The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club #3)(51)

‘Ronnie.’ It’s his mum waking him for school. Just a couple more minutes, Mum. I won’t miss the bus, I promise.

Ron feels so warm, cocooned. Maybe Jack Mason killed Bethany Waites himself? Ron doesn’t buy it though. Was it really the story that got Bethany Waites killed, or something else? Something occurs to Ron in that moment, something he’s missed … Robert Brown? He knows that name.

‘It’s me, Ronnie.’ A hand is stroking his hair, and Ronnie opens his eyes. Has he died? He’s fairly sure he’s died. Had to come sooner or later. Good knock.

‘You were sleeping,’ says Pauline. ‘I told them not to do your front, you looked so peaceful.’

‘Just resting my eyes,’ says Ron, his body singing a new tune. What’s that feeling? There’s something familiar in it, from the old days. Ron tries to pinpoint it.

‘For forty-five minutes, I know, lover,’ says Pauline. ‘Snoring like a little piglet. Now, shall we go to the steam room?’

Ron turns his head, and sees Pauline’s smile. He has to catch a breath. You only get sent so many of those smiles in a lifetime. Ron reaches out a hand, and Pauline takes it. Ron realizes what the feeling is. He is not in pain. Not a single bit of his battered old body is nagging at him.

‘Thanks for persuading me to come,’ says Ron.

‘Told you you’d like it,’ says Pauline. ‘Maybe we can do it again?’

‘Never,’ says Ron, shaking his head. A man has his limits.

‘Let’s see if you’re still saying that after the steam room,’ says Pauline.

Ron levers himself off the massage table. What had he been thinking about just before he woke up? He tries to get hold of it, but it’s not there.

No matter. If it’s important it’ll come back to him.





41





‘But how do you murder someone in a prison?’ asks Mike Waghorn.

Andrew Everton has done what he promised and made a few enquiries about Heather Garbutt. They are on the pier in Fairhaven, cups of tea in hand. Mike nods ‘hello’ to a few excited passers-by.

‘Easier than you’d think,’ says Andrew Everton, trying to blow through the tiny hole in the lid of his cup. ‘Though I’ve got the Home Office asking me the same questions now.’

‘There was no CCTV? Someone going into her cell?’ Mike is opening a skate park at eleven a.m., and Andrew Everton agreed to meet him beforehand. Mike is aware that not everybody has the Chief Constable at their beck and call. Perks of the job.

‘CCTV everywhere,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘But the one we need has mysteriously gone “missing”. Two hours of Heather Garbutt’s landing just erased.’

‘Jesus,’ says Mike. ‘That sort of thing common?’

‘Used to be more common,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘But it still happens. A few quid in someone’s pocket to erase the data.’

‘But that suggests definitely murder,’ says Mike. ‘That and the note she wrote?’

‘You’d think so,’ agrees Andrew Everton.

‘It must be connected to Bethany,’ says Mike, waving to a woman on a mobility scooter. ‘Has to be, doesn’t it? Heather Garbutt’s about to get out of prison, she fears for her life, and then she’s dead?’

‘Honestly,’ says Andrew Everton, ‘in prison, you never know. It’s its own world. But, put me on the spot and I’d say yes, it has to be connected. That’s not my official line, that’s as a friend.’

‘Appreciate it, Andrew,’ says Mike. ‘So catch whoever killed Heather Garbutt and maybe we catch whoever killed Bethany?’

‘Maybe,’ says Andrew Everton. He watches a young man in a tracksuit idle his way along the pier, hands in deep pockets. Where’s he off to this early in the morning? What’s in those pockets of his? The end of the pier is a good place for a private meeting. Who’s this lad meeting? Andrew misses being out on the streets sometimes, back in the thick of things, trusting his instincts. He likes being a politician, but he misses being a detective.

‘So who could get access to her cell?’ Mike asks.

‘Warders,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘We’re looking into them. Other prisoners, if they’re trusted.’

‘Another prisoner could have murdered her?’

‘Lot of murderers in prison,’ says Andrew Everton.

‘But to disable the CCTV as well? Surely a prisoner couldn’t do that?’

‘Some prisoners are better connected than others,’ says Andrew Everton.

‘So another prisoner could just walk into her cell, pick up the knitting needles, and –’

‘Do you mind?’ asks a man in decorators’ overalls, holding out a phone. ‘I wouldn’t normally, but my mum’s such a fan.’

Mike nods, then smiles for a selfie with the man.

‘I’ll keep at it, Mike,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘I promise.’

The man in the overalls walks on towards the café. He stops to put a tin down by some ornate ironwork covered in peeling paint, begins scraping it away and rubbing it down. The boy in the tracksuit joins him, takes a brush from his deep pockets and starts painting. Andrew smiles to himself. Can’t win ’em all. Talking of which.