“That’s something you don’t get in South London, eh?” says Chris, pointing to the sea with his ice cream cone.
“The sea?” asks Donna, making sure.
“The sea,” agrees Chris.
“Well, you’re right there, sir. There’s Streatham ponds, but it’s not the same.”
Chris Hudson is treating her with a kindness she senses is genuine, and with a respect that could only come with being good at his job. If she was ever to work for Chris permanently, she would have to do something about the way he dressed, but that was a bridge that could be crossed in good time. He really took the expression “plainclothes” seriously. Where does someone even buy shoes like that? Was there a catalog?
“Fancy a trip out to see Ian Ventham?” says Chris now. “Have a little chat about his argument with Tony Curran?”
Elizabeth had come good again. She had rung Donna and given a few more details about the row that Ron, Joyce, and Jason had witnessed. They would still have to go and visit in person, but it was something to be going on with.
“Yes, please,” says Donna. “Is it uncool to say ‘please’ in CID?”
Chris shrugs. “I’m not really the person to ask whether something is cool, PC De Freitas.”
“Can we fast-forward to the bit where you start calling me Donna?”
Chris looks at her, then nods. “Okay, I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything.”
“What are we looking for with Ventham?” she asks. “Motive?”
“Exactly. He won’t give it to us on a plate, but if we just watch and listen, we’ll pick a couple of things up. Let me ask the questions, though.”
“Of course,” says Donna.
Chris finishes off his cone. “Unless you really want to ask a question.”
“Okay,” she says, nodding. “I probably will want to ask one. Just to warn you.”
“Fair enough,” Chris says, then stands. “Shall we?”
26.
Joyce
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” That’s what they say, isn’t it? That’s why I invited Bernard for lunch.
I cooked lamb with rice. The lamb was Waitrose, but the rice was from Lidl. That’s the way I do it; you honestly don’t notice the difference with the basics. You see more and more Lidl vans here these days as people catch on.
Bernard’s not the sort to notice the difference, anyway. I know he eats in the restaurant every day. What he has for breakfast I don’t know, but who really knows what anyone has for breakfast? I usually have tea and toast with the local radio. I know some people have fruit, don’t they? I don’t know when that came into being, but it’s not for me.
It wasn’t a date with Bernard, don’t think that, but I asked Elizabeth not to tell Ron and Ibrahim anyway, because they would have a field day.
If it had been a date, which it wasn’t, I will say this: Here is a man who likes to talk about his late wife a lot. I don’t mind that, and I do understand it, but I’d gone to quite an effort. Anyway, not something I should complain about, I know.
Perhaps I feel guilty because I don’t really talk about Gerry. I suppose it’s just not how I deal with things. I keep Gerry in a tight little ball just for me. I think if I let him loose here, it would overwhelm me, and I worry he might just blow away. I do know that’s silly. Gerry would have enjoyed Coopers Chase, all the committees. It feels unfair that he missed out.
Anyway, this is exactly my point—I feel the tears prickling, and this isn’t the time or the place. I’m supposed to be writing.
Bernard’s wife was Indian, which must have been very unusual back then, and they were married for forty-seven years. They moved in here together, but she had a stroke and was in Willows within six months. She died about eighteen months ago, before I’d arrived. From the sound of her, I do wish I’d met her.
They have one daughter, called Sudhi. Not Sophie. She lives in Vancouver, BC, with her partner, and they come over a couple of times a year. I wonder what would happen if Joanna moved to Vancouver. I absolutely wouldn’t put it past her.
We talked about other things too; I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. We discussed poor Tony Curran. I told Bernard how excited I was that Tony Curran had been murdered. He looked at me askance, in a way that reminded me I can’t talk to everyone in the same way I talk to Elizabeth, Ibrahim, and Ron. But between you and me and the gatepost, Bernard looks rather handsome with an askance look on his face.
He talked a little about his work, though I am still none the wiser, to be honest. If you know what a chemical engineer is, then you are a better woman than me. Don’t get me wrong—I know what an engineer is, and I know what chemicals are, but I can’t join the dots. I talked a little bit about my work and told some funny stories about patients. He laughed, and when I told a story about a junior doctor who’d got his bits trapped in a Hoover nozzle, I saw a little twinkle in his eye, which gave me cause for optimism. It was nice; I wouldn’t go further than that, but I sensed there was more to learn about Bernard, a gap that needs to be crossed. I know the difference between alone and lonely, and Bernard is lonely. There is a cure for that.
