The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club, #3)(17)

‘The full photos?’

‘Yes, for sure. The photos with your friend Joyce Meadowcroft by your side. Both pictures, both names.’

‘Bit below the belt,’ says Stephen. Elizabeth still feels safe. Viktor won’t go after Joyce either. Not if they’re in the photo together. A friend of Elizabeth is a friend of Viktor.

‘Viktor might not have the heart to kill Joyce, of course,’ says the Viking. ‘She is more of a civilian, I think? So here’s my deal. Just as insurance, if Viktor Illyich isn’t dead within two weeks, I will kill your friend Joyce.’





13





The second date was, if anything, even better than the first. They have just been to Brighton to watch a Polish film. Donna hadn’t realized there were Polish films, though obviously there must be. In a country that size, someone is going to make a film once in a while.

It was an art-house cinema, of course it was, it was in Brighton, and that meant you couldn’t get proper pick ’n’ mix. No chocolate mice, no Kola Cubes, nothing. Just healthy snacks.

But they did let you bring wine into the cinema, so Donna supposed it was OK to put up with a handful of unsalted cashew nuts. Also, everyone stayed quiet during the film, which Donna was not at all used to.

They took the train from Fairhaven. Donna drank a Mojito in a can, and Bogdan drank a large energy drink into which he had mixed a sachet of protein powder.

They walked from the station to the cinema, her arm hooked through Bogdan’s. At one point they walked past a house on Trafalgar Street which Bogdan told her was a crack den, and then past an old forge on London Road where a Lithuanian was buried. Bogdan would make a very good tour guide for a very specific type of tourist.

There were other black people in Brighton, and that was nice to see. Though still few enough for a subtle nod to be exchanged as they passed each other. Donna likes Brighton; she could see herself raiding a few crack dens here before her career was out.

They talked a little about Bethany Waites, and about Heather Garbutt. Donna is putting together a map of all the CCTV cameras in Fairhaven for Chris. It is not an enjoyable job.

Now, not only do people in Poland make films, it turns out they make very good ones. Donna had worried it might be a searing portrayal of love and loss across the generations of a remote farming family, and she would have to keep turning to Bogdan and pretending to nod wisely. But not a bit of it. There was murder, there was fighting, there was a cop in a ripped shirt; it wasn’t bad at all. Every few minutes Bogdan would lean into her and she readied herself for a kiss, but he was just pointing out occasional inconsistencies in the subtitles. She held his hand, her red wine slipped down a treat, the gal got the guy, and someone shot down a helicopter. Eight out of ten, would recommend.

They went back to his, there wasn’t even a question. Where would they have parted? And why?

Bogdan is currently in the bathroom, and Donna is frantically rehydrating, and trying to recall if she has ever been happier.

They had talked a little more about Bethany Waites. Donna had looked into the files on Jack Mason, the businessman. A record as long as a Post Office queue. Charming but dangerous.

Talking of which, Bogdan walks back into the room, and gets into bed. She puts her arm around him, sleepy and safe.

They laugh. God, this feels right. It feels natural, and true, and unforced. It feels like all those things you read about relationships, but assume are lies.

Bogdan’s mobile phone rings on the bedside table. They both look over at it. It is two a.m.

Well, here we go, thinks Donna, her reverie immediately broken. All those things are lies. There’s another woman. Of course. Once again, Donna, nice try. There is always something. She is suddenly not so sleepy, and not so safe.

Bogdan looks at the number, then back at Donna. ‘I have to get this. I’m sorry.’

Donna shrugs. She had been planning to stay until morning, but now she starts scanning for her clothes.





14





Elizabeth and Stephen have been dropped by the side of a small road in a big wood. The moon is high and full, and pale light zigzags through winter’s bare branches above them.

‘You gave quite the start when he mentioned Viktor Illyich,’ says Stephen.

‘I gave a start? I thought I covered it pretty well. Does anything get past you?’

‘That’s a kind thing to pretend. Old friend is he, Viktor?’

‘Old enemy if anything. KGB Head of Station in Leningrad, 1980s,’ says Elizabeth, her breath smoke in the clear air. ‘Then upwards and upwards.’

One of the photos of Viktor in the folder the Viking had given her was of Viktor in his prime. Not prime exactly perhaps: the head was already balding, the thick, pebble-lensed glasses too big for his face. But young at least. The most recent photo brought the shock of age. Old, lined, strands of grey hair clinging to the cliff edges. The glasses still too big, but look behind them and there he was. Viktor. The mischief and intelligence in his eyes. The rival who became her friend. The enemy who became … her lover? Had they? Elizabeth doesn’t recall, but she wouldn’t put it past herself.

Viktor will look at her photograph in the same way, she is sure. Who is this old woman?

Elizabeth’s phone is dead, and Stephen doesn’t have his, so on they walk.