‘They’ve got paper at the shop,’ says Ron.
‘We’ll go to the shop,’ says Kendrick.
‘Speed bump,’ says Mark, and the car bunny-hops in the air.
Kendrick reaches up and puts his arms around Ron’s neck. ‘Grandad, we’re going to have a fun time.’ He starts counting things off on his fingers. ‘We can go swimming, we can go for a walk, we can see Joyce, we can say hello to everyone.’ He points outside the window, ‘Grandad, the llamas!’
Ron looks at the llamas. Ian Ventham’s idea when he ran the place. Not his cup of tea, but, seen through a child’s eyes, not without charm. If you ended up living somewhere with llamas then perhaps not all is bad.
Kendrick settles back into his seat and shakes his head in wonder. ‘Oh, Grandad. You’re lucky to live here.’
Ron puts an arm around his grandson and looks out of the window. You’re not wrong there, kid, he thinks.
43
The Left-Luggage Office is attended by a bored-looking teenage girl wearing headphones. Elizabeth holds up her key as she and Joyce walk past, and the girl nods them through.
‘I don’t think you should be allowed to wear headphones at work,’ says Elizabeth. ‘You miss everything.’
Joyce nods. ‘Lovely hair though.’
There are five rows of lockers, grey metal frames and chipped blue doors, stacked three lockers high from floor to ceiling. Elizabeth leads Joyce to the fifth row, and they begin the walk down it.
‘I hope it’s a middle one,’ says Joyce. ‘No bending or reaching.’
Elizabeth stops. ‘You’re in luck, Joyce; middle locker, 531.’
They both look at the locker: 531 is written in sloping white numerals against the blue door. Elizabeth looks at the key. Small and flimsy. Anyone could break in. The girl on reception wouldn’t exactly stop you. What a place to hide twenty million pounds.
‘Well, here goes nothing,’ says Elizabeth and slides the key into the lock. At first it meets resistance, so Elizabeth pulls it out and tries again. But there is resistance once again, and she frowns. She lowers her eye to the keyhole.
‘Lock must be damaged. Hairpin, Joyce.’
Joyce searches through her bag and pulls out a hairpin. Elizabeth inserts it into the keyhole very gently, pushing, then twisting, then pushing again. The metal door swings open, to reveal the fate of Douglas Middlemiss.
To reveal nothing.
Well, not nothing exactly. Three grey walls, and a discarded crisp packet. The diamonds are gone.
Elizabeth looks at Joyce. Joyce looks at Elizabeth. They are both quiet for a moment.
‘It’s empty,’ says Joyce.
‘Up to a point,’ says Elizabeth, and pulls out the crisp packet.
‘Is this good news, or bad news?’ says Joyce.
Elizabeth stays silent for a moment, then nods herself back into action.
‘Well, it’s news, certainly,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Time will tell whether it’s good or bad. Joyce, put the crisp packet in your bag.’
Joyce obediently folds the crisp packet and puts it into her bag. Elizabeth shuts the locker door and inserts the hairpin once again. She twists it until the door locks with an unconvincing click.
Joyce leads the way out and they nod to the girl on reception as they leave.
‘Excuse me,’ says the girl. Elizabeth and Joyce turn back and the girl takes her headphones off. ‘A couple of things. First off, there’s nothing on these headphones, I only wear them because it stops the manager of Costa coming over and chatting me up, if he thinks I’m listening to something.’
‘Well, I apologize,’ says Elizabeth. ‘What’s the second thing?’
The girl looks at Joyce. ‘I just wanted to say thank you for being nice about my hair. It’s my first post-break-up haircut, so you’ve made my day.’
Joyce smiles. ‘Plenty more fish in the barrel, dear, you take my word for it.’
The girl smiles back and makes a head gesture towards the lockers. ‘I hope you found what you wanted today.’
‘Yes and no, apparently,’ says Joyce, and the girl slides her headphones back on.
As they leave the station Elizabeth sends a text, then plunges into the warren of alleyways behind the station. Joyce has no idea where they are walking now, but they are certainly walking somewhere as Elizabeth leads her expertly through the back streets of Fairhaven.
