I am drawn to strays. Gerry was a stray; I knew it from the moment I met him. Always joking, always clever, but always a stray needing ahome. Which is what I gave him, and he gave me back so much more in return. Oh, Joyce, this place would have suited that lovely man down to the ground.
I’m banging on like Bernard, aren’t I? Do shut up, Joyce. There are silly, proper tears now. I’ll let them fall. If you don’t cry sometimes, you’ll end up crying all the time.
Elizabeth is inviting Donna and her DCI to come to see us later. She is planning to give them the information we found out from Joanna and Cornelius, and to see what we might get in return.
Because it isn’t Thursday, Elizabeth asked if we can use my front room to meet them. I told her it would be too small for all of us, and she said that was perfect for her purposes. Make the DCI uncomfortable and maybe he’ll give something away. That’s her plan. She says it’s an old work trick of hers, though she no longer has access to all the equipment that she used to have. Her express instruction was “No one leaves the room until we’ve made DCI Hudson tell us something we can use.”
She has also asked me to bake. I am doing a lemon drizzle, but also a coffee and walnut, because you never know.
I have used almond flour because they are so good with it at Anything with a Pulse and I have been looking for an opportunity. I can tell that Ibrahim is tempted by the idea of being gluten-intolerant, and this will head him off at the pass.
I wonder if I should have a nap. It is three fifteen and my cutoff point for a nap is usually three; otherwise I struggle to sleep later. But it has been a busy few days, so perhaps I have earned a bit of rule breaking.
Either way, I will just add that coffee and walnut is Bernard’s favorite, but you mustn’t read anything into that.
27.
Donna looks out the window of the Ford Focus. What do people see in trees? There are just so many of them. Trunk, branches, leaves, trunk, branches, leaves, we get it. Her mind wanders.
Chris has shown her the photograph left near the body. Surely it’s a red herring, though? It must be. If you’re Jason Ritchie, or Bobby Tanner, or whoever took the photo, you’re asking for too much trouble. It would be idiocy for any of the men to have left the photograph by the body. A hundred different people might have murdered Tony Curran—why do the police’s job for them and narrow it down to three?
So someone else must’ve got hold of a copy of the photograph. But how?
Perhaps Tony Curran had had a copy. That would make sense. And perhaps Ian Ventham had seen it one day. Tony showing off? Ian had clocked it and tucked it away for future use? A bit of misdirection, to confuse the bungling cops? From what Donna has read, he seems the type who might try to do that.
They are passing through a village, which is a respite from the trees, but there is still not enough concrete for Donna. Maybe she’ll grow to love it. Maybe there was more to life than South London?
“What are you thinking?” asks Chris, eyes off to the left, trying to find the right road sign.
“I’m thinking of Atlanta Fried Chicken on Balham High Road. And I’m thinking we should show the photo to Ian Ventham,” says Donna. “Ask him if he’s ever seen it before.”
“Look him in the eye when he tells us he hasn’t?” says Chris as he indicates left and turns onto a narrow country road. “Good plan.”
“I’m also thinking, why don’t you ever iron your shirts?” says Donna.
“So this is what it’s like to have a shadow?” says Chris. “Well, I used to iron just the front bit, because the rest was always under a jacket. And then I thought, well, I’m wearing a tie too, so why bother at all? Does anyone really notice?”
“Of course they notice,” says Donna. “I notice.”
“Well, you’re a police officer, Donna. I’ll start ironing shirts when I get a girlfriend.”
“You won’t get a girlfriend until you start ironing your shirts.”
“It’s a real catch twenty-two for sure,” says Chris, turning onto a long driveway. “Anyway, I’ve always found that shirts sort of iron themselves while you’re wearing them.”
“Have you now?” says Donna, as they pull up in front of Ian Ventham’s house.
28.
You can hold your breath for three minutes if you really put your mind to it,” says Ian Ventham. “It’s all about controlling your diaphragm. The body doesn’t need as much oxygen as they say. Look at mountain goats, if you need proof.”
“That makes sense, Mr. Ventham,” says Chris. “But perhaps we can get back to the photograph?”
Ian looks at the photograph again, and shakes his head again. “No, I’m certain, I’ve never seen it. I recognize Tony, of course, God rest his soul, and that’s the boxer, isn’t it?”
“Jason Ritchie,” says Chris.
“My boxing trainer says I could have turned pro,” says Ian. “Physique plus mentality. There’s some stuff you can’t teach.”
