The Bullet That Missed полностью

‘Jack Mason,’ confirms Joanna.

‘So money goes out of Heather Garbutt’s account, straight into an account run by her boss,’ says Ron.

‘Probably run by her boss,’ says Joanna.

‘And then disappears for good,’ says Cornelius. ‘Also worth noting too that when Heather Garbutt’s house is sold, it’s one of Jack Mason’s companies that buys it.’

‘Jack Mason buys Heather Garbutt’s house?’ says Elizabeth.

‘There are two further slip-ups,’ says Cornelius. ‘Very early on. A couple of payments that both go to named beneficiaries. Both seem to be fake identities, but, again, if they’ve been careless, those fake identities might give us a clue to somebody involved in the scam. One for forty thousand pounds is paid to a “Carron Whitehead”, and one for five thousand is paid to a “Robert Brown Msc”. The first two payments that ever left the account. But, as the scam gets bigger, everything just gets locked down tight, and there are no more named beneficiaries. Heather Garbutt or Jack Mason must have worked out they needed to start hiding the money better.’

‘Carron Whitehead and Robert Brown,’ muses Elizabeth. She sees that Ibrahim is already writing down the two names in his notebook.

‘What a splendid job you’ve done, Cornelius,’ says Joyce.

‘And me, Mum,’ says Joanna. ‘I helped too. I’m not fifteen.’

‘Well, I already know you’re wonderful,’ says Joyce.

‘Wouldn’t kill you to tell me now and again,’ says Joanna.

‘Couldn’t have done it without her,’ says Cornelius.

‘So perhaps we need to pay Jack Mason a visit,’ interrupts Elizabeth. ‘Ask him about Heather Garbutt and Bethany Waites. Maybe even ask him about Carron Whitehead and Robert Brown. See how he reacts. And I think our fifteen minutes are up, Joanna, thank you.’

‘Oh, thank you,’ says Joanna. ‘Mum knows she can rely on me whenever there’s a murder.’

‘I do,’ agrees Joyce. ‘And I know you’ll find another lovely woman soon, Cornelius.’

‘Oh, I’m not looking,’ says Cornelius. ‘But thank you.’

‘Nonsense,’ says Joyce.

‘Nonsense,’ agrees Ibrahim, nodding. ‘You must look.’

After quite some rigmarole they manage to sign off the call and retire to softer chairs for tea.

‘So,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Jack Mason?’

‘Leave him to me,’ says Ron. ‘We move in similar circles.’

‘Ooh,’ says Joyce, ‘get you.’

‘Ibrahim and I will look into Carron Whitehead and Robert Brown,’ says Elizabeth.

‘And I’ll look into the notes that Bethany was being sent,’ says Joyce. ‘Ron, I might talk to Pauline – would you mind?’

‘Don’t need my permission,’ says Ron. ‘It’s not like she’s my girlfriend.’

‘Oh, Ron,’ says Elizabeth.

‘Parking fine yesterday,’ says Mike Waghorn, the moment Chief Constable Andrew Everton takes his seat in the studio.

‘Hello, Mike,’ says Andrew Everton, as a woman adjusts his lapel mic.

‘On the front in Fairhaven,’ continues Mike Waghorn. ‘I was opening a charity shop – a charity shop, bear that in mind. Out I come, and there’s a ticket.’

‘I see,’ says Andrew Everton. The South East Tonight studio is much smaller than it seems on TV. There are three cameras, two are fixed in place and one has a camera operator, who is currently scrolling through her phone. ‘Were you parked illegally?’

‘Barely,’ says Mike Waghorn. The floor manager tells them it is two minutes until their interview. ‘Hardly at all. And, as I say, a charity shop, which I don’t have to do. Goodness of my … whatever.’

Andrew Everton sees himself on the studio TV monitor. Looking good. Salt-and-pepper hair, closely cut, the faintest remains of a tan from a Cyprus mini-break, topped up in a Fairhaven tanning salon this afternoon. He’s aware that this is pure vanity, but, equally, he’s pushing sixty now and has decided he should probably get all the help he can.

‘One minute to studio,’ says the floor manager.

Andrew Everton goes on South East Tonight once a month. A Chief Constable needs to be accountable. A live chat with Mike is always combative but always fair. There’s no Paxman nonsense unless it’s really necessary, which sometimes it is. Andrew Everton is the friendly face of policing, when it needs all the friendly faces it can get. He likes Mike. Mike acts the fool, but is far from it.

‘Anything you can give me on Heather Garbutt?’ Mike asks.

‘Heather Garbutt?’ Andrew Everton replies.

‘The one who died in Darwell Prison?’

‘Not really across it,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘How long were you parked for, Mike?’

‘Three hours, absolute tops,’ says Mike.

‘Three hours to open a shop?’

‘I went for a drink afterwards,’ says Mike. There is now a VT playing on the studio monitor. An older guy is being interviewed. He appears to be wearing a West Ham top under a suit jacket. ‘Just a couple of pints on the pier. I come back, ticket. Daylight robbery. I got a speeding fine for doing forty in a thirty the other day. Everybody does forty in a thirty.’