The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club #3)(83)

You could point the finger all you liked at Fiona, but you wouldn’t get what you wanted.

Fiona Clemence is still trying to work out how Elizabeth got her number. Presumably her friend Joyce had tracked it down through her government contacts. Either way, the message had turned up last night.

I wonder if you might be able to help us, dear?



A few messages later, and Fiona knew the score.

Does she trust Elizabeth and Joyce? No. Do they really know who killed Bethany Waites? Fiona doubts that very much. But will she help them? For reasons she can’t quite access at the moment, yes, she probably will.

Fiona is filming an advert for yoghurt this morning. Or for breakfast cereal. She forgets which. She knows she has to lick her famous lips and say, ‘It’s delicious,’ but she hasn’t looked into it beyond that. She sits on a plastic chair in a cavernous studio as lights are adjusted, and groups of men in glasses congregate, scratching their beards, while much younger people hand them coffees.

Fiona is scrolling through her Instagram. Three point five million followers now. She has promised her Instagram adviser, Luke, that she will post a story today. He is very strict with her, but, seeing as he can get her twenty-five thousand pounds a time to post about a free holiday to the Maldives, she lets him be. But it’s all very regimented and boring. She is a brand now, and everyone wants to tell her what to do. And, worse, what not to do. Maybe she should push back against that a little? Next to her, a man dressed as a banana is eating a banana. She looks at the time. Just gone eleven a.m. It’s make-your-mind-up time, Fiona.

Elizabeth isn’t asking for much, in the grand scheme of things, but, even so, Fiona has a number of objections. At first she had told Elizabeth to speak to her agent (‘Oh, I don’t think we’ll be doing that, dear, do you?’). Elizabeth did her very best to persuade her. What’s the worst that could happen, Elizabeth had said. Well, plenty, is the truth. That’s why Fiona remains in two minds.

A woman dressed as a yoghurt pot walks past, so it probably is an advert for yoghurt. Fiona doesn’t eat yoghurt, ever since Gwyneth Paltrow once said something or other about it on TikTok.

Was Fiona walking into some sort of trap? Should she just say no and have done with it? Why is she even entertaining the idea?

Elizabeth and Joyce had fired all sorts of questions at her when they first met, and, truth be told, Fiona had quite enjoyed it. Quite enjoyed being accused of murder by a woman who had pretended to faint, and another woman with a revolver in her handbag.

So, if they want her help, sure. Perhaps. Maybe. It will make a splash at the very least. Everything is about new content. Something new. Fiona wonders what the Mail Online headline will be this time.

One of the men with glasses and a beard approaches her.

‘Hi, Fiona, I’m Rory, we’ve just done the tiniest rewrite, and I wanted to check you’d be OK with us putting a dab of yoghurt on your nose? We think it could really work. You know, for humour?’

Fiona gives Rory her full-beam smile. ‘I won’t be putting yoghurt on my nose, Rory.’

Rory nods. ‘Yep, yep, great. Let’s do it without the yoghurt on the nose. Love it.’

He disappears. The man dressed as a banana asks her for a selfie, and Fiona lets him know, very gently, that he is being unprofessional.

She goes back to her phone, and types out the information that Elizabeth has asked for. For the final time she asks herself why? For fun, perhaps? For something new and interesting to do? To see how it all plays out, certainly.

And, maybe – maybe – for Bethany?

Fiona shakes her head. She is not the sentimental type. She is doing it for followers. That must be the explanation.

She presses send. The deed is done.





69





Chris is having trouble hearing what Andrew Everton is saying. The room is very busy, and there is excited chatter all around. People are drinking on a weekday evening, and the air is heavy with that heady thrill. As they make their way to the table, Andrew Everton speaks directly into his ear.

‘Suicide?’

‘Looked like it,’ says Chris.

‘I don’t trust anything connected with this case,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘A friend of yours came to visit me.’

‘Oh, yes?’ says Chris, back into Andrew Everton’s ear.

‘A woman named Elizabeth,’ says Andrew Everton.

No surprises there.

‘Sorry about her,’ says Chris, as they reach their table.

‘Not at all,’ says Andrew Everton. Chris searches for his name card. He is next to Patrice, thank goodness. Sometimes they split couples up at these things. ‘She has a job for me.’

‘That sounds like Elizabeth,’ says Chris.

‘I can trust her?’ he asks.

‘God, no,’ says Chris, but his laugh says otherwise, and Andrew Everton nods.

Chris pulls Patrice’s chair out for her and she sits.

‘I could get used to this,’ says Patrice to Andrew Everton. ‘Who does Chris have to arrest to get invited back next year?’

Andrew Everton laughs.

Chris and Donna will both be receiving a ‘Highly Commended in the Line of Duty’ medal. They are gold-plated. Terry Hallet has one and has shown Chris pictures.

Andrew Everton addresses Chris and Patrice. ‘Do you want to see the medal?’