The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club, #3)(79)

‘Any news back on Heather Garbutt’s death?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Any forensics?’

Andrew Everton shrugs. ‘Here’s the thing about dusting a prison cell for fingerprints. There are hundreds of them, and most of them belong to people with criminal records.’

Elizabeth snorts.

‘Honestly, ignore her,’ says Joyce.

A woman enters the garden from the side of the house. She wears white coveralls, and plastic sleeves over her shoes. Forensics. Just what Joyce has been looking for. She will let her settle and then go to speak to her. It never hurts to ask, does it?

There is activity in the woodland, and a constable in muddied uniform runs out towards them from the trees.

‘Sir,’ says the constable. ‘We’ve found something.’

Andrew Everton nods. ‘Good work.’ He turns to Elizabeth and Joyce. ‘You two stay here.’

This time they both snort.





64





‘I don’t know if there has ever been so much testosterone in this room,’ says Ibrahim, as he carries in a tray of sweet mint tea for everyone.

Viktor and Henrik are at the dining table, hunched over the financial documents from Heather Garbutt’s trial. Ron is sitting on the sofa, watching something on his phone, and Alan is looking out of the window, wondering when Joyce might be back. Occasionally he spots someone who might look a bit like her, and gets excited.

‘Five boys,’ says Ibrahim, pouring the tea. ‘Henrik, how is your murderous rage? Subsided?’

‘It is forgotten,’ says Henrik. ‘It was tactically naive.’

‘You fellas found anything?’ asks Ron.

‘Nothing,’ says Viktor.

‘Thought Henrik was the best money-launderer in the world?’

‘I am,’ says Henrik. ‘That is provable.’

‘Well, Bethany Waites found something in there that you’re missing,’ says Ron.

‘And it got her killed,’ says Ibrahim.

‘So at the moment you’re just a guy with a beard.’

‘Ron, Henrik is a guest,’ says Ibrahim.

‘A guest?’ says Ron, still not looking up from his phone. ‘Yesterday he wanted to kill Joyce, and now he’s a guest.’

‘And he wanted to kill me too,’ says Viktor.

‘Guys, it was an error,’ says Henrik. ‘I wanted to be tough. I cannot keep apologizing.’

‘No need to apologize if you find out who killed Bethany Waites,’ says Ron.

‘We will find out,’ says Henrik.

‘Did Bethany Waites say anything to anyone?’ asks Viktor. ‘About what she’d found?’

‘Nah,’ says Ron.

‘Nothing about “Carron Whitehead” or “Robert Brown Msc”?’

‘Nothing about anyone,’ says Ron. ‘Far as we know. Henrik, you rich enough to buy a football club?’

‘I already own one,’ says Henrik.

Ibrahim sits at the dining table. ‘Well, she did say something. To someone.’

‘What did she say?’ asks Viktor.

‘She sent a message to Mike Waghorn,’ says Ibrahim. ‘A couple of weeks before she disappeared.’

‘Do you have the message? It might be important,’ asks Viktor.

‘I don’t think there was anything in it,’ says Ibrahim. ‘But we could ask Pauline to ask Mike?’

‘They’re both coming over for lunch in a bit,’ says Ron.

‘You are taken with Pauline, Ron,’ says Viktor.

‘Well, you’re taken with Elizabeth,’ says Ron.

‘I know,’ says Viktor. ‘But I have no chance. You have every chance. What luck.’

Ron shrugs, a little embarrassed. ‘We’re friends.’

‘Love is very precious,’ says Viktor, and takes a sip of his mint tea.

‘I wonder if I could ask you to put a lace doily under your teacup,’ says Ibrahim. ‘To prevent the wood from marking.’

‘Could I use your bathroom?’ asks Henrik. ‘I forgot to moisturize this morning, and I can feel myself drying out.’

Ron looks at Ibrahim. ‘So much testosterone in one room, mate. So much testosterone.’

Alan barks at a chaffinch.





65





They found the gun wrapped in a pale blue cloth, buried about thirty feet or so into the woodland. Elizabeth had taken a look before it had been driven away for examination. When she’d heard the word ‘gun’, she had expected a revolver, some sort of handgun at least. But this was an assault weapon, semi-automatic. Andrew Everton looked as surprised as she did – it was a hell of a gun. There was no ammunition, but there was a metal box, which looked to contain around a hundred thousand pounds or so in cash.

So perhaps they had found the murder weapon, and, finally, some of the proceeds of the scam. Time and forensics would tell. The Forensic Officer on scene should presumably be heading back fairly soon, but is currently being monopolized by Joyce. They are sitting together on Joyce’s raincoat, which has been spread over a mossy bench. What they are talking about, heaven only knows. Elizabeth is walking out of the woods with Andrew Everton.