. The first traffic camera catches your car, Jason, about four hundred yards east of Tony’s house at three twenty-six and then the next camera, the other side of Tony’s house, catches you at three thirty-eight. So either you took twelve minutes to drive half a mile, or you stopped somewhere in between.’
Jason looks at Chris very calmly, then shrugs and starts on his right skate.
‘OK, I’ve got one too,’ says Donna. ‘The day that Tony Curran was murdered, did you ring him?’
‘Don’t remember, I’m afraid.’ Jason is picking at what seems to be an impossible knot in his laces.
‘You’d remember that though, Jason, wouldn’t you?’ asks Donna. ‘Ringing Tony Curran? One of the old gang, wasn’t he?’
‘Never been in a gang,’ says Jason, finally making a breakthrough with the knot.
Chris nods. ‘But here’s our issue, Jason. A mystery number phones Tony Curran three times on the morning of his death. A number we couldn’t trace, thanks to Vodafone and to data protection legislation. But a number that, thankfully, you had personally written down and handed to PC De Freitas. So your number, Jason.’
Jason finally has the second skate off. He nods. ‘That was silly of me.’
‘And then, that very afternoon, you are driving along the road outside Tony Curran’s house, at which point you stop to perform some sort of errand, which takes around ten minutes. At the exact time that Tony Curran was murdered.’ Chris looks at Jason for a response.
‘Yep. Sounds like you’ve got yourself a mystery there,’ says Jason. ‘Now I’ve got these skates off, I’m going to head back.’
Jason stands. Chris and Donna do too.
‘I wonder if you’d like to come in and give us some fingerprints and a bit of DNA?’ says Chris. ‘Just to eliminate you from our inquiries? We could eliminate you from two murders at once. That would be nice.’
‘You should probably ask yourself why you don’t have my prints and DNA already,’ says Jason. ‘Maybe because I’ve never been arrested for anything?’
‘Never been caught, Jason,’ says Chris. ‘That’s different.’
‘Be interesting to hear a motive too,’ says Jason.
‘Robbery?’ says Chris. ‘Man like that has a lot of money lying around. You got any money worries at the moment?’
‘I think time’s up here, don’t you?’ says Jason, starting to climb the stairs to the changing room. Chris and Donna don’t follow.
‘Or are you doing Celebrity Ice Dance for the prestige, Jason?’ asks Donna. To which Jason turns and gives a genuine smile. Then raises his middle finger, turns again and continues towards the dressing room.
Chris and Donna see him disappear, then sit back down on their plastic chairs and look out over the empty ice.
‘What do you make of that?’ asks Chris.
‘If he did it, why on earth would he leave a photo with him in it by the body?’ asks Donna.
Chris shakes his head. ‘Perhaps some people are just stupid?’
‘He doesn’t seem stupid,’ says Donna.
‘Agreed,’ agrees Chris.
63
From outside, Elizabeth can immediately see that something is wrong. The curtains in Stephen’s study are open. They are always closed. Stephen doesn’t like the glare of the morning sun when he writes.
Her brain makes all of the necessary calculations in a second. Has Stephen woken and broken his routine? Is he hurt? Lying on the floor? Alive? Dead?
Or has someone broken in? Someone from her past life? It does happen, even now. She has heard of it happening. Or perhaps someone from the messy present has paid her a visit?
Elizabeth circles to the fire door at the back of Larkin Court. It is impossible to open from the outside without a piece of kit available only to the Fire Service. Elizabeth opens it and slides inside.
Her feet make no sound on the carpeted hallway, but they would have made no sound on the concrete walkway of an East German detention centre. She takes out her keys and coats the Yale in lip balm. It makes no noise when she inserts it in the lock and Elizabeth opens the door as quietly as she can. Which is very quietly.
If there is someone in the flat Elizabeth knows her time may be up. Holding her key ring in the palm of her hand, she slides a different key through each of the gaps in her fist.
Stephen has not collapsed in the hallway, that is news at least. His study door is open, morning sun streaming in. She feels a momentary shame at the bright dust dancing in the doorway.
‘Checkmate,’ says a voice from the living room. An eastern European voice.
‘Well I’m
damned,’ replies Stephen.
Elizabeth slips her keys back into her bag and opens the living-room door. Stephen and Bogdan sit across the chess board from each other. They both smile to see her.
‘Elizabeth, look who it is!’ says Stephen, gesturing to Bogdan.
