The older gravestones are more ornate, more showy. The dates of death flick slowly forward as he walks. There are the Victorians all neatly in a line, probably furious about Palmerston or the Boers. Then it’s the women who sat in the convent and heard about the Wright brothers for the first time. Then the women who nursed the blind and the broken who flooded through their gates, as they prayed for brothers to return safely from Europe. Then there were doctors and voters and drivers, women who had seen both wars and still kept the faith, the inscriptions getting easier to read now. Then television, rock and roll, supermarkets, motorways and moon landings. Father Mackie steps off the path sometime around the 1970s, the headstones clear and simple now. He walks along the row, looking at the names. The world was changing in the most extraordinary ways, but the rows are still neat and orderly and the names are still the same. He reaches the side wall of the Garden, waist height and much older than the wall at the front. He takes in the view that hasn’t changed since 1874. Trees, fields, birds, things that were permanent and unbroken. He walks back to the path, clearing a leaf off one of the headstones as he passes.
Father Mackie continues to walk, until he reaches the final gravestone. Sister Mary Byrne, dated 14 July 2005. What a lot Mary Byrne could tell Sister Margaret Bernadette, just a hundred yards up the path. So much had changed, yet, here at least, so much had stayed the same.
Behind Sister Mary Byrne there is room for many more graves, but they had not been needed. Sister Mary was the last of the line. So here they all lay, this sisterhood, with the walls still around them, the blue skies above them and the leaves still falling on the headstones.
What could he do?
Exiting through the gates, Mackie turns back for a final look. He then begins the walk downhill, back through the avenue of trees towards Coopers Chase.
A man in a suit and tie is sitting on a bench set just off the path, enjoying the same view that Father Mackie had been enjoying. The view that never changed. Through wars and deaths and cars and planes, to Wi-Fi and whatever was in the papers this morning. There was something to be said for it.
‘Father,’ acknowledges the man, a folded copy of the Daily Express by his side. Matthew Mackie nods back, keeps walking and keeps thinking.
31
Chris has his own chair and his own side table and he now feels like the King of the World. He sometimes forgets the impact a police officer can have on members of the public. The gang in front of him are looking at him with something approaching awe. It’s nice to be taken seriously once in a while and he is happily giving them the benefit of his wisdom.
‘The whole house is wired up with cameras, pretty state-of-the-art stuff too, but we got nothing. On the blink. They often are.’
Elizabeth is nodding with interest. ‘Anyone you were expecting to see, though? Any suspects?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘Well, listen, that’s not something I can really share,’ says Chris.
‘So you do have a suspect? How wonderful! What do you make of the coffee and walnut?’ says Joyce.
Chris lifts a slice of coffee-and-walnut cake to his mouth and takes a bite. Also better than M&S. Joyce, you wizard! Also, it was a well known fact that there were no calories in home-made cakes.
‘It’s delicious, and look, I didn’t say we had a suspect, but we have persons of interest and that’s normal.’
‘“Persons of interest”,’ says Joyce. ‘I love it when they say that.’
‘More than one, then?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘So not just Ian Ventham? I suppose you couldn’t possibly say?’
‘He couldn’t say, you’re quite right,’ says Donna, deciding enough is enough. ‘Now leave the poor man alone, Elizabeth.’
Chris laughs. ‘I don’t think I need protecting here, Donna.’
Ibrahim turns to Donna. ‘DCI Hudson is a fine investigator, PC De Freitas. You are lucky to have such a good boss.’
‘Oh, he’s a pro,’ agrees Donna.
Elizabeth claps her hands. ‘Well, it feels like this meeting has been all give and no take. You’ve been very kind, Chris. If I can call you Chris?’
‘Well, I’ve possibly shared more than I was intending, but I’m glad it’s been interesting,’ says Chris.
‘It has. And I think we owe you a favour in return. You might like to take a look at this.’ Elizabeth hands Chris a bright blue binder about a foot thick. ‘It’s a few financials on Ian Ventham. Details of this place, details of his relationship with Tony Curran. Probably all nonsense, but I’ll let you be the judge.’
There is a buzz on Joyce’s intercom and she heads off to answer it, while Chris weighs up the binder.
