The laptop has been set up, the tea poured and extra chairs borrowed from around Joyce’s dining table, when the door buzzes for what they know is the final time that night. By this stage of the evening, Alan has sat through three door buzzes and is absolutely beside himself with joy.
Joyce opens the door to a young man, who clearly isn’t expecting such a welcoming committee.
‘Come in,’ says Joyce. ‘You must be Jeremmy.’
‘Where’s the money?’ Jeremmy asks.
‘Jeremmy’: supposedly the ‘emissary’ from ‘Tatiana’. Unfortunately, he is not as clever as he seems. Computer Bob discovered that ‘Tatiana’ and ‘Jeremmy’ both send messages from the exact same IP address.
So Jeremmy is not working for the romance fraudster, he is not doing a favour for the romance fraudster, Jeremmy
He may, however, be out of luck.
‘Goodness, no rush, dear,’ says Joyce, and gives him no option other than to follow her into the flat.
Jeremmy looks around. ‘Who’s Mervyn?’
‘He couldn’t make it,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Sit down for a moment – we have a proposition for you.’
‘I have to be back,’ says Jeremmy.
‘Nonsense,’ says Ron. ‘Night’s young. Sit down and have a listen.’
‘You’ll have to make do with a dining-room chair,’ says Joyce. ‘It was first come first served.’
Jeremmy takes his seat, eyes on everyone at once. Arms around his holdall.
‘First things first,’ says Ibrahim. ‘You won’t be getting any money, I’m afraid.’
Jeremmy shakes his head slowly. ‘Five thousand,’ he says, ‘in this bag. Or someone gets shot.’
Ibrahim looks to Elizabeth, out of habit.
‘Don’t look at me,’ says Elizabeth. ‘This one’s all Joyce’s.’
‘Gun in the bag, is it?’ says Ron.
Jeremmy nods.
‘You came down on the train, as a favour for a mate, to meet an old man, and you brought a gun with you?’
‘I’m careful like that,’ says Jeremmy.
‘I don’t buy it, but OK,’ says Ron. ‘OK, OK. Let’s play “Hands up if you’ve got a gun in your bag”.’
The man puts up his hand, and then sees Elizabeth do the same. Ron looks pleasantly surprised.
‘Wasn’t certain you’d have one today, Lizzie.’
‘I’m grieving, Ron,’ says Elizabeth. ‘I’m not dead.’
Ron nods and turns back to the man. ‘So even if you do have a gun, which you don’t, we’ve got one too, so shut up and listen, and we’ll get you out of here as quickly as we can.’
Ibrahim sees Joyce nodding happily.
Chris is having the sweet-potato fries. He is convincing himself that they are just as good as chips, but of course they’re not. But we have to convince ourselves of all sorts of things just to get through the day, don’t we? Patrice is watching him push them around his plate.
‘I know, love,’ she says. ‘I’m having the steamed fish, I feel your pain.’
Le Pont Noir is busy, not bad for a Wednesday evening. Chris once arrested one of the co-owners of this place. Drink driving on the A272. Nice Porsche, as he remembers it, so there’s clearly money in samphire and chorizo.
Chris spots SIO Jill Regan as soon as she walks in. Jill is scanning the room, looking for someone.
‘Pretend we’re talking,’ he says to Patrice.
‘I thought we were talking,’ says Patrice.
‘Jill Regan just walked in,’ says Chris. ‘Pretend I said something funny.’
Patrice bangs on the table three times and pretends to wipe her eyes.
‘I just meant laugh,’ says Chris. To his horror, he sees the noise has attracted the attention of SIO Regan. To his further horror, she spots him, and, then, the final kicker, it becomes apparent that Chris is the person she has come looking for, and she walks over.
‘She’s coming over,’ says Chris. ‘Don’t forget, horse thefts.’
Jill drags a chair from a nearby table, and tucks in between Chris and Patrice. She smiles at Patrice. ‘You must be Patrice; I’m Jill Regan.’
They shake hands.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you both,’ says Jill. ‘I need some help, and everyone I work with hates me.’
‘You know we work in the same building?’ says Chris. ‘You don’t have to find me in a restaurant?’
Jill waves this away. ‘What have you learned from tailing Mitch Maxwell and Luca Buttaci?’
‘I haven’t been tailing them,’ says Chris, skewering a sweet-potato fry. ‘I’ve been investigating horse thefts.’
‘I don’t have time, Chris,’ says Jill. ‘Luca Buttaci is dead.’
‘That’s a shame,’ says Chris.
‘It is a shame,’ says Jill. ‘Because he was working for us.’
‘I thought he was a heroin dealer?’ says Patrice. ‘I know the NCA get up to all sorts of things, but even so.’
‘He was a heroin dealer,’ says Jill. ‘Until we nicked him at Claridge’s with a bag of coke, a couple of hookers and his wife’s sister. And since then he’s worked for me.’
‘Who killed him?’ asks Chris.
‘And how?’ asks Patrice. ‘Help yourself to some broccoli.’
‘Do you know a man called Garth, Chris?’
‘No,’ says Chris.
‘Haven’t stumbled across him while you’ve been tracking down those horses?’
Chris shakes his head.
‘Seriously though,’ says Patrice, ‘how did he kill him?’
‘Threw him off the top of a car park,’ says Jill.
