Johnny’s name had not appeared on any of the passenger lists that Donna had waded through. No flight, no boat, no train, either in or out of the UK. But Chris supposes that Johnny is unlikely to still be using his old name. Not when the police had been hunting him down for the murder of the young cabbie and Tony Curran had been hunting him down for the hundred grand he had stolen.
But no one could simply disappear. There would be a trace somewhere.
Chris shuts down his computer. He feels sure that Turkish Johnny is their man; he’s been around long enough to sense when something fitsperfectly. Evidence is another thing, but he hopes the trip to Nicosia will help him out there.
“Shall we call it a night?”
“Quick drink?” says Donna. “Pont Noir?”
“Six-fifty flight in the morning,” says Chris.
“Don’t rub it in.”
He stands and pulls down his office blinds. Johnny was one thing, but Ian Ventham? That was harder. Was he really connected to a murder from fifty years ago? Surely not? How many people could there be? Chris even had two DIs tracking down nuns in case they could remember anything. Surely some of them had left at some point? Lost their calling and gone out into the real world? What would they be now? Eighty-odd? Records were sketchy, though, and he held out little hope. Or were they all missing something simpler?
“Don’t crack the case while I’m gone, please.”
“I can’t promise anything,” says Donna.
Chris picks up his briefcase. Time to go home. Always the worst time. His dream life remains just one stone away. But in his briefcase there is a packet of McCoy’s salt and vinegar crisps, a Wispa chocolate bar, and a Diet Coke. Diet Coke? Who did Chris think he was kidding?
Sometimes Chris thinks he should join a dating website. In his mind his perfect date would be a divorced teacher who had a small dog and sang in a choir. But he’d be happy to be proved wrong. Just someone kind and funny, really.
He holds the door open for Donna, then follows her out.
What kind of woman would want him? Did women really mind a bit of extra timber these days? Well, yes, he was sure they did, but even so? He was just about to solve a murder, and surely somewhere in the whole of Kent there was someone who might find that attractive?
90.
Joyce
Oh, I can’t sleep. It’s Bernard, Bernard, Bernard, of course. I’m already wondering about the funeral. Will it be here? I do hope so. I know I hadn’t known him long, but I’d hate to think of him in Vancouver.
So I’m back here at two in the morning to give you some news. Don’t worry, no one has died this time.
After Ian we had all been wondering what’s to become of us here at Coopers Chase. Who was going to take it over? I don’t think anyone was too concerned; it seems to be profitable enough, so we knew there would be takers. But who?
You can probably guess who found out.
Yesterday, Elizabeth “accidentally” bumped into Gemma Ventham, Ian’s unfortunate widow, at the new deli they’ve opened in Robertsbridge. It used to be Claire’s Hairdressers, until there was a small incident, and Claire was forced to hang up her scissors for good. Is there a badge hairdressers have to hand in? Either way, the local GP’s wife lost the top of an ear, and that was that. They say Claire’s in Brighton now, and that’s probably for the best.
Gemma was with a man who Elizabeth described as “a tennis-coach type,” though she conceded that these days he might have been “a Pilates-instructor type.” Certainly not a grieving widow, and I think we all agreed that she’d earned a bit of happiness, so good for her.
She has also, it seems, earned an awful lot of money. This is what Elizabeth got out of her. I don’t know exactly how, but I do know that at one point she had pretended to faint, because she actually grazed her elbow in the effort. She always finds a way, that one.
Anyway, Gemma Ventham has sold Coopers Chase Holdings to a company called Bramley Holdings. Of course, we’ve tried to find out as much as we can about Bramley Holdings, but thus far, no luck. We even called in Joanna and Cornelius, but they’ve turned up a blank. They promised they would keep looking, although you can hear that Cornelius’s patience is beginning to wear a bit thin.
But here’s something else keeping me awake. That name.
Bramley Holdings? It is ringing a bell, and I can’t work out why. Elizabeth says they take names off the shelf, and perhaps she is right, but an alarm is ringing in my brain, and I can’t switch it off.
Bramley? Where have I heard that before? And I know I’m an old woman, but don’t say apples. Something else. Something important.
Anne, who editsCut to the Chase, came to see me today. People will always come and see you when you lose a friend. By now we’ve all worked out the right things to say. We’ve said them often enough.
I don’t think she is doing it just to be nice, but Anne has asked if I will write a column inCut to the Chase. She knows I like to write, and she knows I have my nose in everything, so would I write something about the comings and goings at Coopers Chase? I said yes, of course, and we are going to call it “Joyce’s Choices,” which I like. I had suggested “Joyce’s Voices,” but Anne had thought that might sound a bit mental health. She wants a picture of me, so I will go through a few tomorrow and pick out a nice one.
We are off to see Gordon Playfair tomorrow as well, the farmer at the top of the hill. He’s the only person any of us can think of who was herein the early 1970s and is still here today. He was nowhere near Ventham when he was murdered, so I don’t think we can count him as a suspect, but we’re hoping he might remember something useful from all those years ago.
