The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club #3)(30)

‘And I wondered,’ says Ron, ‘between you and me, what you make of that story?’

Now it’s Jack’s turn to smile. ‘Between you and me? I’d say this. Look, I was up to my eyes in the VAT thing, course I was. No proof, no, nothing, till you mentioned this Trident thing, but that could be a coincidence. They won’t get me on that. I’m locked tight, Ronnie – they’ll never find the money. Even I’ve lost track of it.’

Ron nods. He really wants to play his next shot, but Jack hasn’t finished.

‘And this Bethany Waites. I won’t pretend I haven’t heard the name, I have, lots of the evidence in Heather’s case came from her. But this message you’re saying she sent before she died? Where would I have heard about it from? Makes no sense.’

‘You never met Bethany Waites?’

‘Never.’

‘Never even spoke to her?’

‘Never, God’s honest,’ says Jack.

‘You’re not offended I asked though?’ says Ron, and misses yet another red.

‘No, I get it, I get it,’ says Jack. ‘But you must have thought this was a bit too amateurish for me? Leaving a loose end, killing a journalist. Bit offended if you thought that’d be my style.’

‘We all make mistakes, Jack,’ says Ron. ‘Especially when the pressure’s on. But you’re right, I figured it wasn’t you. She might not even be dead, Jackie. They never found the body.’

Jack Mason lines up another shot. He doesn’t look at Ron.

‘Oh, she’s dead.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Ron thinks he must have misheard.

‘I said she’s dead.’ Jack pots another ball, then chalks his cue.

‘You know that for a fact?’

‘I know that for a fact,’ confirms Jack Mason, lining up his next shot.

‘How can you know it for certain?’ says Ron. ‘Unless you killed her?’

‘Listen, Ron. I know she’s dead,’ says Jack Mason. ‘And I didn’t kill her. But that’s all you’re getting from me. You work it out if you want to.’

How can Jack Mason be sure that Bethany Waites is really dead? Unless he killed her. Or at least unless he knows exactly who did?

Ron bends over the table and pots his first ball of the game. He nods casually as if it was never in doubt. Two men playing snooker – you can’t beat it. Fewer and fewer people to play against these days though. There used to be a whole gang of them, London, Kent, wherever you were you could get a game. But between death, prison and living in exile on the Costa del Sol, the gang were all gone. Ron now relied on Jason taking pity from time to time and playing against his old man. Ron pots a black. This is more like it.

‘You do know who killed her, then?’ Ron asks.

Jack smiles. ‘That’s enough chit-chat, I think. I’m always up for a game though, Ron. If you’re ever free.’

Ron looks up at Jack again, and sees another old man whose friends have died around him. ‘Me too, Jack.’

It’ll be just Ron’s luck if his potential new snooker partner turns out to be a murderer.





25





Chief Constable Andrew Everton gazes out at the sea of faces all looking up at him. Well, a couple of them are asleep, and two elderly gentlemen at the back are having a private discussion, but, other than that, everybody is looking up at him. He loves this sort of thing, he really does. Giving readings. He is not asked often and, in fairness, he has arranged this one himself, but it is still a thrill. Also, he spots the face he is looking for almost immediately. Bit of luck there.

He wears his uniform, of course, because it gives a sense of theatre, and it also gives him a bit of authority. He knows it will give his reading extra power. Not that it needs it, his writing is very powerful. This is a generation who respect you if you are a chief constable. Not like this new generation, but then you reap what you sow, and trust has to be a two-way street.

The woman who had just introduced him was called Marjory. Marjory had been surprised when Andrew had written to her, offering to do this reading, but she had given a quick ‘yes’ and promised to rally the troops, and so here they were. The last thing Marjory had said to him was that the previous speaker at the Coopers Chase Literary Society had been a woman who had written a book about fish, and she had gone down very well, so please don’t let us down. Andrew Everton didn’t intend to. He has chosen to read from his fourth book, Remain Silent. It is a follow-up to his previous works, Given in Evidence, Harm Your Defence and his first book, before he’d stumbled upon his elegant new system of titles, The Bloody Death of Archibald Devonshire.

His eyes scan the room, biding his time. He knows his silence, and his uniform, and his deep, brown eyes, are all building anticipation. He starts to read.

‘The corpse was mutilated beyond all recognition …’

He hears several ‘oohs’ and sees a woman in the front row wearing a tweed jacket and pearls lean forward eagerly.

‘Black-red blood pooled around the body, limbs were splayed at grotesque angles, like a swastika of death. Chief Constable Catherine Howard liked to keep a cool head while, all around, others were losing theirs –’

A hand shoots up. That doesn’t normally happen at readings. Andrew Everton decides to take the question, even though it is interrupting the narrative. He motions to the questioner, a woman in her nineties.