‘Well, we can certainly take a look through this …’
‘I’ll look through it, don’t panic,’ says Donna, and gives Elizabeth a reassuring look.
The door swings open and Joyce walks in with Jason Ritchie himself. The tattoos, that nose, those forearms.
‘Mr Ritchie,’ says Chris. ‘We meet at last.’
32
Chris had asked Jason if he wouldn’t mind stepping outside for a photograph, to make use of the natural light.
Donna is taking the photo. The two men are smiling happily, arms around each other’s shoulders, leaning against a decorative fountain shaped like a dolphin.
Poor Chris, they had really done a number on him. Donna wonders if Chris truly understands that he’s one of the gang now.
It had been useful though. They had talked to Ron and Jason, and to Joyce, about what they saw. It had been a row, that much was clear. None of them could shed a light on what the row was about, but they had all thought it significant, and as Ron and Jason were fighting men, Chris and Donna had listened.
Ron was very proud of his boy, that much was clear. It was natural, of course, but something to be careful about. Just in case the photo left by the body hadn’t been a red herring.
Donna tells Chris to move to his left a little.
‘This is very kind of you, Jason, you must have to do it a lot,’ Chris says, moving to his left a little.
‘Price of whassname, innit?’ agrees Jason.
Donna has been doing her homework on Jason Ritchie. Hadn’t needed much, to be honest, her dad had been a boxing fan.
Jason has been famous since the late eighties and would now, it seemed, be famous for ever. He had been the hero, sometimes the villain, of a series of iconic fights that captivated the whole country. Nigel Benn, Chris Eubank, Michael Watson, Steve Collins and Jason Ritchie. It was boxing as soap opera. Sometimes Jason was J. R. Ewing and other times he was Bobby.
The public loved Jason Ritchie. The brawler, the bruiser, tattoos running up and down each arm, long before that was a mandatory requirement for a professional sportsman. He was charming, he was conventionally handsome, becoming more and more unconventionally handsome as his career took its toll. And, of course, he had his famous firebrand dad, ‘Red Ron’, always good for a quote. The chat shows loved Jason too. He accidentally knocked out Terry Wogan while showing him how he’d knocked out Steve Collins. Donna had read that that clip still brought him in steady royalties.
It never got better than the third Benn v Ritchie fight. The body slowed a little, the reflexes dulled. This didn’t matter while he was still fighting the guys who were ageing alongside him, but one by one they started retiring. Jason had found out, many years later, that he’d made less money than the lot of them. Problems with his manager. To this day, a lot of his money was in Estonia. The opponents got younger, the paydays smaller and the training harder, until an Atlantic City night in 1998, fighting a last-minute Venezuelan stand-in, Jason Ritchie hit the canvas for the final time.
A few years in the wilderness followed. A few years that were never mentioned in the profiles Donna had read in the papers. A few years where Jason made his money in a very different way. When he was being photographed with Tony Curran and Bobby Tanner. The years that Donna and Chris were interested in.
The wilderness years didn�
�t last, though. As a new century dawned, there was almost endless demand for a man who exuded menace and charm in equal parts. From the lad mags to the mockney film directors to the reality shows and the adverts for gambling companies, Jason started making more money than he ever had in the ring. He came third in I’m a Celebrity, he dated Alice Watts from EastEnders, he starred in a film alongside John Travolta as a washed-up fighter and one alongside Scarlett Johansson, also as a washed-up fighter.
This new career fairly quickly followed the same trajectory as his boxing career, however. You only had so many days top of the bill. These days there were no films, fewer adverts, and you’d see him turning up on all sorts of things.
But no matter, Jason Ritchie was now famous for ever and he appears to be grateful too. His smile, in front of the fountain shaped like a dolphin, seems, to Donna, entirely genuine.
Donna puts down the big blue file Elizabeth has given her and holds up her phone for the photo. ‘Say cheese, or whatever two men are comfortable saying.’
Jason starts, ‘I duck and I dive,’ and then Chris joins him for the shouted, ‘and I always survive!’
The two men both instinctively punch the air with their free arm and Donna takes the photo.
‘That was his catchphrase,’ Chris explains to Donna. ‘I duck and I dive and I always survive!’
