“And here we all are. I persuaded Penny it would be a lovely place to retire to, and I wasn’t wrong there. I just wanted to keep an eye on things. You think they won’t dig up a graveyard, but you never know these days, and I wanted to be close by in case the worst happened.”
“Which it did, John,” says Joyce.
“I couldn’t dig the body back up—too old, too feeble. And I couldn’t risk the grave being dug up and the body being found. So in the panic of thatmorning, in all the chaos while we were holding him back, I slid a syringe into Ventham’s arm, and seconds later he was dead. Which is unforgivable in every way. Unforgivable. And from that moment I’ve been waiting for you to come, and I’ve been waiting to face the consequences of what I’ve done.”
“How did you magically have a syringe filled with fentanyl, John?” asks Elizabeth.
He smiles. “I’ve had it for a long time. In case I ever needed it here. If they ever wanted to move Penny.”
He looks at Elizabeth through clear eyes. “I’m glad it was you, at least, Elizabeth, and not the police. I’m glad you solved it. I knew you would.”
“I’m glad too, John,” says Elizabeth. “And thank you for telling your story. You know we will have to tell the police, though?”
“I know.”
“We don’t need to do it this very second. While it’s just us, can I clarify two little things?”
“Of course. It was a long time ago, but I’ll help if I can.”
“I think you and I agree, John, that Penny probably doesn’t hear what goes on in this room? Whatever silly nonsense we say to her? That we’re kidding ourselves, really?”
John nods.
“But I think we’re also agreed that maybe she can? Just maybe? Maybe she hears it all?
“Maybe,” agrees John.
“In which case, John, perhaps she can hear us now?”
“Perhaps.”
“Even if there’s the slightest chance, John. The slightest chance that Penny heard what you just said. Why would you do that to her? Why put her through that?”
“Well, I—”
“You wouldn’t John, that’s the truth. That would have been torture,” says Elizabeth.
Ibrahim sits forward. “John, you said that killing Ian Ventham was unforgivable. And I believe, truly, that you mean that. It was an act beyond your imagining. And yet you ask us to believe that you committed that act simply to save your own skin? That doesn’t ring true, I’m afraid. You committed an act you knew to be unforgivable. And I’m afraid we see only one reason for that.”
“Love, John,” says Joyce. “Always love.”
John looks at the four of them, each implacable.
“I sent Ibrahim to have a look at one of Penny’s files this morning,” says Elizabeth. “Ibrahim?”
Ibrahim takes a small manila file from his shopping bag and hands it to Elizabeth. She opens the file on her lap.
“Shall we get to the truth?”
109.
Chris is alone. The remains of a takeaway curry are in front of him. Michael van Gerwen dispatched Peter Wright by six sets to love, finishing the darts early. So now there is nothing on TV and no one to watch it with. He is wondering whether he should go to the twenty-four-hour garage for some crisps. Just to take the edge off.
His phone buzzes. That’s something, at least. It’s Donna.
Might watch Jason Ritchie’s “Famous Family Trees” on catch-up. You fancy?
Chris looks at his watch; it’s nearly ten. Why not? Another buzz.
