The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club #3)(28)

‘Don’t need my permission,’ says Ron. ‘It’s not like she’s my girlfriend.’

‘Oh, Ron,’ says Elizabeth.





23





‘Parking fine yesterday,’ says Mike Waghorn, the moment Chief Constable Andrew Everton takes his seat in the studio.

‘Hello, Mike,’ says Andrew Everton, as a woman adjusts his lapel mic.

‘On the front in Fairhaven,’ continues Mike Waghorn. ‘I was opening a charity shop – a charity shop, bear that in mind. Out I come, and there’s a ticket.’

‘I see,’ says Andrew Everton. The South East Tonight studio is much smaller than it seems on TV. There are three cameras, two are fixed in place and one has a camera operator, who is currently scrolling through her phone. ‘Were you parked illegally?’

‘Barely,’ says Mike Waghorn. The floor manager tells them it is two minutes until their interview. ‘Hardly at all. And, as I say, a charity shop, which I don’t have to do. Goodness of my … whatever.’

Andrew Everton sees himself on the studio TV monitor. Looking good. Salt-and-pepper hair, closely cut, the faintest remains of a tan from a Cyprus mini-break, topped up in a Fairhaven tanning salon this afternoon. He’s aware that this is pure vanity, but, equally, he’s pushing sixty now and has decided he should probably get all the help he can.

‘One minute to studio,’ says the floor manager.

Andrew Everton goes on South East Tonight once a month. A Chief Constable needs to be accountable. A live chat with Mike is always combative but always fair. There’s no Paxman nonsense unless it’s really necessary, which sometimes it is. Andrew Everton is the friendly face of policing, when it needs all the friendly faces it can get. He likes Mike. Mike acts the fool, but is far from it.

‘Anything you can give me on Heather Garbutt?’ Mike asks.

‘Heather Garbutt?’ Andrew Everton replies.

‘The one who died in Darwell Prison?’

‘Not really across it,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘How long were you parked for, Mike?’

‘Three hours, absolute tops,’ says Mike.

‘Three hours to open a shop?’

‘I went for a drink afterwards,’ says Mike. There is now a VT playing on the studio monitor. An older guy is being interviewed. He appears to be wearing a West Ham top under a suit jacket. ‘Just a couple of pints on the pier. I come back, ticket. Daylight robbery. I got a speeding fine for doing forty in a thirty the other day. Everybody does forty in a thirty.’

On the monitor there is now a shot of the man with the West Ham top walking through some sort of village, very green, but with modern buildings. He has three friends with him, and they are laughing and joking together as they walk. Probably for the cameras, but they seem genuinely happy. Andrew wonders where it is. Looks nice.

‘If I send the ticket your way, can you have a word with someone?’ asks Mike, now looking through the list of questions he is about to ask.

‘Jeopardize my career for a parking fine,’ says Andrew. ‘No.’

Mike looks up and smiles. ‘Good lad. I was only having you on. I was banged to rights to be fair. I even wrote “Mike Waghorn – South East Tonight” on a card in the windscreen. Works sometimes. You ready?’

Andrew nods, then glances over to the monitor again. Something catches his attention, and he looks closer. The four friends walking through the village. He recognizes one of them. That surely can’t be … His eyes stay on the screen.

‘What’s this report, Mike?’ he asks. ‘Where is this place?’

Mike glances over to the monitor. ‘A retirement village, Coopers Chase. That’s Ron Ritchie, the union guy from years back. You recognize him?’

Andrew Everton shakes his head. No, that’s not whom he recognizes.

‘Will you have a look at the Heather Garbutt thing for me?’ Mike asks. ‘Just as a favour?’

Andrew Everton nods; he certainly will. The friends disappear from the screen, and the VT ends, with beautiful shots of the English countryside. The floor manager counts down from five to cue the live interview. Andrew sits up, straightens his tie and prepares himself. But his mind is elsewhere.

‘What a wonderful place,’ says Mike to camera. ‘I have to admit I stayed behind for a drink or two afterwards! A timely reminder that age is nothing but a number. And, talking of numbers, the crime statistics for Kent have just been published and they show …’

Chief Constable Andrew Everton, waiting to answer, knows exactly what the statistics show. They show he is doing a very good job. No complacency of course – things can always go wrong, he knows that very well – but he’s proud of what he’s achieving. He turns on his smile, but really he is thinking of the face he has just recognized. He really, really must pay a visit to this ‘Coopers Chase’. And quickly.





24





Jack Mason is strong and squat, but showing his age. Like a last defiant East End house standing alone in the rubble of a demolished street. Ron knows that feeling.

Grey hair shaved to the scalp, deep brown eyes never missing a moment of action – you’d never kill Jack with a bullet, you’d have to use a bulldozer.