The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club, #3)(11)

Daisy moos, as if on cue, and they both laugh.

It is time now though to head back through the woods, along the path that she has made herself, quiet, private, all their own. Keeping Stephen away from prying eyes. Away from inconvenient questions about the state of his mind.

Their hands stay clasped together as they walk, arms lightly swinging, hearts beating as one. This routine has quickly become Elizabeth’s favourite time of the day. Her handsome, happy husband. She can pretend for a little while longer that all is well. That his hand will forever be in hers.

‘Nice day for a walk,’ says Stephen, the sun lighting up his face. ‘We should do this more often.’

God willing, thinks Elizabeth, I will take every walk with you that I can.

Bethany’s body had never been found. That worries Elizabeth. She has read enough detective novels to know you must never trust a murder without a corpse. To be fair, she has also faked a number of deaths herself over the years.

Her attention elsewhere, Elizabeth sees the man only for a split-second. But she instantly realizes she has made a mistake.

It happens. Not often, but it happens.

This happy routine of hers, these familiar walks with Stephen, this familiar pleasure, was, of course, Elizabeth’s big mistake. As love so often is.

Routine is the spy’s greatest enemy. Never travel the same route two days in a row. Never leave work at the same time. Don’t eat at the same restaurant every Friday evening. Routine gives your enemy an opportunity.

An opportunity to plan ahead, an opportunity to hide, an opportunity to pounce.

Her split-second is up. Her last thought is ‘Please, please don’t hit Stephen.’ She doesn’t even feel the blow she knows is coming.





9





‘And then, in the late seventies, I went out with a member of UB40, but I think we all did back then,’ says Pauline.

‘Which one?’ asks Ron, trying to eat his soup with a little decorum.

Pauline shrugs. ‘There were so many of them. I think I slept with one of Madness too, or he said he was at least.’

Ron had rung his son, Jason, and asked where might be good for lunch, somewhere that was classy, but wouldn’t make a fuss if he didn’t know what knife to use. Somewhere that did food he would recognize, but would have proper napkins, and nice loos. Somewhere you didn’t have to wear a tie, but you could if you wanted, just hypothetical, say, but to remember he was a pensioner, and not made of money, though, you know, he had a few bob put away, don’t you worry about that.

Jason had listened politely, then said, ‘And what’s her name?’ Ron had said, ‘Whose name?’ Jason had said, ‘Your date,’ and Ron had said, ‘What makes you think …’ and Jason had said, ‘Le Pont Noir, Dad, she’ll love it,’ and Ron had said, ‘Pauline,’ and Jason wished him the best of luck. Then they spoke about West Ham for a bit until Ron asked Jason if he could book the restaurant for him, because he could never work out websites, and was too shy to ask Ibrahim to do it for him.

‘Your mate really going to Darwell Prison today?’ Pauline asks.

‘We have a habit of interfering,’ says Ron. ‘So, what’s your take on this Bethany Waites thing? You were around at the time?’

Le Pont Noir is what they call a gastropub. Ron had to scan the whole menu twice before he saw there was a steak. Even then it said ‘bavette’ of steak, but it came with chips, so he was hoping it was going to be safe.

‘She was a terrier, that’s for sure,’ says Pauline. ‘In a good way. Mike was very cut up when she died. They looked out for each other. Rare in this business.’

‘A looker too,’ says Ron. ‘If you like blondes, which I don’t. Not my type, not that I have a type. I’m not fussy. Well, I’m fussy, but –’

Pauline puts a finger to Ron’s lips to help him out of his cul-de-sac of a sentence. He nods gratefully.

‘She’d just started dating a new fella too,’ says Pauline. ‘Some cameraman, as always. In telly, the women all date their cameramen, and the men all date their make-up artists.’

‘Oh, really,’ says Ron, eyebrow raised. ‘So you and Mike Waghorn? You ever –’

Pauline laughs. ‘You’ve no worries there, darling. Mike dates cameramen too.’

‘There go Joyce’s chances,’ says Ron, as his ‘bavette’ of steak arrives. He is mightily relieved to see it is just a normal steak that someone has already cut up for him. Bingo. ‘You reckon the story got her killed?’

Pauline is pretending to look enthusiastic about a dish of braised cauliflower that has just been put in front of her.

‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Let’s talk about something else; I get enough of this from Mike.’

Ron is trying to work out who Pauline looks like. A bit Liz Taylor maybe? The new head judge on Strictly? He has decided, on reflection, that she is definitely out of his league. And yet here she was. ‘How’s your cauliflower?’

‘Take a wild guess.’

Ron smiles.

‘You enjoy yourself last night, then?’ says Pauline. Ron had stayed over at hers for the first time. If you can eat braised cauliflower suggestively, then that’s what she’s doing.

Ron feels his cheeks flush. ‘I, look, yeah, it’s been a while for me, so maybe I’m not what you’re used to. It’s been a long time. It was nice, just staying up talking. I hope that was OK?’