Page 65 of The Impossible Fortune
‘Okay, I’ve got lectures about firing guns to go to.’
‘I’ll be careful, I promise,’ says Donna. ‘Won’t tread on anyone’s toes. If I find out something about Jill Usher, I’ll pass it on, but that’s it. She was squeaky clean at first glance though.’
‘And that’s it?’ Chris asks.
‘That’s it,’ says Donna.
‘She’s hasn’t asked you to do anything else?’
‘Not a thing,’ says Donna.
‘Not even a tiny extra favour?’
‘I mean,’ says Donna, shrugging, ‘she wondered if I could talk to Joanna’s husband.’
‘She wants you to talk to Paul Brett?’
‘Well, she can’t,’ says Donna. ‘In case Joyce finds out.’
‘And you’re going to do it?’
‘You could come with if you fancied?’ Donna says. ‘When your course is done?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ says Chris.
‘You must be a bit tempted to help?’ says Patrice.
‘Help the Thursday Murder Club?’ says Chris.
‘You love them,’ says Patrice. ‘You miss them. I think you once called out “Joyce” in your sleep.’
‘Let me tell you a story,’ says Chris.
‘Oh, fabulous, if you would,’ deadpans Patrice, and she and Donna laugh.
‘A couple of months ago,’ says Chris, ‘Donna and I get a call. First thing in the morning. A garage owner in Rye has been found dead in his workshop. Nasty bang on the head, been hit by something a couple of hours before. Murder, no doubt about it.’
‘And you’re saying Elizabeth did it?’ Patrice suggests.
Chris ignores her. He’s on a roll. ‘We visit the workshop, Donna and me. Scenes of crime are there, and they find nothing they can use, so we’re probably dealing with a professional. Back we head to the office, and do our usual digging. Watkins, the guy was called: is he on our radar, who does he know, who might have a motive? And we draw another blank. Happens all the time.’
‘That chicken smells amazing, Mum,’ says Donna.
‘The secret is to kill it yourself,’ says Patrice. ‘Go on, darling, you were saying?’
‘So no forensics and no intelligence. Fine. A bit of old-fashioned police work, then. We go door-to-door –’
‘Well, I went door-to-door,’ says Donna.
‘That’s true,’ says Chris. ‘Rank has certain privileges. Donna goes door-to-door with a little crew, but no one has heard anything, so everybody trudges back to the station. We’re having our lunch and one of the junior PCs says hewas harangued for twenty minutes by an elderly woman whose door he knocked on. She’d had her milk stolen that morning, and what was he going to do about it? The PC explains that he’s investigating a murder and her milk isn’t top of his priority list, and she whacks him with a walking stick and says, “What about my Crunchy Nut Cornflakes?” which gets the laugh he was looking for.’
‘I can feel a lesson coming on,’ says Patrice.
Chris nods. ‘You’re right. I’m listening to this PC, and I look at Donna. I want to get her attention, but she’s already looking at me. The two of us get up from the table, drive back to Rye and pay another visit to the woman with the stolen milk. She’s delighted we’re taking it seriously and invites us in. We ask what time her milk is usually delivered, and she says five thirty in the morning. We ask her if she has CCTV and she says no, but the neighbour across the road does.’
‘She said, “Because he’s a pervert,”’ adds Donna.
‘Over we pop and take a look, and there’s a man coming from the direction of Watkins’s garage at about quarter to six in the morning, all in black, gloves, you know the drill. He spots the milk on the doorstep, trots up and pinches it. As he walks back down the driveway, we get a clear shot of his face. Surely that’s our guy?’