They take a left and then start down a small footpath. Are they headed for the police station? Why would they be headed for the police station? To give Chris and Donna a crisp packet? Joyce rarely questions Elizabeth, but one of these days she will lose it, surely? Perhaps today is that day?
They are crossing a small park now; there are children on a climbing frame, trying to get the attention of parents looking at mobile phones. They are definitely going to the police station. Joyce is trying to remember if there are toilets there. Surely there must be? But what if they’re just for prisoners?
Soon Joyce sees the police station in the distance, and sitting on the stone steps outside is Donna. That must have been who the text was for.
Donna pushes herself up as Elizabeth and Joyce approach. Donna gives Joyce a hug. Elizabeth waves a hug away. ‘Hello, dear, no time for hugs. Did you bring the light?’
Donna holds up something that looks like a small pen.
‘What’s that for?’ asks Joyce.
‘Can you take the crisp packet out of your bag?’ asks Elizabeth.
Joyce knew it. There was no way Elizabeth was making her put an old crisp packet in her bag without a good reason. Joyce takes out the packet and hands it to Elizabeth. Elizabeth tears down the side of the packet, exposing the foil inside. She then flattens the foil on one of the steps. Joyce cocks her head, so Elizabeth explains.
‘Tradecraft, Joyce. If Douglas had wanted the locker to be empty it would have been empty, but it wasn’t.’
Donna shows Joyce the light. ‘This is an infra-red light. I used to use it when we found stolen bikes. Sometimes the owner would have invisibly marked them.’
‘And, of course, Donna doesn’t have to track down stolen bikes any more, thanks to us,’ says Elizabeth.
‘For which I’ve thanked you many times,’ says Donna.
‘Now she investigates murders,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Elizabeth, you think perhaps it’s a sign of my gratitude that I’m standing on the steps of the police station about to help two old ladies shine an infra-red light at a crisp packet?’
‘You know we appreciate you, dear. Now let’s get to it.’
‘Old ladies,’ giggles Joyce. ‘I always find that funny.’
Donna kneels and switches on the light. Joyce thinks about kneeling, but really, kneeling over the age of sixty-five is a pipedream, so she sits on the step above instead. Elizabeth kneels. Is there nothing she can’t do?
The red light plays across the foil and Joyce sees letters appear. There is clearly a sentence written on it.
‘What now, Douglas?’ says Elizabeth with a sigh.
Donna moves the light to the top right corner of the foil and starts to read words as she reveals them.
‘“Elizabeth, darling …”’
Elizabeth mutters, ‘I’ll darling you.’
‘“Elizabeth, darling, we both know that things are never in the first place you look. This was just an extra layer of security, in case somebody else found the letter. But you know where the diamonds are, don’t you? If you really think about it?”’ Donna stops reading and looks up at Elizabeth.
‘That’s it?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘Well, then it says “from your ever-loving Douglas” and three kisses,’ says Donna. ‘But I didn’t want to hear the tut if I read that out.’
Elizabeth gets back to her feet and reaches out a hand to help Joyce up too.
‘So we still don’t know if he’s alive or dead?’ says Joyce.
‘Afraid not,’ says Elizabeth.
‘But he says you know where the diamond
s are?’ says Donna.
‘Well, if he says I know, then I know,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I have some thinking to do.’
Talking of thinking, something has been bothering Joyce, but she hasn’t mentioned it. She had never been a spy, so what did she know? It was probably silly. But the sun was out, and she was with two of her favourite people, so where was the harm?
‘Didn’t you think it was strange that the lock was damaged?’ she says.
‘Strange how?’ says Elizabeth.
‘Well, he gave you the key, so presumably it was working when he locked it up? And no one would have been there since. So how did the lock get damaged?’
‘That’s a good question,’ says Donna, and Joyce beams.
‘It’s a very good question,’ says Elizabeth.
Even better! What a lovely day Joyce is having.
‘Donna, there was CCTV in the locker room,’ says Elizabeth. ‘You don’t think you could possibly get hold of it? Just for the last week?’
‘I could get hold of it, but I’m not going to sit through a week of CCTV footage just because Joyce has a hunch. No offence, Joyce.’
