“Well, it wouldn’t be—”
“Narrowing it all down. Bet you got forensics?” says Ron Ritchie. “I always watchCSIwith Jason. He’ll love all this. What you got? Fingerprints? DNA?”
Chris remembers Ron as being more confused than this the other day. “Well, that’s why I’m here, as you know. I know you and Joyce were having a drink with your son, Mr. Ritchie, and I think he may be joining us? It would be good to talk to him too.”
“He just texted,” says Ron. “He’ll be ten minutes.”
“I bet he’d love to know the circumstances,” says Elizabeth.
“He’d love that,” confirms Ron.
“Well,” says Chris, “again, it’s not really in my—”
“M and S lemon drizzle cake is over-sugared, Inspector, that’s my opinion,” interrupts Ibrahim. “Not just my opinion either, if you look at the discussion boards.”
Chris is struggling further now, because the slice of cake is slightly too big for the gap between the bottom of the cup and the edge of the saucer, and it is taking all his efforts to keep it balanced. Still, he has had a career of interviewing killers, psychopaths, con artists, and liars of every sort, so he plows on.
“We really just need to talk to Mr. Ritchie and his son, and Joyce, I think you also saw—”
“CSIis too American for me,” interrupts Joyce. “Lewisis my favorite. It’s on ITV3. I’ve got them backing up on my Sky Plus. I think I’m the only one in the village who can work Sky Plus.”
“I like the Rebus books,” adds Ibrahim, “if you know them? Rebus is from Scotland, and goodness me, he has a terrible time of it.”
“Patricia Highsmith for me,” says Elizabeth.
“They’ll never topThe Sweeney, though, and I’ve read all the Mark Billinghams,” says Ron Ritchie, again with more confidence than Chris remembers.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, has opened a bottle of wine and fills up the glasses that have suddenly appeared in her friends’ hands.
Chris cannot even attempt to sip his tea now, as lifting it to his lips would unbalance the cake, and lifting the cup off the saucer would tip the cake into the saucer’s center and make it impossible to put the cup back down. He feels sweat start to trickle down his back, reminding him of the time he interviewed a twenty-five-stone Hells Angels enforcer withI KILL COPPERStattooed around his neck.
Fortunately, Elizabeth is on hand to help him out. “You look a little hemmed in on that sofa, Detective Chief Inspector.”
“We normally meet in the Jigsaw Room, you see,” says Joyce. “But it’s not Thursday, and the Jigsaw Room is being used by Chat and Crochet.”
“Chat and Crochet is a fairly new group, Detective Chief Inspector,” says Ibrahim. “Formed by members who had become disillusioned with Knit and Natter. Too much nattering and not enough knitting, apparently.”
“And the main lounge is off-limits,” says Ron. “The Bowls Club have got a disciplinary hearing.”
“To do with Colin Clemence and his defense of medicinal marijuana,” says Joyce.
“So why don’t we sit you on the upright,” says Elizabeth, “and you can talk us through the whole thing?”
“Ooh yes,” says Joyce. “Talk slowly because it’s not really our area, but that would be lovely. And there’s some coffee and walnut where the lemon drizzle came from.”
Chris looks over at Donna. She simply shrugs and holds out her palms.
30.
Father Matthew Mackie walks slowly up the hill, through the avenue of trees.
He had hoped Tony Curran’s death might be the end of all this, no need for any further action on his behalf. But he visited Ian Ventham to put his case, and he had been disappointed. The Woodlands was continuing as planned. The cemetery was to go.
Time to conjure up a plan B, and quickly.
As the path curves to the left, then straightens, the Garden of Eternal Rest comes into view, farther and higher up the path. From here Father Mackie can see the iron gates, wide enough for a vehicle, set into the redbrick wall. The gates look old; the wall looks new. In front of the gates is a turning circle, once for hearses and now for maintenance vehicles.
He reaches the gates and pushes them open. There is a central path leading to a large statue of Christ on the cross at the very far end. He walks silently toward Christ, through the sea of souls. Beyond the statue, beyond the garden, are tall beech trees, reaching farther up the hill to the open farmland. Father Mackie crosses himself by the plinth at Christ’s feet. No kneeling for him these days, though, arthritis and Catholicism being an uneasy mix.
