‘I’m not police,’ says Donna. ‘I’m your girlfriend.’
‘You never said you were my girlfriend before,’ says Bogdan.
Donna turns her head to look up at him. ‘Well, get ready to hear it a lot.’
‘So I am your boyfriend?’
‘I honestly don’t know why people think you’re some sort of genius,’ says Donna. ‘Yes, you’re my boyfriend.’
Bogdan gives a smile of delight. ‘We are Donna and Bogdan.’
‘We are,’ says Donna, reaching up to touch his face. ‘Or Bogdan and Donna, I don’t mind.’
‘Donna and Bogdan sounds better,’ says Bogdan.
Donna props herself up and kisses him. ‘Donna and Bogdan it is, then. So, tell me what Ron and Viktor found out.’
‘No,’ says Bogdan. He is then distracted by the television again. ‘This Lithuanian guy is a cheat.’
‘Just tell me something,’ says Donna. ‘Throw me a bone.’
‘OK,’ says Bogdan. ‘Ron didn’t go home tonight. He is staying at Pauline’s.’
‘Oooh,’ says Donna. ‘That’s good. You’re forgiven.’
Bogdan is shaking his head at the screen. ‘If Jerzy doesn’t finish in the top four, he doesn’t qualify for the European Shootout in Malm?.’
‘Poor Jerzy,’ says Donna. ‘Pull your finger out, mate. Where does she live?’
‘Huh?’ Bogdan is distracted.
‘Pauline,’ says Donna sleepily. ‘She live round here?’
Bogdan nods. ‘Off Rotherfield Road, that big block. Juniper Court.’
‘Juniper Court?’
‘Yes. You heard of it?’
Donna certainly has heard of it. Pauline lives in the building Bethany Waites visited on the night of her murder.
57
The office is warm oak, and deep-red carpet. Elizabeth’s eye is drawn to the large painting of a dog wearing a Police Bravery Medal. Also, a framed sign saying CRIME DOESN’T PAY. She has learned over the years that this is nonsense. Look at Viktor’s penthouse for example.
It can be difficult to get an appointment with a chief constable. They are busy people, their diaries are carefully controlled. Try ringing 999 and asking to speak to a chief constable. See where that gets you.
Elizabeth had rung Andrew Everton’s office that morning, saying she was a literary agent, who had read and loved all the Mackenzie McStewart novels, and would he have a moment to spare for her?
The call came back within a minute, saying that a window had magically opened up in his diary that very afternoon. Whatever it was that Andrew Everton had planned on doing then, catching a serial killer perhaps, could be put on the back burner.
Elizabeth had seen the disappointment in his eyes when she walked in. He recognized her from the reading. There was a brief moment of regrouping hope, as he considered that, yes, this was the old woman from the reading the other day, but she might also actually be an agent, some grande dame of the literary world. But, as soon as she had said, ‘I haven’t actually read your books, though I know Joyce is enjoying one,’ she saw the wind depart his sails. By this point she had sat down, however, and she knew that common politeness would allow her a couple of questions.
‘Bethany Waites,’ says Elizabeth. ‘You remember the case?’
‘I remember the case,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘I don’t remember asking you to come in and talk to me about it?’