‘Oh, I never take offence,’ says Joyce. ‘Such an effort.’
‘If you can get it, Donna, Ibrahim has plenty of time on his hands at the moment. And he loves to be useful.’
‘OK, I’ll see what I can do,’ says Donna. ‘But if there’s any way we can get involved in this case, then you promise you’ll let us?’
‘I think that sounds fair,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Any more news of Ryan Baird?’
‘Court case next week, I’ll let you know.’
‘Are you working on anything fun?’
‘Staking out a local drug dealer. Connie Johnson. Nasty piece of work.’
‘They often are,’ says Elizabeth. ‘And I believe we are seeing you later?’
‘Looking forward to it very much,’ says Donna.
‘Any intelligence you can give us on Patrice, before we meet her?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘She’s OK,’ says Donna. ‘Bit mumsy for me.’
Joyce looks at her watch. They still have an hour before they have to meet the minibus. Time for an almond-flour brownie and a cup of mint tea. Today was one of those days when everything was just falling into place. Perhaps she should buy a scratch card.
44
‘They were both shot in the face, so it was a terrible mess,’ says Joyce. ‘More Battenberg, Patrice?’
‘Nowhere left to put it,’ says Patrice, holding up her palm. ‘I’m half Battenberg already.’
‘Murder suicide?’ asks Chris. ‘Or double murder?’
‘Double murder,’ says Ron. ‘No gun left lying around, eh? Some geezer’s walked in –’
‘Or woman,’ says Donna, and gets an approving nod from her mum.
‘Some geezer, or some bird, granted, has just walked in, and opened up, kablammo. Heads blown off. You wouldn’t wish it on anyone.’
‘More women are murdering people these days,’ says Joyce. ‘If you ignore the context, it is a real sign of progress.’
Donna tucks her feet up beneath her. How was this all going then? Upside: the look on Elizabeth’s face when she realized that Patrice and Donna were mother and daughter. That she had managed to keep it secret. Elizabeth hated other people having secrets. Downside: having to watch her mum and Chris putting on a show for the Thursday Murder Club. Sitting knees together on the sofa. Touching, kissing, cooing. Donna wants them both to be happy, but she doesn’t need to watch them being happy. She doesn’t even particularly want to hear about them being happy. So long as they are happy, that’s all she needs. And they do look happy, don’t they? What if this relationship was actually going to work? What if Donna had performed a miracle?
‘And they’d tried before? They’d tried here?’ asks Chris.
‘Someone tried to kill Douglas, yes,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Made a rotten job of it and Poppy took his head off. May she rest in peace.’
‘I was hoping you and Donna might come and investigate,’ says Joyce. ‘But they sent Sue and Lance from MI5 instead.’
‘Not that we would ever reveal the names of MI5 officers, Joyce,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Oh, I’m only telling Chris,’ says Joyce. ‘Don’t be a fusspot.’
‘I’ll just check the Official Secrets Act, Joyce, and see if that’s in there.’
‘Anyway, they’re not a patch on you two,’ says Joyce. ‘Sue is a bit of a cold fish. Like Elizabeth, but without the warmth. But you can see she respects her.’
‘Senior, were you, Lizzie?’ asks Ron.
‘And then there was Lance. Balding but quite handsome, and there was no wedding ring. Anyway, I could get his number for you, Donna?’
‘A date with a balding spy? Well, that sounds a treat,’ says Donna. She had been on a date on Monday. His profile had said he was a diving instructor, which had sounded suitably alpha to Donna. Of course, she had misread the profile, and so had ended up having very disappointing sex with a driving instructor. She had also made the mistake of telling her mum and Chris about it, and they had a field day. Mum had made a number of jokes about his gearstick, and Chris had said, ‘Did he look in his mirror before pulling out?’ Donna downs her glass of wine.
‘Would you like to see photographs of the crime scene?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘Yes, please,’ says Chris.
‘I’ll need something in return,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Here we go,’ says Chris.
‘We just want to know the following. One, how long have you two been dating?’
‘None of your business,’ says Chris.
‘These photos are from every possible angle. Entry wounds, exit wounds, items disturbed in the room.’
