The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club #3)(10)

‘Who are you texting?’ he calls to Donna, over the sound of the wind. Might as well give it a go.

‘Beyoncé,’ shouts Donna, and keeps typing.

Chris’s phone buzzes. Ibrahim again.

I was wondering, and forgive me if this is outside the ambit of our friendship, if you might be able to look into two old cases for me? I believe you might also find them interesting, and I hope you understand that I wouldn’t ask, were it not that the situation in which we find ourselves requires it.



Dots indicate there is a part three.

Chris and Donna have recently been in to see the Chief Constable of Kent, a man named Andrew Everton. Good copper, sticks up for his troops, but merciless if anyone crosses the line. He writes novels in his spare time too, under a pen-name. The Chief Constable publishes the books himself, and you can get them only on Kindle. Another officer was telling Chris that’s where the real money is these days, but Andrew Everton still drives an old Vauxhall Vectra, so it may not be true.

Andrew Everton told them they are both going to get a commendation at the Kent Police Awards. For their work catching Connie Johnson. Nice to get a bit of recognition. The walls of the Chief Constable’s office were garlanded with portraits of proud police officers. Heroes all. Chris looks at this sort of thing through Donna’s and Patrice’s eyes these days, and had noticed the portraits were all of men, save for one of a woman, and one of a police dog. The police dog had a medal. Chris sees a used condom curled up in a seashell. Life is a miracle.

Another text from Ibrahim. Cutting to the chase, hopefully.

The cases to which I referred in my previous message are the death of Bethany Waites. And the conviction of Heather Garbutt for fraud. Both from 2013. With particular emphasis on where Bethany Waites might have been between 10.15 p.m. and 02.47 a.m. on the night of her death. And who might have been in her car with her. All information gratefully received. Talk soon, my good friend. Love to Patrice, you really have found yourself a fine woman there. Often, in relationships, the key is to …



Chris stops reading. He remembers both cases, Bethany Waites and Heather Garbutt. Will he take a look? Who is he kidding, of course he will take a look. One day the Thursday Murder Club will get him sacked, or possibly killed, but it’s worth the risk. He feels as if someone must have conjured them up just for him, to save him. The Thursday Murder Club brought him Donna, Donna brought him Patrice, Patrice brought him stir-fried tofu. And all of that, it turns out, brought him happiness.

Donna looks up from her phone. ‘Why are you smiling?’

Chris shrugs. ‘Why are you smiling?’

Donna shrugs. ‘You getting texts from my mum?’

‘Can’t open those in public,’ says Chris. ‘Vice Squad would pull me in.’

Donna sticks out her tongue.

‘Ibrahim wants us to look into a case.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ says Donna. ‘Someone called Bethany drove her car off a cliff?’

‘How on earth would you –’

Donna waves this away.

Chris looks out to sea, and Donna joins him. The grey clouds are turning an angry black, and the whipping wind lashes their faces with stinging, salt spray. The smell of burnt metal and plastic from the minibus mixes with the stench of the decaying corpse, and catches in their throats. Two seagulls fight, loudly and angrily, over a plastic shopping bag.

‘So beautiful,’ says Chris.

‘Stunning,’ agrees Donna.





8





Elizabeth has been thinking about the CCTV cameras. How on earth did they not pick up Bethany’s car as she drove through Fairhaven? Before leaving for her walk, she had rung Chris about it, and he had said, ‘Ah, I’ve been expecting you.’

She asked if he might have a look into it, and he said he was rather busy with a corpse of his own, so Elizabeth had congratulated him on the commendation he had just received from the Chief Constable, and reminded him of her part in catching Connie Johnson for him.

So he has agreed to take a look.

Elizabeth and Stephen have started taking a walk at the same time each afternoon. Rain or shine, same route, same time.

They walk through the woods, along the western wall of the graveyard, where Elizabeth had gone digging not so very long ago, and out into the open fields beyond the new buildings, which are beginning to spring up on top of the hill. There they stop, take out a hip flask and talk to the cows.

Stephen has given all the cows their own names and personalities, and, every day, gives Elizabeth a running commentary of all the latest cow developments. Today, Stephen tells her that Daisy has been cheating on Brian with Edward, a younger, more handsome bull from a nearby field, and Daisy and Brian are now trying cow counselling. Elizabeth takes a nip of whisky and says that Daisy is an unimaginative name for a cow.

‘No dispute there,’ agrees Stephen. ‘The blame lies squarely with her mother. Also called Daisy.’

‘Is that so,’ says Elizabeth. ‘And what was her father called?’

‘No one knows, that’s the thing,’ says Stephen. ‘Quite the scandal at the time. Daisy senior had been on holiday to Spain, rumours of a fling.’

‘Mmm hmm,’ says Elizabeth.

‘In fact, if you listen closely, you can hear Daisy has just the slightest hint of a Spanish accent.’