Bogdan has a moment of confusion. ‘Elizabeth?’
‘He calls me that. He gets things wrong.’ To Stephen, ‘It’s Marina, dear, remember.’ This doesn’t feel wonderful, but needs must.
‘Like the man said,’ agrees Stephen.
Bogdan has risen from his chair and extends his hand towards Elizabeth. ‘I brought you flowers. Your husband has put them somewhere. I’m not sure where.’
Stephen is examining the end-game on the chess board. ‘The bugger got me, Elizabeth. Fair and square.’
Elizabeth looks at her husband, crouched over the board, backtracking moves, clearly delighted with the trap in which he has been caught. Life in the old dog yet, then, thinks Elizabeth, and falls in love again for the thousandth time. She repeats. ‘It’s Marina, darling.’
‘I call you Elizabeth. Is OK,’ says Bogdan.
‘He fixed the light in my study too, dear,’ says Stephen. ‘We have a marvel on our hands.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Bogdan. I’m sorry we’re not as clean as we might be. We don’t get guests, so sometimes …’
Bogdan places his hand on Elizabeth’s upper arm. ‘You have a beautiful home, Elizabeth, and a wonderful husband. I wonder if I can speak to you?’
‘Of course, Bogdan,’ says Elizabeth.
‘I can trust you?’ asks Bogdan, staring deep into Elizabeth’s eyes.
‘You can trust me,’ says Elizabeth, her eyes never leaving his.
Bogdan nods. He believes her.
‘Can we go for a walk? You and I? This evening?’
‘This evening?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘I have something to show you. Is best to wait till dark.’
Elizabeth studies Bogdan. ‘Something to show me? Any clues?’
‘Yes. It is something you will be interested to see,’ says Bogdan.
‘Well, I’ll be the judge of that,’ says Elizabeth. ‘And where will we be walking, Bogdan?’
‘To the cemetery,’ says Bogdan.
‘The cemetery?’ A slight shiver runs down Elizabeth’s spine. How wonderful the world can be at times!
‘I meet you here,’ says Bogdan. ‘And wear warm clothes, we be there for a while.’
‘I think you can count me in,’ says Elizabeth.
64
Joyce
Yes, I know Ian Ventham is dead, and we will get to that, I promise. But guess what else? Joanna is here!
We took ourselves down to Fairhaven in her new car (I will check the make in a moment). We stopped at Anything with a Pulse. I was very casual about it, but it was an unqualified success. Not a word of complaint, or, ‘No one’s a vegan any more, Mum,’ or, ‘They do better brownies in a Lebanese shop round the corner from mine, Mum.’ Green tea, flapjack, macaroon. And I didn’t think I’d be saying that.
She has a meeting down this way. Something to do with ‘optimization’. If I think back to that girl who would eat her fish fingers and potato waffles, but scream blue murder about eating her peas, I didn’t imagine she would ever be having meetings about ‘optimization’. Whatever it is.
The boyfriend is history, as we’d guessed. Did you know you can lock your mobile phones these days, so that no one can take a peek? And you can unlock them with your thumbprint? Anyway, he had fallen asleep on the sofa one evening and she had used his thumb to open his phone. One look through his messages and, by the time he woke up, his suitcases were packed and in the hall. That’s my girl.
No details of the messages were forthcoming, but Joanna strongly hinted that photographs were involved. I listen to enough Woman’s Hour to get the gist of that. Excuse my language, but the silly sod.
We had a giggle about it, so I don’t think her heart is broken.
I can hear Joanna getting up from a nap, so I’ll say bye for now. You wouldn’t know it, but I’ve been typing quietly.
My gorgeous baby, happy and sleeping in my bed, and two murders to solve. Who could ask for more?
Joanna brought a bottle of wine down with her. There is something special about it, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten what it is. One day she will realize that she is the something special. Anyway, I invited Elizabeth over to have a drink with us this evening, but she has ‘other plans’.
Your guess is as good as mine there. Something to do with the murder though, you can bet on that.
(ADDITIONAL NOTE ADDED LATER: IT IS AN AUDI A4)
65
The path up the hill towards the Garden of Eternal Rest is a pale ribbon in the dusk light. Bogdan offers his arm and Elizabeth takes it.
‘Stephen is not well?’ says Bogdan.
‘No, dear, he’s not well.’
‘You put something in his coffee I think? When we left?’
