‘This is a five-minute wonder, I understand that. To see a man confess to terrible crimes. To see a chief constable confess to fraud, to corruption, to blackmail and to murder. It certainly seems to have caused the stir we hoped for. At some point there will be a trial, no doubt complicated by the very scenes you are witnessing, but a trial at the very least. Andrew Everton will go to prison, of that we can be fairly sure, even with the lenient, molly-coddling justice system we seem to have in this country at the moment. But let’s not get started on that. We will cut this feed fairly soon, and return Fiona’s Instagram to its rightful owner. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Fiona, for your help today. I can’t think of a finer tribute you could have paid to Bethany. You will all go back to work soon, you’ll have your dinner, you’ll watch a bit of TV, whatever you have planned for today. You will talk about what you have seen, I am sure of that. And you will talk about it tomorrow too, although a little less. And maybe you’ll have the odd word about it the day after, but then it will be gone. That’s how news works. There will be other excitements to replace it. One of the Kardashians will have a baby, perhaps. So I am aware I have your attention only for a short while. Some of you will be drifting away already, as our main business is done here: Andrew Everton is being handcuffed in the hallway to my left, and the Staffordshire constabulary are on their way. But if I could ask of you just a minute or so more? It will be quick, I promise. I want to tell you about a friend of mine, Bethany Waites, who was murdered almost ten years ago. If she hadn’t been murdered, you would know the name already, I’m sure. She was a grafter, Bethany, a worker, no one ever handed her a thing. She could argue all night long, beat you in an arm wrestle, and she could drink you under the table. Northern, you see. If I’m allowed to say that. Bethany Waites was a fine journalist, but above all else she was a fine friend, and I loved her. I don’t even mean I loved her, I mean I love her. So when your attention moves on, when your interest is piqued by the next shiny story, I’d just ask that you remember her name from time to time. Bethany Waites. Because she deserves to be remembered long after Andrew Everton has been forgotten. Well, that’s all the news we have for you this lunchtime. So from me, Mike Waghorn, thank you all for watching, take care of yourselves, and take care of each other.’
<p>82</p>All of Kent is shivering in the cold air, and Christmas isn’t far away.
‘I’ve told you before,’ says Donna. ‘You’re forgiven.’
‘But it was important,’ says Bogdan. ‘It was an award. What if you never win another award?’
‘Thank you for the vote of confidence,’ says Donna. ‘Here’s the basic rule: if I’m up for an award, I want you to be there – unless you’re catching a murderer by livestreaming a confession from the Instagram account of a famous television presenter. Then you’re excused.’
Carwyn Price has just been charged with threatening behaviour. Donna saw him slip a note into her bag. It read: We all hate you. You’re a joke. A man who doesn’t respond well to being turned down. Bethany, Fiona, Donna, probably countless more over the years. He’ll only get a slap on the wrist, but he won’t be back at South East Tonight any time soon.
They haven’t solved the mystery of Juniper Court though. So perhaps she and Chris had got that wrong all along?
Bogdan parks carefully. The Coopers Chase Parking Committee have lost none of their power. If anything, it has only increased after a recent failed coup. Elizabeth is going to a cliff today, and Bogdan has promised to visit Stephen. He knows Stephen will be happy to see Donna too.
Before he gets out of the car, Bogdan turns to Donna.
‘I have an award for you.’
‘You have an award for me?’
‘Sure,’ says Bogdan. ‘I feel bad.’
Bogdan reaches into a holdall in the back of the car and presents Donna with the statue of Anahita, goddess of love and battle.
‘Donna, I highly commend you.’
‘Bogdan!’ says Donna.
‘I wanted to get it engraved, but apparently you’re not supposed to.’
Donna can’t believe what she’s holding. ‘Bogdan, it was two thousand quid! We could have had two weeks in Greece for that.’
Bogdan smiles. ‘Kuldesh sold it to me for one pound. And he said to tell you to keep dodging the bricks.’
Donna looks at her statue, her award. And then back at Bogdan.
‘Why did he sell it to you for one pound?’
‘Well,’ says Bogdan, opening his car door. ‘He asked me if I was in love with you. And I said yes.’
<p>83</p>
