Donna’s phone buzzes, and she looks down at a message.
Good luck at the briefing this morning. Love, Elizabeth x.
Donna shakes her head.
“Got the number, but nothing yet. Still looking,” says DI Terry Hallet, shaven-headed, muscles bulging from underneath a white T-shirt. “There’s a lot of traffic. It’s a fun job.”
“That’s why you get doughnuts, Terry,” says Chris. “Keep it up. And where are we on our other friend in the photograph, Bobby Tanner?”
“They’ve talked to the police in Amsterdam,” says Kate something. “Bobby was working for some Scousers there after he did a runner. It didn’t end well, as far as we can tell, and no one’s heard of him since. No records, no bank details, nothing. We’re still asking around, to see if he’s come back under a different name, but it was a long time ago; there’s not many of the old faces left.”
“It’d be nice to chat to him, rule him out at least. Anyone with anything positive for me?”
A junior detective sergeant puts up her hand. She’s been sent over from Brighton and is eating carrot sticks instead of a doughnut.
“Yes, DS Grant,” says Chris, taking a punt on her name.
“DS Granger,” says DS Granger.
So close, thinks Chris. There are too many officers on this team.
“I’ve been looking at Tony Curran’s phone records. He gets three calls on the morning of the murder, all from the same number, doesn’t pick them up. A mobile, untraceable, probably a burner.”
Chris nods. “Okay, good work, DS Granger. Email me everything you’ve got, and get on to the phone company, in case they can help. I know they won’t, but one of these days they will.”
“Of course, sir,” says DS Granger, and treats herself to a carrot baton.
Donna’s phone buzzes again.
We are having a little Thursday Murder Club road trip, in case there was anything you wanted to pass on?
“Okay, gang, let’s get back to it. Terry, anything from the traffic cams, let me know straightaway. Kate, can I team you up with DS Granger and see what you can learn about the phone calls? And keep tracing Bobby Tanner—wherever he is, alive or dead, someone must know. Anyone who feels they’ve got nothing to do, come and knock at my door and I’ll find something boring for you. One way or another, let’s get Ventham.”
There is a final buzz on Donna’s phone.
PS, my sources saw Chris buying doughnuts this morning. You lucky thing. Also, Joyce says hello xx
40.
Bernard Cottle finishes the Codeword puzzle in theExpressand puts his pen back in the pocket of his jacket. It is beautiful up here this morning. On the bench, on the hill. Too beautiful, a cruel trick played on those not still here to see it.
He had seen Joyce and her friends driving off somewhere this morning. How happy they had looked. But, then, Joyce seems to make everyone happy.
Bernard knows he has gone too far inside himself, knows he is out of reach, even to Joyce. He is not going to be saved, and he doesn’t deserve to be saved.
Still, what he wouldn’t give to be in that car right now, looking out at the view as Joyce nattered away, perhaps picking the loose thread from the cuff of his jacket.
But instead he will stay here, on the hill, where he sits every day, and waits for what’s to come.
41.
Ibrahim had wanted to drive the Daihatsu right up to Tony Curran’s front gate, just for the purposes of absolute accuracy. Elizabeth had told him that this was poor fieldcraft, however, and so they are now in a lay-by about three hundred meters from Curran’s house. It will do, he supposes.
Ibrahim has his notebook open on the hood and is showing some calculations to Joyce and Elizabeth. Ron is urinating in the woods.
“So it took us thirty-seven minutes at an average speed of twenty-seven and a half miles per hour. There was no traffic, because I am very efficient at plotting routes. I have a sixth sense. Other people would have hit traffic, I assure you.”
“I will recommend you for a gallantry honor,” says Elizabeth. “As soon as we get back. Now, what does this mean for Ventham?”
