The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club #3)(31)

‘Sorry, dear, did you say Catherine Howard? Like the Queen? Henry VIII’s wife?’

‘Yes,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘Well, I suppose so.’

‘The same name?’ asks a man further back in the room. ‘Or the same person?’

‘Just the same name,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘The book is set in 2019.’

There are murmurs as this is discussed. An unofficial spokesperson seems to emerge. It is the woman with the tweed jacket in the front row.

‘Two things,’ says the woman in the front row. ‘I’m Elizabeth, by the way. Firstly, it’s confusing that she’s called Catherine Howard.’

Agreement from the room.

‘Well, I –’ begins Andrew Everton.

‘No, it is. And secondly,’ continues Elizabeth, ‘I suspect a series of books in which the real Catherine Howard were a detective might well be a bestseller. Are your books bestsellers, Chief Constable?’

‘In their field, yes,’ says Andrew Everton.

‘Google would disagree with you there,’ says Elizabeth. ‘But do go on, we are enjoying it.’

‘Are you sure?’ says Andrew Everton, and the audience make it clear that they actually are.

‘We just interrupt a lot,’ says the very man that Andrew Everton is here to see. Ibrahim Arif. Andrew had recognized him immediately from the VT on South East Tonight. ‘It’s in our nature. Please, return to the spreadeagled corpse.’

‘Thank you …’

‘Although,’ says Ibrahim, a new thought having clearly occurred to him, ‘when you say she keeps her head, is that an allusion to the beheading of the real Catherine Howard?’

‘No,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘I hadn’t really … no.’

‘I thought it might have been a literary trick,’ says Ibrahim. ‘You hear about them.’

‘She –’

‘Am I the only one who hasn’t heard of Catherine Howard?’ asks a man in a West Ham shirt.

‘Yes, Ron,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Now, let the Chief Constable continue.’

‘She takes –’

‘Will there be a signing afterwards?’ asks a small, white-haired woman sitting next to Elizabeth. ‘The fish woman did a signing, didn’t she?’

The room agrees that the fish woman had indeed done a signing.

‘I’m afraid my books are e-books, and so are impossible to sign, unless you want me to make a terrible mess of your Kindle,’ says Andrew Everton. A line he has perfected in the backrooms of several Kent pubs and bookshops over the last few years. Though it has yet to get a laugh, he now realizes. ‘But I will give everyone a QR code after the reading to buy any of my books at a substantial discount.’

A number of hands shoot up at this. Ibrahim turns and faces the rest of the crowd. ‘A QR code is a “Quick Response” code that can be read by a computer and link you to a specific URL. A type of matrix barcode would be the simplest way of putting it.’

Most of the hands go down, but three or four remain. Ibrahim turns back to Andrew Everton. ‘The remaining questions will be about the specific nature of the discount.’

‘Fifty per cent,’ says Andrew Everton, and the remaining hands go down.

‘Do continue,’ says Elizabeth. ‘We’re holding you up.’

‘Not at all,’ says Andrew Everton. He will find a way to speak to Ibrahim Arif after the reading. Just engage him in conversation. Establish a rapport, and ask what needs to be asked. He’s here, that’s the main thing. He looks back at his notes.

‘Should I start again from the beginning?’

‘No, dear,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Mutilated corpse, Catherine Howard keeping her head. I think we’re up to speed.’

Andrew Everton nods.

‘She took in the scene around her. Howard could see experienced officers turn ghostly pale –’

From the side of the stage, Marjory, the woman who had introduced him, chooses to interrupt.

‘Is it confusing that she’s a woman, but her surname is a man’s first name? I’d be thinking, “Who’s Howard?”’

There are nods in the audience at this.

‘Is it too late to change it?’ asks the white-haired woman with friendly concern.

‘Well, yes, the book has been out for several years already,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘She’s the hero of all my books, and no one seems to have minded yet.’

A few raised eyebrows.

‘Carry on,’ says Elizabeth.

Andrew turns back to the text. He will sell a few copies, he thinks. Then he will thank Ibrahim for his questions, and ask a few of his own. He takes a sip of the water provided on the lectern. It turns out to be a vodka and tonic. Probably for the best.

‘No one present had ever witnessed a crime scene this awful, this macabre, this depraved. No one except Catherine Howard. Because Catherine Howard had seen this exact crime scene before. Just three nights ago, in fact. In a dream.’

Hands shoot up again.





26





Andrew Everton settles into a battered old armchair, underneath a painting of a boat. Looking around, he sees glass-fronted shelves, absolutely stacked with box files.