‘No,’ says Mike. Joyce nods, a little disappointed, then takes another look at her book.
‘What happens if you need the loo during a show?’
‘For heaven’s sake, Joyce,’ says Elizabeth.
‘I go before the show starts,’ says Mike.
Fun though this is, Ibrahim wonders if it isn’t time to kick off this evening’s proceedings himself. ‘So, Mike, we have a –’
Joyce places a hand on his arm. ‘Ibrahim, forgive me, just a couple more things. What is Amber like?’
‘Who’s Amber?’ says Ron.
‘Mike’s co-host,’ says Joyce. ‘Honestly, Ron, you’re embarrassing yourself.’
‘I do that,’ says Ron. He says this directly to Pauline, who, in Ibrahim’s opinion, had very deliberately sat next to Ron at the start of dinner. Ibrahim usually sits next to Ron. No matter.
‘She’s only been there three years, but I am already starting to like her,’ says Joyce.
‘She’s terrific,’ says Mike. ‘Goes to the gym a lot, but terrific.’
‘She has lovely hair too,’ says Joyce.
‘Joyce, you should judge news presenters on their journalism,’ says Mike. ‘And not their appearance. Female presenters, particularly, have to put up with that a lot.’
Joyce nods, knocks back half a glass of white, then nods again. ‘I do take your point, Mike. I just think that you can be very talented and have lovely hair. Perhaps I’m shallow, but both of those things are important to me. Claudia Winkleman is a good example. You also have lovely hair.’
‘I’ll have the steak please,’ says Mike to the waiter now taking their orders. ‘Rare-to-medium rare, err on the side of rare. Though if you err on the side of medium, I’ll live.’
‘I had read you were a Buddhist, Mike?’ Ibrahim spent the morning researching their guest.
‘I am,’ says Mike. ‘Thirty-odd years.’
‘Ah,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I had been under the impression that Buddhists were vegetarian? I was almost sure.’
‘I’m Church of England too,’ says Mike. ‘So I pick and choose. That’s the point of being a Buddhist.’
‘I stand corrected,’ says Ibrahim.
Mike has started on his second glass of red, and seems ready to hold court. This is perfect.
‘Tell me about this Thursday Murder Club, then,’ he says.
‘It’s fairly hush-hush,’ says Ibrahim. ‘But we meet up, once a week, the four of us, to look over old police files. See if we can solve anything they were unable to.’
‘Sounds like a fun hobby,’ says Mike. ‘Looking into old murders. Keeps you busy I bet? The old grey cells ticking over? Ron, should we get another bottle of this red?’
‘It’s mainly been new murders recently,’ says Elizabeth, laying the bait still further.
Mike laughs. He clearly doesn’t think Elizabeth is being serious. Which is probably for the best. Don’t want to frighten him off just yet.
‘Sounds like you don’t mind a bit of trouble here and there,’ says Mike.
‘I’ve always been a magnet for trouble,’ says Ron.
Pauline tops up Ron’s glass. ‘Well, watch yourself, Ron, because I’ve always been trouble.’
Ibrahim sees Joyce give a tiny, secret smile at this. Ibrahim decides that, before they try to move the conversation, gently and slowly, on to Bethany Waites, he has a question of his own. He turns to Pauline.
‘Are you married, Pauline?’ he asks.
‘Widow,’ says Pauline.
‘Ooh, snap!’ says Joyce. Ibrahim notes that this evening’s combination of wine and celebrity is making her quite the giddy goat.
‘How long have you been on your own?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘Six months,’ says Pauline.
‘Six months? That’s no time at all,’ says Joyce, placing her hand on Pauline’s. ‘I was still putting an extra slice in the toaster at six months.’
Was it time? Here goes, thinks Ibrahim. Time to make small, subtle shifts in the conversation so they can start talking about Bethany Waites. A delicate dance, with Ibrahim as master choreographer. He has his first move all planned. ‘So, Mike. I wonder if you –’
‘I’ll tell you this for nothing,’ says Mike, ignoring Ibrahim, wine glass circling the air. ‘If you want a murder to solve, I’ve got a name for you.’
‘Go on?’ says Joyce.
‘Bethany Waites,’ says Mike.
Mike is on board. The Thursday Murder Club always get their man. Ibrahim notes, and not for the first time, that people often seem very willing to walk into their traps.
Mike takes them through the story they already know from the police files. They nod along, pretending it’s all new to them. The brilliant young reporter, Bethany Waites. The big story she was investigating, a massive VAT fraud, and, then, her unexplained death. Her car driving off Shakespeare Cliff in the dead of night. But there is nothing new. Mike is currently showing them the final message Bethany sent him, the night before she died: I don’t say this often enough, but thank you. Touching, certainly. But also nothing they don’t already know. Perhaps the biggest revelation they are going to get from this evening is that Mike Waghorn goes to the toilet before he goes on air. Ibrahim decides to chance his arm.
‘What about messages in the few weeks before that? Anything out of the ordinary? Anything the police haven’t seen?’
Mike scrolls back through his messages, reading some highlights. ‘Do I fancy a pint? Have I watched Line of Duty? There’s one about the story she was working on here, but from a couple of weeks before. Interested?’
‘One never knows what might help,’ says Elizabeth, pouring Mike another glass of red.
Mike reads from his phone.
‘Skipper … that’s what she used to call me.’
‘Among other things,’ says Pauline.
‘Some new info. Can’t say what, but it’s absolute dynamite. Getting closer to the heart of this thing.’
Elizabeth nods. ‘And did she ever tell you what the new information was?’
‘She did not,’ says Mike. ‘I’ll tell you what, this red is half decent.’
4
PC Donna De Freitas feels like someone has just punched a hole through the clouds.
She is flooded with heat and warmth, alive with a pleasure both utterly familiar but completely new. She wants to weep with happiness, and to laugh with the uncomplicated joy of life. If she has ever felt happier, she cannot immediately bring it to mind. If the angels were to carry her away this very moment – and if her heart rate was anything to go by that was a possibility – she would let them scoop her up, while she thanked the heavens for a life well lived.
‘How was it?’ asks Bogdan, his hand stroking her hair.
‘It was OK,’ says Donna. ‘For a first time.’
Bogdan nods. ‘I think maybe I can be better.’
Donna buries her head into Bogdan’s chest.
‘Are you crying?’ asks Bogdan. Donna shakes her head without lifting it. Where’s the catch here? Perhaps this is just a one-night thing? What if that’s Bogdan’s style? He’s kind of a loner, isn’t he? What if he’s emotionally unavailable? What if there’s another girl in this bed tomorrow night? White and blonde and twenty-two?
What was he thinking? That was the one question she knew not to ask a man. They were almost always thinking nothing at all, so were thrown by the question, and felt compelled to make something up. She’d still like to know though. What was going on behind those blue eyes? Eyes that could nail you to a wall. The pure blue of … wait a minute, is he crying?