The Bullet That Missed полностью

I have Mike Waghorn’s email address now, but I am trying not to abuse it. I sent him what I thought was a very funny clip of a squirrel tasting almonds for the first time, but he replied saying that this was his work email and it wasn’t for clips from the internet and, besides, he had already seen it.

I hadn’t been brave enough to email him after that, so I was glad of the opportunity to send him the names. Whitehead and Brown? Ring any bells?

He thanked me, but said he’d never heard either name before. So perhaps they really are in code. He has passed them on to Pauline.

My big news is that we just had a reading at the Literary Society. And a good one too. The Chief Constable of Kent, if you can believe that? I have downloaded his books onto my Kindle. Ninety-nine pence each, thank you very much.

Ibrahim is going to Darwell Prison on Wednesday, to talk to Connie Johnson. He asked me what magazine she might like to read, but I wasn’t sure. I like Woman & Home, but I didn’t think it would be Connie’s thing, so I asked Joanna, and I told her that Connie was a thirty-something drug dealer who always wore lovely shoes, and she suggested Grazia.

Ron reported back from Jack Mason. Jack Mason says he knows for a fact that Bethany is dead. And he can only know that if he knows who killed her. Elizabeth has told Ron to go back and find out more, but it has focused all of our minds.

I might watch A Place in the Sun. Yesterday they were looking for a house in Crete. The wife fell in love with a little farmhouse, but there was no room for the husband to keep his hang-glider, and so they didn’t put in an offer. You could see the wife was heartbroken, but she married him, and so she must shoulder some of the blame.

I am also thinking about how we might be able to talk to Fiona Clemence. I know she doesn’t fit in with Jack Mason, but if she wrote those notes to Bethany years ago, she is still a suspect. And all suspects must be questioned.

But how? I sent her a message on Instagram, but I don’t know if she got it.

Even as I write this down, I know what Elizabeth will say. That I only wanted to look into the Bethany Waites case as a way of meeting Mike Waghorn, and now I only want to accuse Fiona Clemence as a way of meeting her. That there’s no way of knowing if she wrote those notes all those years ago. And, yes, that is true. But just because I’d like to meet Fiona Clemence doesn’t mean she isn’t a murderer. Lots of famous people are murderers. The Krays for example.

Joanna is coming down for lunch on Sunday, so I will ask her how someone might go about meeting Fiona Clemence. I know you can apply to get tickets to watch Stop the Clock being filmed, but I suspect you are not allowed to shout out questions about murders from the audience.

Perhaps I’ll pop to the shop? They have almond milk now. Last time Joanna came down she brought her own milk, because ‘No one drinks cow’s milk any more, Mum.’ I protested and said I think quite a few people do still drink cow’s milk, dear, but Joanna’s definition of ‘no one’ and my definition of ‘no one’ are probably different. I wanted to say, ‘Do you mean no one in London,’ but it wasn’t worth the fuss.

Either way, I can’t wait to see her face when she opens the fridge. Unless no one drinks almond milk any more either, which I’m prepared to admit might also be a possibility. It is very hard to keep up.

She’s useful when you have to choose the right magazine for a drug dealer though. I will give Joanna that.

I’ve arranged to meet Pauline tomorrow, and am very much looking forward to it. Pauline suggested afternoon tea at a hotel by the pier. I looked it up and they give you a glass of Prosecco. I will feel like Jackie Collins.

Jack Mason is looking at helicopters online. It would be nice to buy one. He can certainly afford it, but, really, how much use would he get out of one?

In the old days, sure, back and forth to Amsterdam, up to Liverpool, sitting in traffic, stuck in the Channel Tunnel. Helicopter would have been lovely. Would really have hit the spot.

But now? Where does he really go now? Down to the scrapyard? That’s fifteen minutes in the Bentley. Maybe twenty minutes if there’re temporary traffic lights. He pops up to London now and then, visits the few pals he has left. The few pals who aren’t in Spain, or dead.

The clock in the hall chimes six, so Jack pours himself a scotch.

Had he told Ron Ritchie too much? It was just nice to talk to someone his own age. Jack knows who killed Bethany Waites, but no one would hear the name from his lips. You had to maintain standards, and grassing was grassing, no matter who you’re speaking to.

But Jack had wanted to say something. Because, when you really thought about it, the whole thing was an absolute liberty. There’d been no need for Bethany Waites to die.