Maybe the emails are from Bethany. Mike can choose to believe it if he wishes. And, if they are, he hopes she saw the broadcast the other day. The tribute he paid her. He hopes she knows, wherever she is, up above, down below, or somewhere in between, that he loves her.
Mike pours himself a cider straight from the plastic bottle now. Why not? He raises his glass.
‘To absent friends.’
88: Joyce
A few days have passed since all the excitement. I should probably fill you in on everything that’s happened since.
I finished my short story. It is no longer called ‘Cannibal Bloodbath’. Instead it is called ‘Life is but a Dream – A Gerry Meadowcroft Mystery’. I sent it off to the Evening Argus, and they immediately responded to say that my submission had been received. I replied to say thank you, and to wish them a nice weekend, but that email didn’t get through. I haven’t heard anything back since.
I have started a new story in which Inspector Gerry Meadowcroft goes to Morocco. I have never been to Morocco, but I watched a Rick Stein documentary in which he went to Marrakesh, so I am basing a lot of the descriptions on that.
Andrew Everton is in prison. Belmarsh, high security. For his own protection as much as anything, I think. He’s been charged with the fraud, but they are still investigating the killings of Bethany, and Heather. It’s interesting that, in any normal case, the livestream video we did would have prejudiced the trial, but the reaction to it was so huge I think even the authorities worked out that justice was going to have to be seen to be done. Andrew is still protesting his innocence, but, whatever happens, he’ll be going to jail for a long time.
The irony is his books are now huge bestsellers. Top of the Kindle charts, and some publishing company is rushing out real, physical copies too. Netflix have bought the TV rights. It’s true what they say about publicity. He’s not seeing a penny of the money, though. It’s all being held by the court until he pays back the ten million he stole.
I don’t think they’ll ever charge him with the murders. Where’s the evidence? They dug every inch of the garden and the woodland behind Heather’s house, and found no body. What they have found is many more guns, piles of cash, fake passports, stolen goods, everything you could think of. It seems that every time Jack Mason dug a hole over the years, looking for the body, he hid something in it before filling it back up again. The first gun we found, the assault rifle, had never been fired, and the hundred thousand was from a Post Office robbery in Tunbridge Wells.
I went shopping in Tunbridge Wells recently; Carlito took us all up there in the minibus. I had read in a book somewhere that Tunbridge Wells had a Waitrose, but it didn’t. It had a lovely big Waterstones, though, and I bought a book by Stephen King called On Writing, and a new Marian Keyes.
The biggest news is probably Mike Waghorn. The world and his wife watched his tribute to Bethany, and he says the phone hasn’t stopped ringing since. He’s signed up to do a series on ITV called Britain’s Most Notorious Serial Killers. He co-hosted The One Show – my favourite – for a week, and they’ve asked him back. And next week I’m going up to Elstree again to watch him on Stop the Clock – Celebrities! Elizabeth has a prior engagement apparently, so Pauline is going to come with me.
Fiona Clemence is taking us all out to dinner afterwards, as well she might, given she now has eight million Instagram followers and is about to film an American version of Stop the Clock.
Pauline and Ron have just got back from a long weekend in Stratford-upon-Avon. I asked Ron what Shakespeare they had seen, but he looked at me blankly, so I think they spent the whole weekend in the pub. Ibrahim looks a bit lost without Ron. I know he is very happy for him, but perhaps I need to keep an eye on him? We often walk Alan together, and he natters away quite happily, but even so.
And, talking of walking dogs, I do often bump into Mervyn and Rosie. Mervyn is so handsome I have to stop my tail from wagging when I’m around him. He doesn’t say much, but sometimes that can be a relief, can’t it? With some men you spend most of your time just nodding in agreement.
I take Mervyn a casserole every now and again, always enough for two, just to see if he takes the hint, but he just says, ‘Thank you, that’ll last me two days.’ But the way he says it, in that deep, commanding voice – well, it’s worth it just for that. He hasn’t yet shown any real sign of interest, though the other day he did bring round his copy of The Times and said, ‘There’s an article in there about Margaret Atwood. About how she writes her books. Thought you might be interested.’ That must be the longest sentence he has ever said to me, so you never know. I read the article, so we will have something to talk about next time I see him.
Christmas is just around the corner, and I’m hoping Joanna and Scott might come down. I haven’t really asked what everyone is doing. I wonder if Ron will be with Pauline? Perhaps they’d like to come round here? And Ibrahim, without question. I wonder what Viktor is doing for Christmas? I will ask him tomorrow, as we have all been invited for lunch at his. This time I will be bringing my swimming costume, I don’t care how cold it is.
My crypto account, which was somewhere over sixty-five thousand pounds at one point, is now worth eight hundred. I emailed Henrik, and he replied saying, ‘Joyce, you must believe.’ Believe what, I don’t know. But, whatever you might say about cryptocurrency, it’s more fun than Premium Bonds.
Such a lot has happened this year, and my favourite thing of all has just bounded into the room looking for trouble. Alan thinks it is time for bed, and, as so often, he is quite right.
89
Greed, that was the thing. The fatal flaw. Why wasn’t he happy with what he had?
Actually, it was greed and being too clever. The two fatal flaws.
Sitting here in Belmarsh, when he should be on a Spanish terrace with a cold beer and a hot typewriter.
‘A cold beer and a hot typewriter.’ Andrew Everton writes that down in his notebook. The new book, Guilty or Not Guilty, is going to be his best yet, just as soon as they let him use a computer. Perhaps after he’s been convicted they’ll let him use one? How many books will he have to sell to pay back ten million pounds under the Proceeds of Crime Act? A lot, that’s his guess.
The VAT scheme, so simple, so victimless. How had it gone so wrong? The plot for a book, turned into a real-life crime. He should have left it as a book. Trusted his writing. ‘Grisham-esque’, someone had called it, he forgets who.
He should never have sent the bullet to Bethany either. He had hoped it might scare her off. Never should have emailed asking to meet her. He should have stayed in the shadows. Life was not a book.
So many bodies and he had only murdered one of them. He’d told Jack and Heather he had murdered Bethany, sure. That was a masterstroke: blackmail them with a corpse that was never there. The coastguards had told him that if the body hadn’t washed up within a week, it was probably not going to be washed up at all, and that’s what gave him the idea. Such a clever idea. Too clever in the end; it was so unfair. You shouldn’t be penalized for being too clever.
And he’d told the guy with the pebbly glasses that he’d killed Bethany too. Because that’s what he thought the guy wanted to hear. That’s how he thought he was going to get his money.
Greed. And being too clever. Look where it gets you.
Who had killed Bethany Waites? Andrew Everton has no idea. It wasn’t him, and he knows it wasn’t Jack Mason, or his little blackmail scheme wouldn’t have worked. And where did all that money end up? He has no idea about that either. Who was the guy in the glasses? Was Elizabeth Best everything she seemed? His whole life had begun to unravel after he’d first met her. So many questions, and so few answers.