Pauline nods. ‘Good oh. Then shut your mush for five minutes and let me do the job I’m paid to do, which is to remind the viewers of
Ron’s mouth opens, but, unusually for him, no words come out. Pauline starts on his foundation without further ado. ‘Dignity, my arse. Haven’t you got gorgeous eyes? Like Che Guevara if he worked on the docks.’
In his mirror, Ron sees the door to the Jigsaw Room open. Joyce walks in. He knew she wouldn’t let him down. Not least because she knows Mike Waghorn will be here. This whole thing was her idea, truth be told. She chose the file.
Ron notices that Joyce is wearing a new cardigan. She just can’t help herself.
‘You told us you weren’t going to have make-up, Ron,’ says Joyce.
‘They make you,’ says Ron. ‘This is Pauline.’
‘Hello, Pauline,’ says Joyce. ‘You’ve got your work cut out there.’
‘I’ve seen worse,’ says Pauline. ‘I used to work on
The door opens once again. A camera operator walks in, followed by a sound man, followed by a flash of white hair, the quiet swoosh of an expensive suit and the perfect, masculine yet subtle scent of Mike Waghorn. Ron sees Joyce blush. He would roll his eyes if he wasn’t having his concealer applied.
‘Well, here we all are, then,’ says Mike, his smile as white as his hair. ‘The name’s Mike Waghorn. The one, the only, accept no substitutes.’
‘Ron Ritchie,’ says Ron.
‘The same, the very same,’ says Mike, grasping Ron’s hand. ‘Haven’t changed a bit, have you? This is like being on safari and seeing a lion up close, Mr Ritchie. He’s a lion of a man, isn’t he, Pauline?’
‘He’s certainly something or other,’ agrees Pauline, powdering Ron’s cheeks.
Ron sees Mike turn his head slowly towards Joyce, slipping off her new cardigan with his eyes. ‘And who, might I ask, are you?’
‘I’m Joyce Meadowcroft.’ She practically curtsies.
‘I should say you are,’ says Mike. ‘You and the magnificent Mr Ritchie a couple, then, Joyce?’
‘Oh, God, no, my goodness, the thought, no, heavens no. No,’ says Joyce. ‘We’re friends. No offence, Ron.’
‘Friends indeed,’ says Mike. ‘Lucky Ron.’
‘Stop flirting, Mike,’ says Pauline. ‘No one’s interested.’
‘Oh, Joyce’ll be interested,’ says Ron.
‘I am,’ says Joyce. To herself, but just loud enough to carry.
The door opens once again, and Ibrahim pokes his head around. Good lad! Only Elizabeth missing now. ‘Am I too late?’
‘You’re just in time,’ says Joyce.
The sound man is attaching a microphone to Ron’s lapel. Ron is wearing a jacket over his West Ham shirt, at Joyce’s insistence. It is unnecessary, in his opinion. Sacrilegious, if anything. Ibrahim takes a seat next to Joyce and looks at Mike Waghorn.
‘You are very handsome, Mr Waghorn. Classically handsome.’
‘Thank you,’ says Mike, nodding in agreement. ‘I play squash, I moisturize, and nature takes care of the rest.’
‘And about a grand a week in make-up,’ says Pauline, putting the finishing touches to Ron.
‘I am handsome too, it is often remarked upon,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I think perhaps, had my life taken a different turn, I might have been a newsreader too.’
‘I’m not a newsreader,’ says Mike. ‘I’m a journalist who happens to read the news.’
Ibrahim nods. ‘A fine mind. And a nose for a story.’
‘Well, that’s why I’m here,’ says Mike. ‘As soon as I read the email, I sniffed a story. A new way of living, retirement communities, and the famous face of Ron Ritchie at the heart of it. I thought, “Yup, viewers will love a bit of that.”’
It’s been quiet for a few weeks, but Ron is delighted that the gang is back in action. The whole interview is a ruse. Designed by Joyce to lure Mike Waghorn to Coopers Chase. To see if he could help them with the case. Joyce sent an email to one of the producers. Even so, it still means that Ron is going to be on TV again, and he is very happy about that.
‘Will you come to dinner afterwards, Mr Waghorn?’ asks Joyce. ‘We’ve got a table for five thirty. After the rush.’
‘Please, call me Mike,’ says Mike. ‘And, no, I’m afraid. I try not to mix with people. You know, privacy, germs, whatnot. You understand, I’m certain.’
‘Oh,’ says Joyce. Ron sees her disappointment. If there is a bigger fan of Mike Waghorn anywhere in Kent or Sussex, he would like to meet them. In fact, now he really thinks about it, he wouldn’t like to meet them.
‘There is always a great deal of alcohol,’ says Ibrahim to Mike. ‘And I suspect many fans of yours will be there.’
Mike has been given pause for thought.
‘And we can tell you all about the Thursday Murder Club,’ says Joyce.
‘The Thursday Murder Club?’ says Mike. ‘Sounds made up.’
‘Everything is made up, when you really think about it,’ says Ibrahim. ‘The alcohol is subsidized by the way. They tried to stop the subsidy, but we held a meeting, a number of words were exchanged, and they thought better of it. And we’ll have you out by seven thirty.’
Mike looks at his watch, then looks at Pauline. ‘We could probably do a quick supper?’
Pauline looks at Ron. ‘Will you be there?’