‘Six weeks,’ says Patrice.
‘Thank you,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Two, where do you think this is going to go? I think I speak for all of us when I say that you seem an adorable couple.’
Donna mimes being sick as Joyce and Ron nod.
Patrice smiles. ‘Well, let’s take it one day at a time, shall we? I enjoyed yesterday, I’m having fun today, and I’m looking forward to tomorrow.’
She had given the same answer to Ibrahim, when she, Donna and Chris had visited him in his sick bed before coming over. He was intently playing Minecraft with Ron’s grandson, but had looked up long enough to say, ‘Theoretically, I know a thing or two about love. And that sounds like a very healthy answer.’
‘Any gossip from you four in return?’ asks Donna, keen to change the subject. ‘Apart from three people being shot?’
‘Well, Joyce had Gordon Playfair around for lunch one day last week,’ says Elizabeth.
‘He was rebooting my Wi-Fi,’ says Joyce.
‘I’ll bet he was,’ says Ron, another glass of wine down now.
‘Photos?’ reminds Chris.
Elizabeth holds up her finger, then fishes into her bag. ‘I lost my phone, briefly, but Bogdan found it for me.’ She scrolls through her photos and passes it to Chris. ‘Here, you two lovebirds can take a look.’
Chris holds the phone in front of him, and angles it slightly towards Patrice. He flicks through a couple of photos, pinching the screen occasionally to enlarge details.
‘Professional job,’ says Patrice.
‘I was about to say that!’ says Chris.
‘Great minds think alike,’ says Patrice and kisses Chris on the lips. Donna rolls her eyes and mutters ‘get a room’ loud enough for only Joyce to hear. Joyce giggles. Donna gives her a discreet high-five.
‘What a mess, though,’ says Chris.
‘Let me look,’ says Donna, and holds out her hand.
‘She was always impatient,’ says Patrice. ‘Wouldn’t ride a bike with stabilizers, wouldn’t wear armbands in the pool. We were in and out of A&E.’
Donna takes the phone from her mum and begins to scroll through the photos. As she stares at the two bodies, the young woman and the old man, she zones out of the conversation aroun
d her. Joyce is asking about Donna as a child, Ron is asking for more wine, her mum is asking about Gordon Playfair. Was all as it seemed in these photos? Something wasn’t right. On her date with the driving instructor, he had shown her a tattoo in Chinese script on his upper arm, and she had asked him what it meant. He had had no idea, he had just liked the look of it. To try and make conversation before they had sex again and she could finally ask him to leave, Donna had taken a photo of it and put it through a translation app. It turned out that the tattoo read ‘Sample Text – Your Message Goes Here’.
Sometimes things were just for show, they only looked right. Until you changed the way you looked at them. Donna puts down the phone.
‘I know you’ll have thought about this, but are you absolutely sure this is Douglas?’
‘Yes,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I have thought of that. Now, where are we with that CCTV?’
‘What CCTV?’ asks Chris.
There is a buzz. Somebody is at Joyce’s door.
45
‘He called it ham-fisted,’ says Stephen. ‘Ham-fisted!’
‘I know, dear,’ says Elizabeth. It is 2.30 a.m.
Many years ago, a man named Julian Lambert had written a review of one of Stephen’s books, Iran – Art After the Revolution. It had not been a good review. Mean-spirited. They were rivals.
‘I’ll knock his block off. How dare he?’ Stephen slaps both palms against the hallway wall, with some force. Stephen is a big man still. Elizabeth has never had to fear his physicality. Might she have to one day? Every day he slips further away.
‘Don’t give him the satisfaction, darling,’ says Elizabeth. Julian Lambert died in 2003, a hosepipe fitted to his car exhaust, in the garage of a house he was renting after an expensive and self-inflicted divorce.
‘I’ll give him more than satisfaction,’ says Stephen. ‘Let’s see how clever he looks on his arse, shall we? Where are my keys?’
Keys to what, wonders Elizabeth. Car keys, long gone. Keys to the flat, hidden many months ago. Stephen no longer has any keys. How to calm him down though?
The Man Who Died Twice (The Thursday Murder Club) Page 18