Donna pockets her phone. ‘Everyone always survives until they die. It’s meaningless.’ She thought of adding that Rodolfo Mendoza had knocked Jason out in the third round on the East Coast, so he hadn’t exactly survived then. But why upset two middle-aged men unnecessarily?
‘They’ll love that at Fairhaven, Jason; thanks, mate.’
‘No problem. Hope the old man was useful.’
Donna knows Chris will never show the photo to any of his colleagues. He already has a much more interesting photograph of Jason Ritchie.
‘Very useful,’ says Chris. ‘Anyway, what’s your thinking, Jason? About Tony Curran? You must have known him a bit, from around Fairhaven?’
‘A bit, yeah. I knew of him. Not really, though. He had plenty of enemies.’
Chris nods, then steals a glance at Donna. Donna steps up and offers Jason her hand.
‘Thank you so much, Mr Ritchie,’ she says.
Jason shakes Donna’s hand, ‘My pleasure. Could you send me a copy of the photo? It looked a nice one.’ Jason writes down his number for Donna. ‘I’ll head back up and see Pops.’
‘Before you head up,’ says Donna, taking Jason’s number. ‘You knew Tony Curran a little better than you’ve suggested, didn’t you, Jason?’
‘Tony Curran? Nah. Seen him in the pub, know people who know him. Heard gossip.’
‘You ever drink in the Black Bridge, Jason?’ asks Chris.
Jason misses just the slightest beat, as if a punch has slipped through, but won’t again.
‘Near the station? Once or twice. Years ago.’
‘Twenty-odd years, I’m guessing,’ says Donna.
‘Maybe,’ nods Jason. ‘Who remembers, though?’
‘You had no dealings with Tony Curran back then?’ asks Chris.
Jason shrugs, ‘If I remember something I’ll tell you. I’ll get up to Dad; nice to meet you both.’
‘I saw a photo recently, Jason,’ says Chris. ‘Group of friends in the Black Bridge. Bobby Tanner, Tony Curran. Nice one of you. All very friendly.’
‘Lot of weirdos ask me for photos, mate,’ says Jason. ‘No offence.’
‘You’d recognize it. Table covered in money. You don’t have a copy of it, by any chance?’ asks Chris.
Jason smiles. ‘Never seen it.’
‘You wouldn’t know who took it?’ asks Donna.
‘A photo I’ve never seen? Nope.’
‘And we’re having trouble tracking down Bobby Tanner, Jason,’ says Chris. ‘I don’t suppose you know where he is these days?’
Jason Ritchie purses his lips for the briefest of moments, then shakes his head, turns and waves over his shoulder as he goes back inside to join his dad. Chris and Donna watch as the automatic doors slide shut behind him. Chris looks at his watch then motions towards the car. He walks and Donna walks alongside him, a smile on her lips.
‘That entire conversation was the most Cockney I’ve ever heard you sound, sir.’
‘Guilty,’ admits Chris, finally pronouncing a ‘t’. ‘Why does Jason want a copy of that photo of us? What’s that? To blackmail me if he ever needs to?’
‘Simpler than that, sir,’ says Donna. ‘It’s to get my number. Classic move.’
‘Either way,’ says Chris.
‘Don’t worry,’ says Donna. ‘He won’t be getting the photo, or my number.’
‘Good-looking fella,’ says Chris.
‘He’s like forty-six or something,’ says Donna. ‘No thanks.’
Chris nods. ‘Heaven forbid! You’d have to say he didn’t look too worried, though. But he’s definitely lying about not knowing Tony Curran.’
‘Could be lots of reasons,’ says Donna.
‘Could be,’ agrees Chris.
Hearing footsteps behind them, they turn to see Elizabeth and Joyce hurrying after them. Joyce has a Tupperware container with her.
‘I forgot to give you this,’ says Joyce, handing over her Tupperware. ‘It’s the last of the lemon drizzle. I’m afraid the coffee and walnut already has someone else’s name on it.’
Chris takes the cake. ‘Thank you, Joyce, that will go to a good home.’
‘And Donna,’ says Elizabeth, gesturing to the blue file. ‘Do call me if your bedtime reading gets complicated.’
‘Thank you, Elizabeth,’ says Donna. ‘I’m sure I’ll struggle through.’
