The Bullet That Missed полностью

The concierge works for Viktor, it turns out, and, in the end, she even helped Bogdan carry the holdall to the car, with Viktor keeping as still as possible inside, in case the Viking had someone watching the building. Viktor took two very heavy-duty sleeping pills, because he has been in this sort of situation before, and it was the only way through being locked up in a confined space.

After twenty miles or so, when Elizabeth was certain we weren’t being followed, we went to the very top of a multi-storey car park in East Croydon, opened the boot, unzipped the bag and let Viktor out. I promise you this is true: he was fast asleep, and we had to slap him awake. I said I wouldn’t mind one of his sleeping pills, but he said they’re too strong for me. You have to get them from America.

So here we are. Viktor couldn’t stay with Elizabeth, so he will be in my spare room for as long as he is dead. The plan is to find out who this Viking is, and then find out where he is. After that I suppose the plan is to kill him, I don’t know. I don’t think we can keep Viktor dead forever.

I have questions about the Viking, and about Viktor, but tomorrow is Thursday, so they can wait until the whole gang is here.

Where does this leave us with the Bethany Waites investigation? It feels like it might be a distraction, but Elizabeth says it’s actually enormous luck, as Viktor can help us while he’s here.

Alan usually pops in to see me while I’m writing, but he is conspicuous by his absence, now there’s a new, interesting, Ukrainian man in the flat. How fickle he is. I will go and shake a packet of biscuits in a bit, and then we’ll see who’s boss.

I can hear from the other room that the train programme has finished and Viktor is on his feet. It sounds like he is doing his own washing-up, which bodes well.

I know I was a stooge today, and I know it was important, but I’m not entirely at ease. Something isn’t sitting right. There was the shock, of course, that can knock you sideways, but also something else, which I’ve been trying to put my finger on all afternoon. I think it’s this.

You see, when Elizabeth pulled that trigger, I really did believe it. I really did believe she was murdering Viktor. That my best friend was capable of murdering a man she has known for many years, just to save her skin.

In fact, I didn’t just believe it, I knew it.

So what does that say about Elizabeth? And what does it say about me?

The Thursday Murder Club like to meet at eleven a.m. in the Jigsaw Room. That is how things should be. It moves around from time to time, Ibrahim understands that, of course he does. There have been murders to deal with, and let no one say he is not flexible.

But, really, calling a meeting of the Thursday Murder Club at eight a.m. at Joyce’s flat? When they have an active murder investigation ongoing? Words will have to be had.

He calls for Ron on the way, and he tells Ron that this is very much the thin end of the wedge. Ron agrees, or at least doesn’t seem to strongly disagree, and so Ibrahim feels emboldened.

A schedule is a schedule is a schedule. A laminated schedule even more so. Again, Ron raises no objection to this point. In fact, Ron is unusually quiet all round.

‘Do you smell of cannabis, Ron?’ asks Ibrahim.

‘I might do,’ concedes Ron.

‘I’m of half a mind to declare this meeting unofficial, you know? Unless I’m given a good reason.’

‘Well within your rights, old son,’ says Ron. ‘You give ’em hell.’

‘Thanks, Ron, I will,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Why do you smell of cannabis all the time now?’

‘Pauline,’ says Ron.

‘Oh, I see,’ says Ibrahim. ‘That covers it.’

‘It’s a lot stronger than I’m used to,’ says Ron. ‘I keep falling asleep on her bathroom floor.’

Ibrahim presses the buzzer to Joyce’s building, and the friends are let in.

‘Lift or stairs?’ asks Ibrahim.

‘Lift? Why not?’ says Ron. Ibrahim has noticed that he is trying to hide a limp. Still not using his stick.

They exit the lift, knock on the first door on the right, and Joyce lets them in. She gives them both a hug in turn.

‘Ooh, Ron, are you wearing perfume?’ asks Joyce. ‘It reminds me of something Joanna used to wear.’

Ron grunts, and takes off his coat. Alan has approached him with interest, and starts to lick his hand with professional thoroughness. Ibrahim spots Elizabeth seated in the living room.

‘Now, forgive me, but I must speak –’

‘Must you?’ asks Elizabeth.

‘I must. Good morning, Elizabeth. And a very early morning, if I might be allowed the observation.’

‘And to you,’ replies Elizabeth, motioning for him to continue.

‘We are the Thursday Murder Club, that is not news to anybody. We meet at eleven a.m. each Thursday in the Jigsaw Room. Let me take those three data points one by one –’

‘Cup of tea?’ asks Joyce.

‘Thank you, Joyce, yes,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Point one, we meet on Thursdays. On this point I am satisfied, it is indeed Thursday, we need discuss this no further –’

‘Ron, you absolutely reek of very high-grade skunk,’ says Elizabeth.