‘We’re all on pills for something, dear.’
Bogdan nods, he understands.
They walk past the bench where Bernard Cottle spends most of his days. Elizabeth has been thinking some more about Bernard, has had to in the circumstances. She always gets the sensation that he is keeping guard for the cemetery. That he’s somehow at sentry duty on his bench. He won’t go in, but he’s never far away. What does Bernard lose if the development goes ahead? She would have to speak to him at some point, or, perhaps better, ask Ron and Ibrahim to speak to him. Which might mean tiptoeing around Joyce.
‘He hasn’t played chess in a long time, Bogdan. That was nice to see.’
‘He is good. He was a tough player for me.’
They have reached the iron gates of the Garden of Eternal Rest. Bogdan pushes one of them open and guides Elizabeth through into the cemetery.
‘You must be quite the player yourself?’
‘Chess is easy,’ says Bogdan, continuing the walk between the lines of graves and now flicking on a torch. ‘Just always make the best move.’
‘Well, I suppose,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I’ve never quite thought about it like that. But what if you don’t know what the best move is?’
‘Then you lose.’ Bogdan leads her on for a few more paces before stopping by an old grave in the top corner.
‘You said I can trust you, OK?’ says Bogdan.
‘Implicitly,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Even though you are really called Elizabeth, because I see bills in the study?’
‘Sorry,’ says Elizabeth. ‘But, other than that, implicitly.’
‘Is OK, whatever you need to do. But if I show you something, you don’t tell the police, you don’t tell no one?’
‘You have my word.’
Bogdan nods. ‘You sit while I dig.’
It is a pleasant evening to sit on the steps of a statue of Jesus Christ, and Elizabeth watches very happily as Bogdan, over to her left, starts digging the grave in the faint torchlight. She wonders what he might have uncovered. What secret was he about to reveal? She goes through the possibilities in her head. The most obvious answer was money. There would be a suitcase, or a canvas sports bag, and Bogdan would heave it out and lay it at her feet. Banknotes, gold perhaps, a haul, buried by goodness knows who and goodness knows when. And a big haul too, or why has Bogdan dragged her up here in the middle of the night? Enough for someone to kill for? A couple of thousand and surely Bogdan would just have taken it? Finders keepers, no harm done. But, a suitcase full of fifties, well that would –
‘OK, you come see,’ says Bogdan, standing in the grave, spade now over his shoulder.
Elizabeth pushes herself up, walks over to the grave and sees what Bogdan saw the morning that Ian Ventham was murdered. She supposes that of all the things to find in a grave, a body should be the least surprising. But as Bogdan’s torch plays over the bones and the coffin lid on which they rest, she has to admit this wasn’t what she had been expecting.<
br />
‘You thought money, right?’ says Bogdan. ‘Maybe I found some money or something and didn’t know what to do?’
Elizabeth nods. Money or something. Bogdan is very good.
‘I know. Sorry, no money. Would have been good. Instead, bones. Bones inside the coffin. Other bones, different bones, outside the coffin.’
‘And you found these yesterday, Bogdan?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘Just when Ian was killed, yes. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted a day to think. Maybe it’s nothing, do you think?’
‘I’m afraid it’s probably something, Bogdan,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Yes, maybe is something,’ agrees Bogdan glumly.
Elizabeth sits now and dangles her feet into the grave. She looks down on the lid of the coffin. ‘So you opened the coffin?’
‘I thought was best. To check.’
‘Quite right,’ agrees Elizabeth. ‘And you’re sure it’s a different body in there?’
Bogdan jumps into the grave and pulls away part of the coffin lid, exposing the bones inside. ‘Yes. Bones where bones should be. Much older.’
Elizabeth nods and thinks. ‘So, two bodies. One where it belongs and another, much newer, where it doesn’t belong?’
‘Yes. Maybe I should have told police, but I don’t know. You know how the police are.’
‘I do know, Bogdan. You did the right thing coming to me. At some point we might need to talk to the police, but not yet, I think.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Fill it back in, Bogdan, if you wouldn’t mind? Just for the time being. Give me some thinking time.’
‘I dig, I fill in, I dig, I fill in. Whatever you need, until the job is done, Elizabeth.’
‘We are birds of a feather, Bogdan,’ says Elizabeth, thinking she must call Austin. He’ll know what to do with all this.
The Thursday Murder Club Page 16