‘Here, you should probably have my number too,’ says Elizabeth, and hands Chris her card. ‘We’ll have lots to chat about in the weeks ahead. Thank you for coming to see us, we do love visitors.’
Donna smiles as Chris virtually bows to Elizabeth and Joyce.
‘It really was an education,’ says Joyce, with a smile. ‘And you should probably let Donna drive, DCI Hudson. There was an awful lot of vodka in those cakes.’
33
Elizabeth had come straight over to Willows after meeting with the police. She makes sure that Penny has a wash and a set once a week. Anthony, the hairdresser, comes to Willows at the end of his appointments and always insists on doing it for free.
One day, if Anthony ever gets into any sort of trouble, or ever needs help, he will discover how grateful Elizabeth is for this kindness.
‘Mafia, I heard,’ says Anthony, gently running a soaped sponge through Penny’s hair. ‘Tony Curran owed them money, so they cut off his fingers and killed him.’
‘That’s an interesting theory,’ says Elizabeth. She has a hand cupped under Penny’s neck and lifts her head. ‘And how did the Mafia get into the house?’
‘Shot their way in, I suppose,’ says Anthony.
‘Without leaving bullet holes?’ asks Elizabeth. Penny’s shampoo smells of rose and jasmine and Elizabeth buys it at the shop on site. They stopped selling it for a while, but Elizabeth paid them a visit and they changed their mind.
‘Well, that’s the Mafia for you, Elizabeth,’ says Anthony.
‘And without tripping any alarms, Anthony?’ says John Gray, from his usual chair.
‘Have you seen Goodfellas, John?’ says Anthony.
‘If that’s a film then I won’t have,’ says John.
‘There you are then,’ says Anthony. He is now combing Penny’s hair. ‘You’re going to need a little trim next week, Penny darling. Get you disco-ready.’
‘No bullet holes, Anthony,’ says Elizabeth. ‘No alarms, nothing broken, no sign of a struggle. What does that suggest to you?’
‘Triads?’ Anthony is unplugging his curling tongs. ‘One of these days I’m going to unplug you by mistake, Penny.’
‘As Penny would be the first to tell you,’ says Elizabeth. ‘It suggests that he let his killer in. So it must ha
ve been someone he knew.’
‘Oh I love that,’ says Anthony. ‘Someone he knew. Of course. You ever killed someone, Elizabeth?’
Elizabeth shrugs.
‘I can just picture it,’ says Anthony, putting on his jacket. ‘There you go, Penny. I’d kiss you, but not with John in the room. Look at those forearms.’
Elizabeth stands and hugs him. ‘Thank you, darling.’
‘She looks gorgeous,’ says Anthony. ‘If I say so myself. See you next week, Elizabeth. Bye, Penny; bye, handsome John.’
‘Obliged, Anthony,’ says John.
As Anthony leaves, Elizabeth sits by Penny again. ‘Here’s another thing though, Pen. They took young Jason out for a photo afterwards. I know he gets that a lot, but something didn’t seem right. It felt off. Why go outside? Joyce has one of those big picture windows. You know, the ones in Wordsworth? That would be a lovely photo.’
Mentioning Joyce again. Easier every time.
‘Do you think they were asking Jason about something? Are we missing something? We passed him on the stairs coming back up and he was his usual charming self, but who knows?’
Elizabeth sips some water and feels grateful. Then feels guilty for feeling grateful. Then feels weak for feeling guilty. So she carries on talking to Penny. To Penny, or to herself? Who knew?
‘Perhaps it wasn’t Ventham at all? Perhaps we’re just being blinded by what’s in that file? By the twelve million. I mean, where was he when Curran was killed? Do we even know? Could he have done it? Do the timings work?’
‘Elizabeth, forgive me,’ says John. ‘But have you ever watched Escape to the Country?’
Elizabeth is still not really used to John speaking, but he does seem to be coming out of his shell recently. ‘I don’t believe I have, John, no.’
John is fidgeting a little. Something is clearly on his mind. ‘I mean, it’s rather good. I’m sure it’s nonsense, but even so. There will be a couple on and they will be looking for a new home.’
The Thursday Murder Club Page 10