“Goodness,” says Elizabeth. “Can you?”
“The dark web. I read about it inThe Lancet. You can get all sorts. A rocket launcher, if you really wanted one.”
Elizabeth nods. “And how would one go about getting on the dark web?”
John shrugs. “Well, I’m guessing, but if it were me, the first thing I would do would be to buy a computer. Perhaps go from there?”
“Mmm,” says Elizabeth. “Might be worth checking who has a computer.”
“You never know,” agrees John. “It would certainly narrow it down.”
Elizabeth turns back to Penny. How unfair to see her lying there. “One man bludgeoned, Penny; the other poisoned. But by whom? If Ventham was killed straightaway, then somebody out there this morning killed him. Me or John. Or Ron or Ibrahim? Or... who knows? Ibrahim has a list of thirty names on a spreadsheet, to start us off.”
She looks at her friend again. She wants to walk out the door with Penny right now, arm in arm. Share a bottle of white, listen to her swear like a docker about some imagined slight, and sway home happy and tipsy. But that will never happen again.
“I always find it peculiar that Ibrahim doesn’t come and visit you, Penny.”
“Oh, he does,” says John.
“Ibrahim visits? He’s never said.”
“Like clockwork, Elizabeth. Four p.m. He brings a magazine and solves bridge puzzles with her. He talks them through. They solve a puzzle, he kisses her hand, and off he pops half an hour later.”
“And Ron?” asks Elizabeth. “Does he visit?”
“Never,” says John. “I suppose it’s not for everyone, Elizabeth.”
She nods. She supposes so too. Back to business. “So, Penny, who wants to kill Ian Ventham? And why at the very moment digging was about to start? I suspect your question might be who loses what if the developmentgoes ahead? Wouldn’t you think? I want to talk to you about Bernard Cottle at some point. Do you remember him? With theDaily Expressand the nice wife? I feel like there is a motive there, waiting to be winkled out.”
Elizabeth stands, ready to leave.
“Who loses what, Penny? That’s the question, isn’t it?
59.
Chris Hudson has his own office, a little bolt-hole where he can pretend to work. There is a space on his desk where a family photograph might ordinarily sit, and he feels a prick of shame every time he notes its absence. Perhaps he should have a photo of his niece. How old was she now? Twelve? Or maybe fourteen? His brother would know.
So who killed Ventham? Chris was right there when it happened. One way or another, he actually watched him being killed. Whom had he seen? The Thursday Murder Club, they were all there, the priest. The attractive woman in the sweater and trainers. Fifty-odd. Now, who was she? Was she single? Now’s not the time, Chris. Concentrate.
Had the same person murdered Ventham and Tony Curran? It made sense. Solve one, solve the other?
Who were the three calls to Tony Curran’s phone from? Almost certainly someone trying to sell him life insurance, but you never knew. Chris is sure that Tony Curran’s phone could tell all sorts of tales. Human rights are all well and good, but he would love to tap the phone of every single person in Fairhaven who looked even a bit suspicious. Like they do in prison.
He remembers an armed robber in Parkhurst called Bernie Scullion, who ran out of money but wanted to buy himself a PlayStation, so he phoned his uncle and told him where he’d buried half a million pounds. The police had the money and the uncle within the hour, and Bernie never got his PlayStation.
There is a knock at the door, and Chris has the brief, disturbing realization that he hopes it’s Donna.
“Come.”
The door opens. It’s DI Terry Hallet. Terrifyingly efficient, handsome inthat Royal Marine way that everyone seemed to like, but also, annoyingly, a nice guy. Chris would never be able to wear a T-shirt that tight. One day Terry will have this office. He has four kids and a happy marriage. Imagine the photographs he will have on the desk. Chris wishes he was Terry, but who really knew what went on at home? Perhaps Terry had a hidden sadness; perhaps he cried himself to sleep. Chris doubts it, but at least it’s something to cling to.
“I can come back?” says Terry, and Chris realizes he has been staring at him for a beat too long.
“No, no, sorry, Terry, miles away.”
“Thinking about Ian Ventham?”
“Yep,” lies Chris. “What have you got?”
