Chief Constable Andrew Everton, waiting to answer, knows exactly what the statistics show. They show he is doing a very good job. No complacency of course – things can always go wrong, he knows that very well – but he’s proud of what he’s achieving. He turns on his smile, but really he is thinking of the face he has just recognized. He really, really must pay a visit to this ‘Coopers Chase’. And quickly.
24
Jack Mason is strong and squat, but showing his age. Like a last defiant East End house standing alone in the rubble of a demolished street. Ron knows that feeling.
Grey hair shaved to the scalp, deep brown eyes never missing a moment of action – you’d never kill Jack with a bullet, you’d have to use a bulldozer.
Ron’s route to meet him has been fairly straightforward, all things considered.
Ron simply spoke to his son, Jason, who spoke to one of his old boxing pals, Danny Duff, who messaged a man named Pump-Action Dave, who happened to drink with a man who declined to be named, who happened to do some work from time to time with Jack Mason.
A message had come back along that same line – pausing briefly at Danny Duff, who had been arrested on suspicion of cocaine importation and wasn’t allowed his phone for a couple of hours – and Jack had suggested he and Ron meet for a game of snooker in Ramsgate.
Ibrahim offered to drive Ron, but at the last minute Pauline said she’d drive, as Ramsgate had a number of interesting antique shops, and a tattoo parlour, so she was keen to ‘make a morning of it’. She suggested Ibrahim come along too, but Ibrahim had decided to stay at home. Is Ibrahim acting a bit strange around Pauline, Ron wonders?
Ron asks for Jack Mason at the reception of Stevie’s Sporting Lounge and is shown through to a private room, where Jack has already set up the balls on the table.
‘Ron Ritchie, is it?’ says Jack, holding out a hand. ‘The lad himself?’
Ron shakes Jack’s hand. ‘Thanks for seeing me, Jack – know you didn’t have to.’
‘Intrigued, aren’t I,’ says Jack Mason. ‘What’s does an old bugger like you want with an old bugger like me?’
‘Your name came up,’ says Ron.
‘Did it now?’ Jack replies.
Jack takes his first shot. Ron is glad they are playing snooker. It can be quite hard for two men to have a conversation together, but snooker, or golf, or darts, always seemed to make it easier. Men didn’t really meet for a coffee. Perhaps they did these days? Perhaps the coffee shops of Ramsgate were full of men chatting about their hopes and dreams, but Ron doubts it. Ron bends down over the table and takes his shot.
‘Used to drink with your brother,’ says Ron, tutting as a red ball rattles in the jaws of a pocket. ‘Lenny. I was sorry to hear about him.’
‘We all go sometime,’ says Jack, potting the red Ron had missed. ‘I know he liked you, I wouldn’t be here otherwise. So my name happened to come up? Any particular reason?’
‘Heather Garbutt,’ says Ron. If Jack Mason is fazed hearing the name, he doesn’t show it. He pots a black with ease and lines himself up for his next red.
‘Heard she died,’ says Jack Mason.
‘You heard right,’ says Ron. ‘Wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?’
‘Nope,’ says Jack Mason. ‘Ain’t heard a peep.’
‘Where were you Thursday morning?’
Jack stops playing for a moment. ‘Where was I Thursday morning? I’m meeting you as a favour, Ron. You get that? We’ve both been around the block, eh, so I’m not going to disrespect you. But make your next question a good one, or we’re going to fall out.’
Ron smiles. This is home ground for him, two men arguing, grievances being aired. You can’t beat a bit of conflict. He lets Jack take his next shot. A miss.
Ron leans a hand on the table. ‘Here’s where I am, Jack. Heather Garbutt worked for you, and fiddled millions while she did. Some of that money went into an account that sounds an awful lot like it belonged to you.’
‘What account?’ asks Jack.
‘Trident Construction,’ says Ron.
Jack nods, looking interested. ‘You got evidence of that?’
‘Yup,’ says Ron, and misses another red.
‘And that evidence,’ continues Jack. ‘Anybody else got it?’
‘Nope,’ says Ron. ‘But we made the connection to you easy enough, so if anyone really starts poking around Heather Garbutt’s death, someone else will find it too.’
‘Who’s “we”?’ asks Jack, as he pots yet another ball.
‘It would honestly take too long to explain,’ says Ron. ‘You’re thrashing me here.’
‘I think you’re a bit nervous,’ says Jack, potting a blue, and chalking his cue.
‘You read me wrong, then,’ says Ron. ‘And I haven’t finished. Just before Heather Garbutt goes to trial, a young journalist dies. Bethany Waites, from the local news. Drives herself off a cliff.’
‘Hell of a way to go,’ says Jack Mason, making another pot.
‘Never found her killer,’ says Ron. ‘But, a few weeks before she dies, Bethany messages her guv’nor because she’s just cracked a big story. Found a smoking gun.’
‘And the story is Heather Garbutt?’ asks Jack, game forgotten for the moment.
‘More than Heather Garbutt. Something bigger, someone connected to her,’ says Ron. ‘And you were connected to her, Jack. Coincidence, innit?’
‘No such thing as coincidence,’ says Jack.
‘Well, that’s what we think. So there are minds cleverer than mine who say Heather Garbutt is stealing money for you, Bethany Waites uncovers the connection – maybe in the same way we have – so you have Bethany Waites killed.’
Jack nods. ‘Thank you for bringing this to my attention.’
‘Just, people might start asking, you know,’ says Ron.
‘I’d imagine they might,’ agrees Jack.
‘And I wondered,’ says Ron, ‘between you and me, what you make of that story?’
Now it’s Jack’s turn to smile. ‘Between you and me? I’d say this. Look, I was up to my eyes in the VAT thing, course I was. No proof, no, nothing, till you mentioned this Trident thing, but that could be a coincidence. They won’t get me on that. I’m locked tight, Ronnie – they’ll never find the money. Even I’ve lost track of it.’
Ron nods. He really wants to play his next shot, but Jack hasn’t finished.
‘And this Bethany Waites. I won’t pretend I haven’t heard the name, I have, lots of the evidence in Heather’s case came from her. But this message you’re saying she sent before she died? Where would I have heard about it from? Makes no sense.’
‘You never met Bethany Waites?’
‘Never.’
‘Never even spoke to her?’
‘Never, God’s honest,’ says Jack.
‘You’re not offended I asked though?’ says Ron, and misses yet another red.
‘No, I get it, I get it,’ says Jack. ‘But you must have thought this was a bit too amateurish for me? Leaving a loose end, killing a journalist. Bit offended if you thought that’d be my style.’
‘We all make mistakes, Jack,’ says Ron. ‘Especially when the pressure’s on. But you’re right, I figured it wasn’t you. She might not even be dead, Jackie. They never found the body.’
Jack Mason lines up another shot. He doesn’t look at Ron.
‘Oh, she’s dead.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Ron thinks he must have misheard.
‘I said she’s dead.’ Jack pots another ball, then chalks his cue.