Every time you like the look of someone, you swipe their picture to the right (or to the left, I can’t remember). Meanwhile, somewhere nearby they are scrolling through pictures too, and if they like the look of you, they also swipe to the right (or left), and the two of you are a match.
Honestly, it breaks your heart to scroll through. It reminded me of those photos of lost cats you see on lampposts. It’s all that hope, I think.
Anyway, when Jason swiped left (or right) he was confident of a match. And he was confident that match would be the killer. I trust his confidence on the first matter; I am more dubious about the second.
There is another dating app for gay men called Grindr. Perhaps it’s for gay women too? I don’t know, I didn’t ask. Would they use the same one? That would be nice.
So Jason imagines he has solved the case. And perhaps he has, though I doubt it very much. He says it’s obvious, but often in these matters the answer isn’t obvious at all.
At least I have discovered that online dating is not for me. You can have too much choice in this world. And when everyone has too much choice, it is also much harder to get chosen. And we all want to be chosen.
Good night, all. Good night, Bernard. And good night, Gerry, my love.
104.
Having spent a very happy morning preparing, changing outfits, and texting friends, Karen Playfair is now alone for a moment, sitting in an unfamiliar armchair. She is shaking her head, thinking about the optimism of this morning and then the reality of the lunch she’s just had.
Karen has had some bad Tinder dates, but this was the first time that someone had accused her of murder.
The match had pinged on her phone yesterday evening. Jason Ritchie. Well, don’t mind if I do, she had thought. This is a cut above your average. He’d messaged, she’d messaged, and before you knew it, there they were in Le Pont Noir, ordering a crayfish salad with radicchio. A whirlwind romance in the offing.
She shifts in her armchair and idly picks up a magazine from a pile on the coffee table. It’s more of a newsletter, really.Cut to the Chase.
Back to the date. There had been some small talk, though not too much; Karen knew very little about boxing, and Jason knew very little about IT. Sparkling water arrived, and that’s when Jason mentioned Ian Ventham. Karen immediately realized that this wasn’t a date, and she felt foolish. But worse was to come.
She can hear Ron Ritchie in his kitchen now, opening a bottle of wine. Jason’s nipped to the loo. She starts flicking throughCut to the Chase, but her mind keeps going back to Le Pont Noir.
All those questions Jason fired at her. Hadn’t she been there the morning Ian Ventham was killed? Yes, she had. Wasn’t her dad refusing to sell his land to Ian Ventham? Well, yes, he was, but—look, here comes our crayfish. Didn’t she want her dad to sell the land, to take the money? That was heradvice, yes, but it was her dad’s business. Surely if he sold, then some of that money would be coming to her? Well, you could certainly assume that, Jason, but why not just come out with it and say what you want to say?
And so he did. It was almost funny, thinks Karen, reliving it. She hears the loo flush. What was it he had said?
Jason had leaned forward, very sure—certain, in fact. You see, the police had been looking for someone who was there in the 1970s and was still there now, and they were right, in a way. They had found bones, and figured maybe someone had been murdered all those years ago. But forget the bones, according to Jason. Because the police had missed the simplest trick in the book: greed. Ventham was in the way of Karen making her millions. Her dad wasn’t budging, and so Ventham had to go. Jason mentioned some drugs you could only get on the dark web and didn’t Karen work in IT? Wasn’t that convenient? Jason had solved the case, and felt sure he was about to get a confession. Honestly, some men.
He hadn’t expected Karen to laugh in his face and explain that she was a database administrator for a secondary school, who could no more access the dark web than fly to the moon. That she had misheard Jason’s mention of fentanyl as Ventolin and had wondered what he was on about. That she lived in one of the most beautiful places in England, and while she would certainly swap that for a million pounds, she would rather be there with her dad happy than in some executive new build in Hove with her dad miserable. Jason looked like he was going to come back with a clever response, but when he tried, none came.
Jason walks back into the room, and Karen remembers how crestfallen he had looked. He knew she was telling him the truth. That his little theory was wrong. He had apologized and offered to leave, but Karen had wondered if they shouldn’t make the best out of a bad deal and enjoy the rest of their lunch. What if they ended up together—wouldn’t it be the greatest “and how did you two meet?” story of all time? This had set them both laughing, and set them talking, and turned the whole thing into a lovely, long, boozy lunch.
Which is why Jason had asked her back here for another drink—and to do a bit of explaining to his dad.
Right on cue, Ron Ritchie walks in with a nice bottle of white and three glasses.
Jason sits down next to her and takes the glasses from his dad. He really has been charm itself since he accused her of murder.
Karen puts her copy ofCut to the Chaseback down on the pile. And as she does, she sees the photograph, halfway down the page. She picks up the newsletter again and stares closely. Just to make sure.
“You all right, Karen?” asks Jason, as Ron pours the wine.
“The police wanted someone who was here in the seventies, who’s still here now?” asks Karen, slowly and carefully.
“That’s what they reckon,” says Jason. “Obviously I thought they were wrong, but we saw how that played out.”
He laughs, but Karen does not. She looks at Ron and points to the face in the photograph. “Someone who was here in the nineteen seventies and is still here now.”
Ron looks, but his brain won’t take it in. “You’re sure?” he manages to ask.
“It was a long time ago, but I’m sure.”
Ron’s mind is traveling at speed. This can’t be. He’s searching for reasons why it must be wrong, but can find none. He puts the wine down on the coffee table and picks upCut to the Chase.
