Jack’s scrapyard still ticks along nicely, a few bits and pieces come his way now and again, favours are asked, favours are granted. He’s sold most of his casino, and the bit that remains still makes him nice money. But the phone doesn’t ring the way it used to. People don’t need him. That’s OK. Who has the energy to run drugs any more? Leave all that to the kids. Jack has his house, his view over the English Channel, his snooker table. He even has stables, should he ever want a horse. And he doesn’t start drinking till six. No grassing, and no whisky till six. Rules to live by.
Jack has plenty of
Though would it? Jack knocks back the rest of his scotch. Who would even see it these days? Who comes to visit? Jack wonders if he could invite Ron over to the house for a game of snooker? Would Ron like that? They got on.
Jack has made an awful lot of money in his life, but he hasn’t, he realizes, made very many friends. One thing he has come to understand, after a lifetime in crime, is that your henchmen are not real friends.
Does he really want to spend six hundred grand on a helicopter he’ll use twice a year? To watch it rusting on the lawn? Hmm.
He is typing ‘golf buggy how much uk’ into Google, when an email alert pops up on his screen.
He recognizes the address. The email is from Bethany Waites’s killer. They used to be in contact quite often. Less so now, which has been something of a relief. Though, with everything that has happened in the last few days, he has been expecting a message.
The email reads:
Long time no see. Just a friendly warning to keep your eyes open. Talk soon.
You’re telling me, thinks Jack. Jack Mason hasn’t left too many loose threads in his life, but this is definitely one of them.
Jack wonders if, perhaps, it might be time to tell the truth?
Juniper Court, the building they’d identified from their work with the CCTV cameras, is only fifteen minutes or so from Fairhaven police station, so Chris and Donna walk there.
‘Who’s the mystery man, then?’ Chris asks.
‘Haven’t heard back from forensics yet,’ says Donna. ‘Nothing on the body, no ID, photo circulated to the press. You know all this?’
‘Not the man in the minibus, Jesus,’ says Chris. ‘The guy you’re seeing?’
‘Some priorities you have there,’ says Donna. ‘Wow.’
They turn onto Foster Road. Juniper Court is a purpose-built 1980s block, which might begin to look retro-fashionable in twenty years. A hundred or so flats, lawns to the front and, crucially, a large car park underneath.
Juniper Court has not cropped up often in police records. A few stolen bikes, the odd noise complaint, a man selling fake Banksys by post, and some graffiti about the Mayor that they’d had to take seriously. They can’t even find the details of the management company online. It is the very definition of quiet and nondescript. But it could hold the key to who murdered Bethany Waites.
It’s nice and near the station, so home to plenty of commuters into London or Brighton. That means it’s deserted as they approach.
‘You nervous about your audition?’ Donna asks Chris. He’s doing his screen-test for
‘No, I chase villains for a living,’ says Chris. ‘You think a TV camera’s going to frighten me?’
‘I do, yes,’ says Donna.
‘You’re right,’ says Chris. ‘I’m terrified. You think they’ll let me pull out?’
‘I won’t let you pull out,’ says Donna. ‘You’ll be amazing.’
Through wide double doors, Chris and Donna see a desk in the entrance hall of Juniper Court, and a man in brown overalls sitting behind it, reading the
‘In London, they’d call him a concierge,’ says Chris, as he buzzes to be let in. He flashes his warrant card, but there is no need, as the man lets them in without looking up.
‘Morning,’ says Chris. The man still doesn’t look up. ‘Is there a building manager we can talk to?’
The man finally looks up. ‘That’s me. I don’t love talking though.’
Chris flashes his warrant card again. ‘Kent Police.’
The man puts down his paper. ‘This about my neighbour? You going to arrest him?’
‘I’m … no, I don’t think so,’ says Chris. ‘What’s he done?’
‘Built a conservatory,’ says the man. ‘No planning permission. I’m Len. I keep ringing you lot about it, and this is the first time I’ve seen you.’
‘That’s more for the council, Len,’ says Donna. ‘Not the police.’
‘That right?’ says Len. ‘I suppose if I killed him though, you’d be round soon enough?’
‘Well, yes, obviously,’ says Chris. ‘If you murdered him we’d come round. Murders, yes; conservatories, no. We’re looking for the details of the management company for this place, and we wondered if you could help?’
