‘You should have been there with your boyfriend,’ she had said. Very matter of fact, bag of peanuts torn open and spatchcocked on the table in front of her. Mike can see it and hear it now.
They had another pint, and another, and another. Mike had never really spoken about being gay before. Not openly, in a pub, with a colleague. He was old enough to have kept his sexuality hidden, a rolled-up secret in a deep pocket. It had never seen the light of day before.
And why? Well, a hundred reasons. A thousand reasons. But those reasons were all tied together with a knot of shame. And it was that knot that Bethany began to unpick. Bethany refused to let Mike feel shame. She was from a different generation. A generation Mike envies. He sees them sometimes, out on the streets. He is certain they have their vulnerabilities and their insecurities, and they certainly still have many fights, but the joy with which they choose to present themselves – it makes Mike so proud and so jealous all at once.
The process wasn’t quick, and the process wasn’t easy, but Bethany was by his side throughout. Mike came out to friends. He came out to colleagues. He remembers telling Pauline for the first time. He was very serious, very solemn as he told her his secret. Pauline gave him a huge hug and just said, ‘At last, my love. At last.’
Mike sometimes wonders why Pauline hadn’t been the one to confront him, but, again, different generations.
Mike has never officially come out to the public, although they could find out if they really wanted. And he still goes to events with Pauline from time to time, but also with Steve, or Greg, or any of the other men he has managed to grasp but not hold.
And, bit by bit, he recognized that he was changing. He still looked amazing, sure, still wore the suits and the hairspray and flirted with the women, but he had started to become himself. To be authentic, and to be real. And, what do you know, happiness followed.
He became a better man, a better friend, a better colleague, a better presenter. If ITV had filmed their pilot now, Mike would get the job, without doubt.
The irony being that Mike wouldn’t want it any more.
Was he still an idiot at times? Sure. Could he still be difficult? Yes, particularly when hungry. But he could look himself in the mirror without turning away.
Mike takes another swig of cider. He is waiting for the boxing to come on, and is currently having to sit through endless adverts for gambling companies. One of them is presented by Ron’s son, Jason Ritchie. A fine fighter, he was.
Mike got the text from Pauline an hour or so ago. They start digging for the body tomorrow. Digging for Bethany’s body. His wonderful, talented, headstrong friend. She could have done anything, she could have been anything. The world would have known her name.
Bethany saved Mike’s life, and Mike was never able to repay that debt in her lifetime. But he could repay it now. With the help of the Thursday Murder Club. Find her killer, bring her peace. Heather Garbutt? Jack Mason? Someone they have yet to consider? Mike feels he is about to find out.
And that is the least he could do for Bethany Waites.
Heather Garbutt’s home is on an ugly road with a pretty name. To the front there is a driveway lined with hedges, now overgrown, that bends away from the road, hiding the house from the traffic. You could drive past this spot every day and never see the slow decline of a once-handsome house. To the back there is a garden, and then woodland, separating it from a municipal golf course.
The house itself is a bungalow. It had been pleasant enough at one point: they looked up the estate agent’s pictures of the last time it had sold on Rightmove. Four beds, big sitting room overlooking the garden, a kitchen that the estate agents said was ‘in need of modernization’, but which Joyce rather liked. Perhaps not the house of someone rich, but the house of someone who worked with someone rich. Comfortable, in every sense. It had been listed at three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds, though a quick house-price search revealed that Jack Mason had paid four hundred and twenty-five thousand for it. He was clearly a motivated buyer, as Joyce supposes she would be if there was evidence that could send her to prison buried in the garden.
