The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club #3)(49)

‘Bless you, Alan,’ says Viktor. ‘The new generation clean all their money through cryptocurrency.’

‘Ah, like Bitcoin,’ says Joyce, nodding.

‘Yes, like Bitcoin,’ says Viktor.

‘And like Dogecoin and Ethereum,’ adds Joyce, taking a sip of her tea. ‘And Binance Coin, which is rocketing up this morning.’

Elizabeth looks at her friend. They will have a conversation about this later.

‘And cryptocurrency is the Viking’s business? That’s the story here?’

Viktor nods. ‘But I tell people to steer clear of cryptocurrency. Is too risky. I’m just doing my job, nothing personal. So I cost him a lot of money, and he would make a great deal more if I died. Of course, he could just wait a few years until everyone trusts cryptocurrency –’

‘Why wouldn’t you trust cryptocurrency?’ asks Joyce.

‘But I guess he wants me out of the way now. I get it, he’s young. He’s impatient.’

‘I’m not reading anything that suggests that cryptocurrency is going to collapse,’ says Joyce. ‘Quite the opposite.’

‘So we have to get to the big lad before he works out you’re still alive,’ says Ron.

‘Yes, or he will kill me,’ says Viktor. ‘And, if I understand correctly, he will also kill Elizabeth.’

Elizabeth nods. And he will kill Joyce. Joyce who is currently trying to hide the fact that she is secretly feeding a piece of croissant to an adoring Alan.

‘This is certainly one of the most unusual meetings of the Thursday Murder Club,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Am I to assume that I shouldn’t be writing up the minutes of today’s meeting?’

‘I think that might be for the best,’ says Elizabeth.

‘What is the Thursday Murder Club?’ asks Viktor. ‘I like the sound of it.’

‘We meet up every Thursday,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Usually at eleven in the Jigsaw Room, but you are forgiven on this occasion. And we try to solve murders. Though today seems to be about committing murders, so the remit is elastic.’

‘What are you working on now?’ asks Viktor.

‘We were supposed to be talking about a news reporter called Bethany Waites. She was murdered in 2013.’

‘I wondered, Ron,’ says Elizabeth, ‘if it might be fun to take Viktor with you the next time you see Jack Mason? See if Jack might open up?’

‘He won’t open up,’ says Ron. ‘We’ve got everything we’re going to get from him.’

‘Well, who knows,’ says Elizabeth. ‘And, Viktor, I also have a pile of paperwork for you to look through. Might as well set you to work while you’re here.’

‘I am at your service,’ says Viktor.

‘But first things first,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I need to send a photograph of your dead body to the Viking, to prove I’ve killed you.’

‘Excellent,’ says Viktor. ‘Let us dig a shallow grave and throw me in it.’

‘And for a final touch,’ says Elizabeth, turning to Ron, ‘I wonder if anybody knows a make-up artist who might be able to help us out? I don’t suppose you’re seeing Pauline today?’

‘Umm … yeah,’ says Ron, but without conviction. ‘Probably going tenpin bowling. Should probably head off actually.’

Elizabeth nods, and wonders where Ron is really going.





40





Ron wishes he was tenpin bowling. Wishes he was anywhere but here.

Pauline has persuaded Ron that he might like to have a massage.

The air is scented with eucalyptus, heavy and warm, and it thrums and trills with the sounds of the rainforests. He is wrapped, fairly insecurely, in a thick white towel, as he treads, barefoot, across Moroccan floor tiles, beside an azure pool, and he is deeply anxious about how relaxed he is supposed to be feeling. To think he could be interviewing Jack Mason about the murder, rather than going through this ordeal.

Pauline had asked him if he liked massages, and Ron had told her he had never had one, and Pauline had laughed, and Ron had told her, no, he was serious, what would he want a massage for, and she said to treat yourself, and then Ron laughed and said if he was going to treat himself he’d have a pint, and Pauline said, I’m taking you to a spa, and Ron said not on your nelly, not in a million years, and then Pauline kissed him and said just try it once for me and he said no, and then she kissed him again, and now here they are.

Susie is the name of the woman. She came to meet Ron and Pauline at the front desk of Elm Grove Spa and Sanctuary, and seems to be their gentle guide through this awful process.

Apparently aromatic herbal scrubs and Turkish cleansing rituals were real things that real people paid real money for. Every time Ron has walked past this spa before, he had just assumed it was a brothel. Neither spas nor brothels were of any interest to Ron. If someone wants to touch you, they had better be your doctor or your wife, or, at a push, a stranger next to you in the pub when England score.

Pauline holds his hand and tells him he can relax, and that there is nothing to be worried about. Nothing to worry about? What if his towel slips? What if he’s too heavy for the massage table? What if the masseur is a woman? What then? Or, even worse, what if the masseur is a man? What will they make of his naked body? Do you keep the towel on? Do you have to turn over? Ron has seen himself in the mirror, and wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Will he have to make conversation? What do masseurs talk about? Can you talk about football, or is it all essential oils and wind chimes? As he feels the seaweed-and-burnt-umber face mask melt into his skin, Ron prays for his torture to end. Are the gentle sounds of the rainforest ever going to stop?