A text from Elizabeth, which doesn’t seem right to Donna at all. Surely a message from Elizabeth should be delivered in Morse code, or by an intricate series of flags?
Donna smiles to herself and opens the text. “It’s the Thursday Murder Club,” she tells Chris, “asking if we could come over to Coopers Chase, sir. They have some information.”
“The Thursday Murder Club?” asks Chris.
“That’s what they call themselves. There’s four of them, a little gang.”
Chris nods. “I’ve met Ibrahim, and poor old Ron Ritchie. Are they in this gang?”
Donna nods. She has no idea why he said “poor old Ron Ritchie,” but no doubt Elizabeth will be behind that, somehow. “Shall we go and see them? Elizabeth says Jason Ritchie will be there.”
“Elizabeth?” says Chris.
“She’s their...” Donna thinks. “I don’t know what you’d say. Whatever Marlon Brando was inThe Godfather.”
“Last time I went to Coopers Chase someone clamped the Focus,” says Chris. “I was charged £150 to release it, by a pensioner with a high-vis jacket and an adjustable spanner. You reply to Elizabeth, and you tell her we’ll visit when we decide, not when she decides. We’re the police.”
“I’m not sure that Elizabeth will take no for an answer,” says Donna.
“Well, she’s going to have to, Donna. I’ve been in this job for nearly thirty years, and I’m not going to be pushed around by four pensioners.”
“Okay,” says Donna. “I’ll let her know.”
29.
It turned out that Chris had been wrong and Donna had been right.
Chris Hudson finds himself jammed uncomfortably on a sofa, Ibrahim, whom he has met before, on one side, and tiny, chirpy, white-haired Joyce on the other. It is clearly a two-and-a-half-seater sofa, and when Chris had been shown to it, his assumption was that he would be sharing it with only one other person. Then, with a grace and swiftness he hadn’t expected from two people deep into their pensionable years, Ibrahim and Joyce had slid in on either side of him, and so here he was. If he had known, he would have declined the invitation and taken one of the armchairs, now occupied by Ron Ritchie, looking sprightlier than when they last met, and the terrifying Elizabeth—who really doesn’t take no for an answer.
More to the point, he could have taken that cozy-looking IKEA recliner that Donna is virtually curled up in, feet tucked underneath her, without a care in the world.
Could he move? There is another seat, a hard-backed chair, but Joyce and Ibrahim would surely take offense? They seem oblivious to his discomfort, and the last thing he would want to do was seem churlish. He is sitting where he is sitting because of their kindness, and because he is to be the center of attention. He understands and appreciates that. There is a psychology to seating arrangements that any good police officer picks up over the years. He knows they have tried their best to make him feel important, and they would be horrified to know that the effect is actually the complete opposite.
Chris has just been given a cup of tea on a saucer, yet he is so hemmed in that he fears that any attempt to drink it might be physically impossible. Sohere he is, stuck, but like a professional, he will make the best of it. Look at Donna, though; she’s even got a side table for her tea. Unbelievable. They couldn’t have made this more awkward for him if they’d tried. Still, stay professional.
“Shall we begin?” says Chris. He attempts to shift his weight forward, but without realizing it, Ibrahim has his elbow nestling against Chris’s hip, and he is forced to settle back again. His teacup is too full to safely hold in one hand, and too hot to sip. He would feel annoyance, but the kindly, attentive looks on the faces of the four residents make it impossible.
“As you know, myself and PC De Freitas, over there in the chair, making herself comfortable, are investigating the murder of Tony Curran. He’s a man I believe you all have some knowledge of, a local builder and property developer. As you also know, Mr. Curran tragically passed away last week, and we have certain questions pertaining to this event.”
Chris looks at his audience. They are nodding with such innocence, taking it all in. It makes him glad he’s adopted a slightly more formal way of speaking. Saying “pertaining” had been a good call. He attempts a sip at the tea, but it is still scalding hot, and any blowing would send a wave over the brim. It would also suggest to whoever made the tea that he would have preferred it to be less scalding, which would look rude.
Joyce has more bad news for him. “We have forgotten our manners, Detective Chief Inspector. We haven’t offered you any cake.” She produces a lemon drizzle, already cut into slices, and offers it across.
Chris, unable to raise a hand to say no thank you, says, “I won’t, I had a big lunch.” No such luck.
“Just try a slice; I made it specially,” says Joyce, in a voice so proud that Chris has no choice.
“Go on, then,” he says, and Joyce balances a slice of the cake on his saucer.
“So perhaps you have a suspect by now?” asks Elizabeth. “Or are you only looking at Ventham?”
“Ibrahim says it’s better than M and S lemon drizzle,” says Joyce.
“He will have a number of suspects,” says Ibrahim. “If I know DCI Hudson. He is very thorough.”
“If you notice anything unusual, that’s the almond flour,” says Joyce.
“Is that right, son? You got any suspects?” Ron asks Chris.
