‘Luca Buttaci, Elizabeth,’ says Joyce. ‘If that’s how you pronounce it.’
‘I pronounce it Buttaci,’ says Ron.
‘That’s not helpful, Ron,’ says Joyce.
‘I’m doing some Googling,’ says Bob. ‘Just to be useful, and nothing is coming up. Or nothing drug-related. Various Italian mayors and garden contractors, and a schoolboy from South-West London, but no police records, no arrests, nothing criminal.’
‘Probably an alias,’ says Joyce.
‘Probably an alias,’ agrees Elizabeth. Oh, God, now she’s repeating Joyce? Enough! Time to take charge again. She claps her hands. ‘OK, so this Luca Buttaci becomes a new suspect in the murder of Kuldesh, and also in the murder of Dominic Holt.’
‘So what’s next?’ asks Donna, looking around. ‘I got spotted at the football, and then Chris found a corpse. I don’t think we’re as good at breaking the law as you are.’
‘Very few people are,’ says Elizabeth. ‘What we need is a summit.’
‘Oh, a summit, Alan!’ says Joyce. Elizabeth notices Joyce hasn’t yet drunk any of her tea.
‘We need to get everyone together in a room and see their cards,’ says Elizabeth. ‘At the moment it feels like everyone is lying to us. Mitch Maxwell is lying to us, Samantha Barnes and her husband are lying to us. Chris and Donna, the National Crime Agency are lying to you. Dom Holt was lying to us and, given the bullet in his skull, perhaps he was lying to somebody else too?’
‘That’s what you get for smashing up my Daihatsu,’ says Ron.
‘Lovely cup of tea, Elizabeth,’ says Joyce.
‘Not you as well, Joyce, goodness me,’ says Elizabeth. ‘So let’s find Luca Buttaci. Ibrahim, I imagine your friend might be able to help there?’
‘Bob?’ asks Ibrahim.
‘Connie Johnson,’ says Elizabeth, ‘but that was a touching response. Ask her where we can find Buttaci, and then we’ll invite him, Mitch, Samantha and Garth over for Sunday lunch next week. See what we can see.’
‘Best cup of tea I’ve had in yonks,’ says Ron, raising his mug to her. Which gives her a surprising thrill.
‘I do like it when it’s all of us together,’ says Joyce.
‘And, Joyce,’ says Elizabeth, ‘I would like it if we could find Kuldesh’s lock-up before the summit? Monday perhaps?’
‘You’re actually around, are you?’ Joyce asks. ‘That makes a nice change.’
Joyce isn’t being mean, Elizabeth knows that. She just knows something is wrong, and is worried about her. Elizabeth has never been good at dealing with people caring about her.
The summit is a good idea. It will give everyone something to work on. And, when it’s over, Elizabeth can move on to the real business at hand.
Thinking of which, Elizabeth is beginning to wonder where Bogdan might be. If there was a problem, he would ring, she knows that. Perhaps he and Stephen are playing chess? That’s a comforting thought. But doubtful now. Perhaps they are sitting and talking? Stephen doesn’t always know who Bogdan is these days, but he likes his calmness. He fell asleep on Bogdan’s shoulder the other day, and Bogdan missed a weightlifting session because he refused to disturb him.
44
The two men trudge through the freshly settled snow, silhouettes in a world of black and white, and hazy sodium light. Snow underfoot, snow overhead. Stephen is in a long overcoat Bogdan found at the back of his cupboard, a woollen hat, gloves, two scarves and a pair of hiking boots. Bogdan himself is, in a rare display of weakness, wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt.
The paths are slippery, so Bogdan holds Stephen’s hand. His torch plays across the white grass, looking for Snowy. Looking for the swish of a tail, the glint in the eyes, the tips of those ears.
Stephen stops and looks over to his right. They are probably forty or so yards from the flat now. In front of the flowerbed is a small mound, just a bump really, nothing to it. But Stephen lets go of Bogdan’s hand and clambers up the slope towards it. Bogdan swings the torch to illuminate the ground in front of Stephen. Stephen kneels and places his hand on the top of the mound. Bogdan catches up to him, and sees what Stephen sees. The fox in the snow, silent and lifeless. The tips of his snowy ears sunk into the whiteness.
Stephen looks at Bogdan and nods. ‘Dead. Heart gave out, I’d guess; he looks peaceful.’
‘Poor Snowy,’ says Bogdan, and kneels beside Stephen. Stephen is brushing freshly fallen crystals from Snowy’s fur.
Stephen looks back towards his own window. ‘On his way to see me, I suppose. On his way to say goodbye, and didn’t make it.’
‘We don’t always get to say goodbye,’ says Bogdan.
‘No,’ says Stephen. ‘It’s pure luck when you do. Sorry, Snowy old pal.’
Bogdan nods, stroking Snowy’s fur. ‘Are you sad?’
Stephen is playing with Snowy’s ear. ‘We would look at each other, through the window, and both know we weren’t long for this world. That’s what drew us together. I’m not well, did you know that?’
‘You’re OK,’ says Bogdan. ‘Will Elizabeth be sad?’
‘Remind me, again?’
‘Your wife. Will she be sad?’
‘I expect so,’ says Stephen. ‘Do you know her? Is she the type to get sad?’
‘Not really,’ says Bogdan. ‘But this will make her sad, I think.’
Stephen stands, brushes the snow from the knees of his trousers. ‘What do you think? Funeral with full military honours?’
Bogdan nods again.
Stephen tests the ground with the tip of his boot. ‘You much of a digger? You look like you might be.’
‘I have dug a few holes, yes,’ says Bogdan.
‘This soil’s a bugger in winter though,’ says Stephen. ‘Like breaking tarmac.’
‘Where will we keep him till morning?’
‘He’ll be safe here,’ says Stephen. ‘No predators out in this weather. But turn him to face my window, so I know he can see me.’
Bogdan gently moves Snowy’s body. He rests Snowy’s head on his paws, facing in the direction of Stephen and Elizabeth’s flat.
Stephen bends, and pats Snowy’s head. ‘Safe now, old chum. Out of the cold soon, and no more sleeping with one eye open. It was lovely knowing you.’
Bogdan puts his hand on Stephen’s shoulder and gently squeezes.
45
Chris and Donna had asked if they could chat to Jason. Asked very politely, fair’s fair, and Ron hadn’t thought it was a terrible idea. Ron asked Jason, Jason didn’t see why not, and so here they all are, bright and early on a Monday morning.
Ron loves coming to his son’s house. The whole basement is a den. He’s got a pool table, a jukebox, a bar, his gym stuff. It makes Ron proud.
The big money had come from boxing, and Jason had been no fool. Hadn’t spent it all like some of them. Even so, there had been a few years when Ron could see his boy was beginning to struggle. No more pay days, no work. But he’d buckled down, built a lovely career for himself on the reality shows, bit of punditry, even the odd bit of acting, and the money started coming back in. Jason was a grafter, and nothing made Ron more proud than that. Seems to be settling down too.
Ron is currently sitting on a jet-black sofa with Chris and Donna. Right at this moment they are all watching Jason shadow-boxing on a rug in the middle of the room. He has asked them to be silent for a couple of minutes, so that is what they are doing. Ron hates being silent. Jason is keeping up a running commentary as he boxes.
‘Jason Ritchie with the jab, trying to rattle Tony Weir, but it’s not getting through. Tony Weir, this resilient man, forty-five years of age, has come out of nowhere to fight for the Middleweight Championship of the World. And what a fight he’s putting up. Weir throws a big right hand at Jason Ritchie. Ritchie dips out of the way, what a fight between these two great boxers. And there’s the bell …’