The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club #3)(26)

Ron said, ‘What if Connie Johnson killed her?’ It was agreed that she would certainly have had the opportunity. But what would her motive have been?

Plenty to think about, then. Just the way we like it.

Chris was excited to meet Mike Waghorn, and, as he was leaving, he said, ‘You won’t remember this, but I breathalysed you once. You were clean as a whistle,’ and Mike thanked him for his service.

We are doing a Zoom with Joanna tomorrow, to see if she’s managed to uncover anything in Heather Garbutt’s financial files, but I think we should also be looking at the notes Bethany had been sent? I know they seem fairly gentle, but that’s how bullies start. One minute it’s ‘nobody likes you’, the next you are being pushed off a cliff. I’m being melodramatic, but you take my point? Things escalate.

So who sent the notes? A jealous lover? Someone from the newsroom? Fiona Clemence?

To be honest, wouldn’t that be more fun than a VAT fraud? I will ask Elizabeth to let me look into it. I bet Pauline knows a few stories from the time, and questioning her would be a nice way for me to get to know her a bit better. I’m not saying she’s here to stay, but Ron was wearing moisturizer today. He had a bit left over behind his ear. First Banoffee Pie, then moisturizer. That’s all I’m saying about that.

Alan has just walked in, tongue out, and tail thumping the doorposts on his way. I know we sometimes credit our dogs with too much intelligence, but I honestly think he can tell there’s been a murder.





22





‘Mum, you’re muted,’ says Joanna.

‘She’s saying we’re muted,’ says Joyce to Elizabeth.

‘Yes, I heard,’ says Elizabeth. ‘She’s not muted.’

‘Press the microphone button, Mum,’ says Joanna. Elizabeth notes it is all Joanna can do to not roll her eyes. Joanna has little patience for her mother. Elizabeth knows the feeling sometimes.

‘I don’t understand it at all,’ says Joyce, looking for whatever the microphone button might be. ‘It always works with Ibrahim.’

‘It sometimes works,’ corrects Ibrahim. ‘You are always sideways, for example.’

‘Let me look at it,’ says Ron.

Ron stares at the screen for four, perhaps five seconds, then sits back. ‘No, beats me.’

‘It is the little picture of the microphone, Joyce,’ says Ibrahim, leaning forward and moving the computer mouse.

‘Ooh, I’ve never seen that before. Can you hear us?’ asks Joyce.

‘We can hear you now, Mum,’ says Joanna. ‘Hallelujah. Hello, everyone.’

She gets hellos from everyone in return. Elizabeth recognizes the boardroom of Joanna’s office, with its table made from the wing of an airplane, and its expensively terrible abstract art. She also recognizes Cornelius, Joanna’s American colleague, who has a large pile of papers in front of him. The financial records from the trial.

‘And hello, Cornelius,’ says Joyce. ‘Did Joanna tell me you’re getting married?’

‘No, my wife is leaving me,’ says Cornelius. ‘Close enough.’

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ says Joyce. ‘I knew it was something.’

‘Mum, you’ve got us for fifteen minutes,’ says Joanna. ‘Shall we start?’

‘Of course,’ says Joyce. ‘Would you like to say hello to Alan?’

Joanna’s mouth moves to form the word ‘no’, then Elizabeth sees the faintest trace of a smile. ‘OK, but quickly though.’

Joyce pats her dining-room table, and Alan puts his paws up, excited about whatever it is that might be happening now. Joanna and Cornelius wave. Alan licks Ron.

‘Leave it out, Al,’ says Ron, though Elizabeth notices he doesn’t push him away.

‘I’ll kick this off,’ says Cornelius, and places his palms each side of the pile of papers. ‘Here are the headlines. This scam pulled in upwards of ten million pounds in three years, very quickly, and all tax-free. The money goes into a single account, in the name of Heather Garbutt, then heads off into all sorts of directions. Jersey, the Caymans, the British Virgin Islands, Panama, all over.’

‘Still in Heather Garbutt’s name?’ asks Joyce.

‘None of it in Heather Garbutt’s name,’ says Cornelius. ‘None of it in anyone’s name.’

‘Well, except …’ says Joanna.

‘Yes, except …’ says Cornelius. ‘But we will get to that.’

‘It’s basic money-washing,’ says Joanna. ‘The money goes all over the world, into different accounts, all in places where you can keep your banking secret. Made-up companies, anonymous directors. You’re not suddenly going to find the name of her killer here. We can only look for clues.’

Cornelius rifles through a few of the papers. ‘Here’re just a few examples for you, all from a single month in 2014. Eighty-five thousand paid to Ramsgate Cement & Aggregates, sixty thousand to Masterson Financial Holdings in Aruba, one hundred and fifteen thousand to Absolute Construction in Panama, seventy thousand to Darwin Securities in the Cayman Islands.’

‘And when you look into these companies?’ says Elizabeth, knowing the answer already.

‘Nothing,’ says Cornelius. ‘Just a registered office, and no accounts available to access. Unless you’re the world’s greatest expert on money-laundering, which I’m not.’