The Bullet That Missed полностью

That’s all it was in the end. People were always trying to tell you something, and all you really had to do was let them.

‘My pleasure,’ says Viktor. ‘And good luck – it’s all there ahead of you.’

Viktor puts his phone down. He catches sight of himself in the mirror. That bald head, too big for his shoulders. Those pebbly glasses, too big for his face. A face he has grown to love. If you are disappointed with your face, eventually it shows.

An email alert pings on Viktor’s computer and he turns towards the sound.

Viktor has an elaborate system of alerts. An alert for day-to-day emails, of course, the Gardeners’ Question Time newsletter, Waitrose offers and so on. Then different sounds for different clients. For different levels of urgency. There were certain email addresses that were completely unique for, say, an important Colombian client or an impatient Kosovan. In all, Viktor had over a hundred and twenty email accounts, all changing, all the time. But the sound alert for each client would stay the same.

He also has an alert for an email address that he has given nobody. It was a line of security, hidden deep on the dark web. It was an early-warning system really. If anyone ever found this email address, he would know his security had been compromised. And if his security had been compromised, he knew he was in trouble.

The alert for the secret email is a gunshot. Viktor’s little joke. A gunshot for the Bullet.

The alert that now rings around Viktor Illyich’s apartment is a gunshot. Viktor pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

He scans the skyline. Anything? Anyone? In the pool, the radio DJ is also now taking a selfie.

Viktor lights a cigarette. You would have to look long and hard to detect the slightest of trembles in his hand.

He opens the email. There are two photographs attached.

Heather Garbutt has been murdered.

The fraudster, not the hockey player.

They found her in her cell, where she had been killed in a very unpleasant way. Chris wouldn’t go into the details, but it involved knitting needles.

She left a note in one of her drawers:

THEY ARE GOING TO KILL ME. ONLY CONNIE JOHNSON CAN HELP ME NOW.

It seems to tell us two things.

Heather has been murdered. Though by who, and for what? Is it a coincidence that this has happened so shortly after we started investigating?

Connie Johnson has some information. But what information?

Elizabeth suggested that Ibrahim might like to return to Darwell Prison and ‘be a bit more thorough this time’. He took that about as well as you’d imagine.

There is another question here of course. Did whoever murdered Bethany Waites also murder Heather Garbutt?

Ron said, ‘What if Connie Johnson killed her?’ It was agreed that she would certainly have had the opportunity. But what would her motive have been?

Plenty to think about, then. Just the way we like it.

Chris was excited to meet Mike Waghorn, and, as he was leaving, he said, ‘You won’t remember this, but I breathalysed you once. You were clean as a whistle,’ and Mike thanked him for his service.

We are doing a Zoom with Joanna tomorrow, to see if she’s managed to uncover anything in Heather Garbutt’s financial files, but I think we should also be looking at the notes Bethany had been sent? I know they seem fairly gentle, but that’s how bullies start. One minute it’s ‘nobody likes you’, the next you are being pushed off a cliff. I’m being melodramatic, but you take my point? Things escalate.

So who sent the notes? A jealous lover? Someone from the newsroom? Fiona Clemence?

To be honest, wouldn’t that be more fun than a VAT fraud? I will ask Elizabeth to let me look into it. I bet Pauline knows a few stories from the time, and questioning her would be a nice way for me to get to know her a bit better. I’m not saying she’s here to stay, but Ron was wearing moisturizer today. He had a bit left over behind his ear. First Banoffee Pie, then moisturizer. That’s all I’m saying about that.

Alan has just walked in, tongue out, and tail thumping the doorposts on his way. I know we sometimes credit our dogs with too much intelligence, but I honestly think he can tell there’s been a murder.

‘Mum, you’re muted,’ says Joanna.

‘She’s saying we’re muted,’ says Joyce to Elizabeth.

‘Yes, I heard,’ says Elizabeth. ‘She’s not muted.’

‘Press the microphone button, Mum,’ says Joanna. Elizabeth notes it is all Joanna can do to not roll her eyes. Joanna has little patience for her mother. Elizabeth knows the feeling sometimes.

‘I don’t understand it at all,’ says Joyce, looking for whatever the microphone button might be. ‘It always works with Ibrahim.’

‘It sometimes works,’ corrects Ibrahim. ‘You are always sideways, for example.’

‘Let me look at it,’ says Ron.

Ron stares at the screen for four, perhaps five seconds, then sits back. ‘No, beats me.’

‘It is the little picture of the microphone, Joyce,’ says Ibrahim, leaning forward and moving the computer mouse.