Sometimes Donna wishes she was in the Thursday Murder Club rather than in the police. The Thursday Murder Club don’t have to wear uniforms, or salute buffoons, or worry about the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, do they? They get results, and Donna reasons that if she were allowed to plant drugs, point guns, fake deaths and poison suspects, she would probably get results too.
Today is her first attempt at finding out.
Strictly speaking she shouldn’t be doing it, of course she shouldn’t. But Donna had felt goaded by SIO Regan. Chris is made of sterner stuff, but Donna really wants to get one over on Regan and the NCA. And perhaps she wants to prove to Elizabeth that she could break a few rules too. So she is going to find out a thing or two about Dominic Holt today. What harm can it do?
Besides, she’s never been to a football match before, and she gets to spend a couple of hours with Bogdan and still call it work.
The corporate box is beginning to fill up for the Saturday lunchtime game. There’s a buffet and a bar in the warm, and, outside, currently behind sliding doors, twenty seats, all overlooking the halfway point of the pitch. The pitch looks gorgeous, like an emerald amphitheatre. Shame to spoil it with a game of football, but there we are.
Donna has never been undercover before. Not that she’s officially undercover now. Chris would kill her if he knew what she was doing. This is strictly off the books. Chris is currently in the garden centre with her mum, because she is worried that his flat lacks oxygen.
Donna had thought that she might stick out, but, so far, everyone who has walked into the box has struggled so endearingly with the dress code – ties, jackets, no jeans, no trainers – that they all look like undercover cops. Bogdan brings her an English sparkling wine. It’s from a local vineyard; they do tours. Bogdan is drinking still water because sparkling water is bad for your tooth enamel.
‘He is not here yet?’ Bogdan asks, looking around.
Donna shakes her head. The box belongs to Musgrave Car Dealership, which, as far as the Home Office computer can tell, is a genuine and legitimate business. Statistically there must still be a few legitimate businesses dotted around.
Donna helps herself to a vegan sausage roll. At every home game Dave Musgrave invites friends and clients to come and watch the match, have a few drinks, maybe do a bit of business. Goodness knows what this whole set-up costs him, but Donna guesses it must be worth it. You don’t have to sell many Range Rovers and Aston Martins to pay for a few sausage rolls.
Donna sees Dave Musgrave walking towards them.
‘Can you do banter?’ Donna quickly asks Bogdan.
‘Banter? Of course,’ says Bogdan.
‘Are you sure? I’ve never heard you do banter?’
‘Is easy,’ says Bogdan. ‘I’ve lived here a long time. You say something about golf.’
Dave Musgrave is upon them, and he holds out a hand to Bogdan. He doesn’t look at or acknowledge Donna. That’s fine. If given the choice between men who pay women no attention and men who pay them too much attention, Donna will always take the former. Besides, she is happy to stay as low-profile as possible. She keeps worrying that someone she’s arrested will walk through the door next and recognize her. After all, it is the football.
‘You’re Barry?’ Dave Musgrave asks Bogdan.
‘I am Barry,’ agrees Bogdan.
‘Nicko says you’re a bloody legend.’
‘Nicko’ is a friend of Bogdan. Nicholas Lethbridge-Constance. He invented a type of portable wind turbine and retired on the proceeds at fifty. Bogdan has done some work for him. Just building work, Donna hopes – she never likes to pry too closely. Nicko had been glad to make the introductions, not even blinking at the fake name Bogdan had asked him to use. Bogdan really is a very good builder.
‘Nicko said, “Dave is a good guy,”’ says Bogdan. ‘He says, good cars, good prices, but bad at golf.’
Dave lets out a roar and slaps Bogdan on the back.
‘Oh, you I like, Barry! You I like!’
‘You like me, I like beer!’ says Bogdan, slapping Dave’s back in return. Dave roars again.
‘Beer, he says! We’ve got a live one here.’
So Bogdan can do banter. Why had she ever doubted it? Donna browses the buffet table again and lets the boys talk. There is a plate of prawns, but Donna has never had the confidence to know which bits to eat and which bits to leave, so she has a chicken goujon instead.
‘What do you reckon to the score, Bazza?’ Dave asks Bogdan. Uh-oh. Bogdan is an expert in many things, but football is not one of them.
‘I think 3–1,’ says Bogdan. ‘This Everton defence too shaky, letting in too many goals, too many old legs now. Welbeck and Mitoma too much for them. And if Estupiñán starts, then game over.’
So
‘Hope you’re right, Bazza,’ says Dave. ‘Would love to have one over on the Scousers. Ahh, talk of the devil.’
