Donna reads, and then looks up at Chris. “Jason Ritchie’s car?”
Chris nods.
“Jason rings Tony Curran that morning. Jason’s car is outside Tony’s house when he dies? So we’re going to see Jason?”
“Maybe just me this time,” says Chris.
“I don’t think so,” says Donna. “Firstly, I’m your shadow, which is a sacred bond of trust, et cetera, et cetera. And secondly, I just solved the crime.” She waves Jason’s phone number at him.
Chris waves the vehicle records at her. “I solved it first, Donna. So I’mjust going to pay him a quick visit at home, alone, and see if he wouldn’t mind answering a couple of questions. Very low-key.”
Donna nods. “Good idea. He’s not at home, though; I checked already.”
“Then where is he?”
“If you take me along, I’ll show you.”
“And what if I ordered you to tell me where he was?” asks Chris.
“Well, you can try,” says Donna. “See where it gets you?”
Chris shakes his head. “Come on, then. I’ll drive.”
62.
Neither Chris nor Donna had known that Maidstone had an ice rink. Why on earth did Maidstone have an ice rink? That was a large part of the conversation on the drive there. This was after Donna had asked Chris to turn off his compilation of early Oasis B-sides.
Bit by bit, Donna was intent on dragging Chris from his century into hers.
The mystery had not been solved when they pulled up outside Ice Spectacular. How was anyone making money from an ice rink just off a ring road, sandwiched between a tile warehouse and a Carpet Right?
Chris would often tell friends that if there was a business in their neighborhood that didn’t make any sense, which had no customers, then it was a front for a drugs business. Always. No real customers needed, no real profit needed, just a way of washing money. Every town had one, tucked away somewhere in a little row of shops or in the railway arches, or sat next to a Carpet Right. Whether it was a waxing parlor, or a party lights rental shop, or an ice rink with a neon sign that last lit up in 2011.
Always a front, always drugs, thought Chris as he closed the driver’s door of his Focus. Which seemed apt, given who Chris and Donna were here to see.
They walk through the front doors, across the sticky carpeted foyer, and into the arena. It is mostly empty at this time of day, except for an elderly man hoovering up popcorn between rows of plastic seats, and two figures out on the ice.
Anyone who had seen Jason Ritchie in his prime would tell you the same. He had a fluid strength, his feet simply gliding around the ring. Those powerful arms arcing through the air or flicking forward in rib-rattling jabs. His tiny feints and dips, eyes never leaving his opponent, his whole body ready topounce and strike. He was an athlete, strong and brave, a magnificent flowing machine, everything given, nothing wasted. With his grace, his poise, and his movement, Jason Ritchie was beautiful to watch.
However, as Chris and Donna sit on their plastic seats and sip on coffees, it becomes apparent that Jason Ritchie cannot ice-skate.
The session seems to be over, as Jason is gingerly skating toward the side of the rink, his elbow being supported by a small woman in a purple leotard. Even so, about a meter from the sweet safety of the side, Jason’s left skate disappears from underneath him and slices into his right skate, and his tumbling weight is too much for the lady in the leotard to save. The big man is down again. Chris and Donna have been watching for only a matter of minutes but have already lost count of his falls.
Chris leans over the board and offers a hand. It is the first time Jason clocks the two officers; he has been preoccupied. He looks Chris in the eye as he takes the offered hand, and finally reaches dry land.
“Have you got five minutes, Jason?” asks Chris. “We’ve come ever such a long way.”
“Are you okay, Jason?” asks the lady in the leotard.
Jason nods, gesturing for her to go on ahead. “Yeah, couple of mates; I’m going to stop for a chat.”
“Well, look, I’m going to write this all up and send it to the producers,” says the skater. “You’re not a lost cause, I promise!”
“Darling, you’re a superstar. Thanks for putting up with me and picking me up off my arse.”
“Hope to see you on the show!” says the skater, waving as she disappears up the steep stairs on her narrow blades.
Jason collapses onto a molded plastic chair, which bends a little under his weight. He starts to unlace his skates.
