So, could Ian Ventham have killed Tony Curran? That was today’s big question.
Well, according to Ibrahim—and I do trust him in the area of attention to detail—Ian Ventham would have been cutting it very fine, but it would have been possible.
If he had left Coopers Chase at three p.m., he would have arrived at Tony Curran’s house (big, but a bit tacky, but still nice) at 3:29.
That would have given him two minutes to get out of his car, get into the house, and hit Tony Curran with a large object.
So Ron said that if Ian Ventham had killed Tony Curran, then he’d done it very quickly, and Elizabeth had said that that was always the best way to kill someone, and that there was never any point faffing around.
I asked Ibrahim if he was certain of the timings, and he told me that of course he was, and that he had tried to show me his workings, but that he’d been interrupted by Ron returning from urinating.
I told him that was a shame, and he perked up a bit and suggested that perhaps he could show me the workings later. I told him that I would like that very much, because a white lie harms no one.
So, we had a lot of fun today, and it seems that Ian Ventham really could have killed Tony Curran. He had the motive, and he had theopportunity, and I suppose where bludgeoning is concerned, the means is just something big and heavy, so that wouldn’t be beyond him either. Lewis would have him bang to rights.
What if they arrest Ventham, though? And the fun stops?
Let’s see what tomorrow brings.
44.
Ian Ventham is having an early night. He sets his alarm for five a.m. Tomorrow is the big day. He puts on his blackout goggles and his noise-canceling headphones and happily drifts off.
Ron shuts his eyes. He liked it the other day, the police coming to see them, and he liked shouting at Ventham in the meeting. In truth he misses the limelight a bit. He misses people listening when he talks. Put him onQuestion Time. They wouldn’t dare. He’d tell them a thing or two. Thump the table, blame the Tories, raise the roof, like in the good old days. Or would he? Maybe not. He’s drifting now. Maybe they’d see through him; maybe his tricks were yesterday’s tricks? He has certainly lost a yard of pace. What if they asked about Syria? Is it Syria? Libya? What if Dimbleby looks him in the eye and says, “Mr. Ritchie, tell us what you saw”? But that was the copper, wasn’t it? And it’s Fiona Bruce now, isn’t it? He likes Fiona Bruce. Who killed Tony Curran, though? Ventham. Typical Blairite. Unless he was missing something. Was he missing something?
Across the path,Ibrahim is learning the countries of the world, just to keep his left brain ticking over. He is letting his right brain get on with the job of thinking about who killed Tony Curran. Somewhere between Denmark and Djibouti, he falls asleep.
In her three-bed in Larkin,the one with the decking, Elizabeth cannot sleep. She is getting used to that these days.
Her arm is around her Stephen in the darkness. Can he feel it? Does Penny hear her? Have they both already disappeared? Or are they only real for as long as she chooses to believe they’re real? Elizabeth clings on a little tighter, and holds on to the day for as long as she is able.
Bernard Cottle is online.His daughter, Sudhi, had bought him an iPad last Christmas. He had asked for slippers, but Sudhi hadn’t considered slippers a proper present, so he’d had to buy himself some in Fairhaven in the sales. He hadn’t known how to use the iPad, but Joyce had told him not to be so silly, and had taken it out of the drawer and shown him. By his side, Bernard has a large glass of whisky, and the last slice of Joyce’s coffee and walnut cake. A pale blue glow illuminates his face as he looks at the plans for the Woodlands for what must be the hundredth time.
One by one,the lights of the village switch off. The only remaining illumination comes from behind the thick hospital blinds of Willows. The business of dying keeps different hours than the business of living.
45.
Ellidge had seen them first.
Every morning, Edwin Ellidge wakes at six a.m. and walks slowly, but with purpose, to the bottom of the drive at Coopers Chase. Once across the cattle grid and on the main road, he looks both ways, looks again for good measure, then turns and walks slowly back up the drive. Job done, he is back in his flat by six thirty, whereupon he is not seen for the rest of the day.
Coopers Chase being Coopers Chase, no one has ever asked him why. After all, a woman in Tennyson walks a dog she doesn’t have. Whatever gets you out of bed.
Elizabeth, being Elizabeth, once decided to casually intercept him on his walk back. As she approached him, the early mist, her frozen breath, and the trudging figure of a man in an overcoat all reminded her of happy times in East Germany. He raised his gaze to meet hers, gave a reassuring shake of his head, and said, “No need, I’ve already checked.” Elizabeth replied, “Thank you, Mr. Ellidge.” She turned back and the two of them walked together up the drive in a very pleasant silence.
Ibrahim says Ellidge was once a head teacher, and later a beekeeper, and Elizabeth had detected a buried hint of Norfolk in his voice, but that was all the information they had on file for Mr. Edwin Ellidge.
Ian Ventham’s Range Rover was first. This was at six a.m. Ellidge saw it veer off the road before it reached him, taking the track that led up the hill to the Playfair farm.
The diggers passed Ellidge at around 6:20 a.m., as he was walking home. He didn’t even give them a glance. Evidently these were not the vehicles hehad been looking for. They were set nose-to-nose on a low-loader, which slowly ground its way up the drive.
A dawn raid is all well and good for catching drug dealers or armed gangs, but at Coopers Chase it is next to useless. If such things were logged, the first phone call would have been recorded at 6:21. “Diggers are here, coming up the drive, two of them.... I mean, I don’t know, do you?” That beacon lit, the news was across the whole village by six forty-five a.m. at the very latest, the news spread by landline alone—Ibrahim had tried to set up a WhatsApp group in February, but it hadn’t caught on. Residents began to emerge and discuss what could be done.
At seven thirty a.m. Ian Ventham comes back down the hill and turns in to the drive, only to discover the whole village is out. Except for Edwin Ellidge, who has had enough excitement for one day. Karen Playfair is in Ian’s passenger’s seat. She has a breakfast lecture to give at Coopers Chase this morning.
The low-loader has continued its slow growl up the drive and is now being carefully driven through the car park. Bogdan jumps from the passenger’s seat and unbolts the heavy wooden gate, so the journey can continue upward on the narrow path toward the Garden of Eternal Rest.
“Hold up, son.” Ron approaches Bogdan and shakes his hand. “Ron. Ron Ritchie. What’s all this?”
