Page 35 of The Impossible Fortune (Thursday Murder Club Mysteries #5)

‘She texted me a name,’ says Donna. ‘Jill Usher. Asked if I could look into her.’

‘But it’s not your case, Donna,’ says Chris. ‘It’s DCI Varma’s case.’

‘She died at Coopers Chase,’ says Donna, as Patrice fills her wine glass. ‘Elizabeth was the first to reach the body. That makes it our case, morally, although, yeah, not actually. I should have a poke around at least.’

‘So you’re going to do what Elizabeth tells you to do?’ Chris asks.

‘For now,’ says Donna. ‘Maybe when you’re armed we’ll be able to stand up to her.’

‘If you start investigating,’ says Patrice, dipping a carrot baton in some hummus, ‘who’s going to look after Prince Edward?’

‘That’s the thing – Elizabeth knew I was bored,’ says Donna, sheepishly. ‘We broke into an office, and that was fun.’

‘Honestly,’ says Chris. ‘I leave you alone for one week.’

It is a lovely, sleepy Sunday evening. Patrice has cooked a roast chicken, and Donna can smell it in the oven.

Her mum has virtually been living with Chris over the summer holidays.

Are her boss and her mum going to get married one of these days?

Donna will cross that bridge when she comes to it.

Chris has been regaling them both with tales of his firearms course.

At first he’d said he’s been firing guns all week, but after a couple of glasses of wine he admitted that he’s mainly been sitting in lectures being told how to avoid firing guns under any circumstances. But then they do have target practice.

‘Be careful though,’ says Chris.

‘You’re jealous Elizabeth asked me to help, and not you.’

‘Not my case,’ says Chris. ‘Let someone else deal with the Thursday Murder Club for once. I’ve got guns to fire.’

Donna raises an eyebrow.

‘Okay, I’ve got lectures about firing guns to go to.’

‘I’ll be careful, I promise,’ says Donna. ‘Won’t tread on anyone’s toes. If I find out something about Jill Usher, I’ll pass it on, but that’s it. She was squeaky clean at first glance though.’

‘And that’s it?’ Chris asks.

‘That’s it,’ says Donna.

‘She’s hasn’t asked you to do anything else?’

‘Not a thing,’ says Donna.

‘Not even a tiny extra favour?’

‘I mean,’ says Donna, shrugging, ‘she wondered if I could talk to Joanna’s husband.’

‘She wants you to talk to Paul Brett?’

‘Well, she can’t,’ says Donna. ‘In case Joyce finds out.’

‘And you’re going to do it?’

‘You could come with if you fancied?’ Donna says. ‘When your course is done?’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ says Chris.

‘You must be a bit tempted to help?’ says Patrice.

‘Help the Thursday Murder Club?’ says Chris.

‘You love them,’ says Patrice. ‘You miss them. I think you once called out “Joyce” in your sleep.’

‘Let me tell you a story,’ says Chris.

‘Oh, fabulous, if you would,’ deadpans Patrice, and she and Donna laugh.

‘A couple of months ago,’ says Chris, ‘Donna and I get a call. First thing in the morning. A garage owner in Rye has been found dead in his workshop. Nasty bang on the head, been hit by something a couple of hours before. Murder, no doubt about it.’

‘And you’re saying Elizabeth did it?’ Patrice suggests.

Chris ignores her. He’s on a roll. ‘We visit the workshop, Donna and me. Scenes of crime are there, and they find nothing they can use, so we’re probably dealing with a professional.

Back we head to the office, and do our usual digging.

Watkins, the guy was called: is he on our radar, who does he know, who might have a motive?

And we draw another blank. Happens all the time. ’

‘That chicken smells amazing, Mum,’ says Donna.

‘The secret is to kill it yourself,’ says Patrice. ‘Go on, darling, you were saying?’

‘So no forensics and no intelligence. Fine. A bit of old-fashioned police work, then. We go door-to-door –’

‘Well, I went door-to-door,’ says Donna.

‘That’s true,’ says Chris. ‘Rank has certain privileges. Donna goes door-to-door with a little crew, but no one has heard anything, so everybody trudges back to the station. We’re having our lunch and one of the junior PCs says he was harangued for twenty minutes by an elderly woman whose door he knocked on.

She’d had her milk stolen that morning, and what was he going to do about it?

The PC explains that he’s investigating a murder and her milk isn’t top of his priority list, and she whacks him with a walking stick and says, “What about my Crunchy Nut Cornflakes?” which gets the laugh he was looking for. ’

‘I can feel a lesson coming on,’ says Patrice.

Chris nods. ‘You’re right. I’m listening to this PC, and I look at Donna.

I want to get her attention, but she’s already looking at me.

The two of us get up from the table, drive back to Rye and pay another visit to the woman with the stolen milk.

She’s delighted we’re taking it seriously and invites us in.

We ask what time her milk is usually delivered, and she says five thirty in the morning.

We ask her if she has CCTV and she says no, but the neighbour across the road does. ’

‘She said, “Because he’s a pervert,”’ adds Donna.

‘Over we pop and take a look, and there’s a man coming from the direction of Watkins’s garage at about quarter to six in the morning, all in black, gloves, you know the drill.

He spots the milk on the doorstep, trots up and pinches it.

As he walks back down the driveway, we get a clear shot of his face. Surely that’s our guy?’

‘What has this got to do with the Thursday Murder Club?’ Patrice asks.

‘We circulate the screenshot from the CCTV,’ continues Chris.

‘And a DI in Worthing gets in touch and says, I know this guy, Johnny Jacks, record as long as your arm, muscle for hire, GBH, all sorts, so off we go and talk to Johnny Jacks. He’s quiet, as they always are.

Never heard of Watkins, never heard of Rye, only reluctantly admits he’s heard of milk.

We search his car, and there’s a receipt for a petrol station just outside Rye, and there’s a hammer covered in Watkins’s DNA. ’

‘There was even an empty milk bottle,’ says Donna.

‘So we arrest him, we charge him, he’s on remand, and when he comes to trial he’s going to prison for a long time. And all because we figured that the sort of man who’d murder in cold blood is also the sort of man who’d steal a bottle of milk from a doorstep.’

‘Congratulations,’ says Patrice. ‘That’s terrific work.’

‘Thank you,’ says Chris. ‘But I tell this story for one reason only. This year I’ve been involved in eight murder investigations.

Solved five of them, know who did two of them but I’m still looking for evidence.

A lot of hard work, a lot of wrong turns, a lot of late nights.

But in that time, not once have I been visited by any pensioners demanding information from me, hiding evidence from me, intellectually undermining me, or in any other way interfering in any murder investigation.

And, I’ll be honest, I haven’t missed it, and I haven’t missed them. ’

Chris sits back. He looks exhausted. Point made.

Donna and Patrice look at each other.

‘Yeah, you have,’ says Patrice.

‘You have,’ agrees Donna.

‘Donna,’ says Chris, ‘you do Elizabeth’s bidding if you want. But I’m made of stronger stuff. I’m a good investigator – I don’t need the Thursday Murder Club to help me.’

‘What if they need you to help them?’ Donna asks.

‘They never need me to help them,’ says Chris.

Matter closed.

‘Anyway, he’s too busy shooting guns with the boys,’ says Patrice.

‘There’s a woman there too,’ protests Chris.

‘Let me guess,’ says Donna. ‘You all underestimated her and it turned out she’s the best shot of the lot of you?’

‘I don’t want to be gendered about it,’ says Chris. ‘But she’s actually coming joint twelfth out of fifteen.’

‘And where are you?’ Donna asks.

‘Also joint twelfth,’ says Chris. ‘I’d be eighth, but I shot a mum pushing a pram instead of a terrorist.’