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. South East Tonight was no longer where Mike Waghorn hid, it was where he flourished. The building-society robberies, the bouncy castles and the twenty-five-year-old cats. He reported because he cared. Cared about himself, and about his community. Mike had Bethany to thank for that.
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.
63
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.
The whole place is running wild now. Jack Mason might have bought it, but it seems he doesn’t visit it. Ron had rung Jack last night, to see if he could give them the keys, but Jack wasn’t answering. Is he already regretting telling Ron and Viktor about the body? He hadn’t named his co-conspirator, but, other than that, he had come dangerously close to grassing. Ron knows that won’t have come naturally. And, if they do find something, what will that mean for Jack?
Two constables force open the door, pushing it unwillingly back against a pile of mail. Who is still delivering mail, Joyce wonders? Who takes a look at this house, clearly abandoned, returning to nature, and delivers a pizza leaflet? Joyce sees a National Trust magazine on top of the pile. She suspects she might have rather liked Heather Garbutt.
Elizabeth has gone around the side of the building with Chief Constable Andrew Everton, but Joyce goes through the front door because she wants to be nosy. And the lovely thing about investigating a murder is that you can be nosy and call it work. Joyce is disappointed that there is not much to see, however. All traces of Heather Garbutt are gone. The only clue she was ever here are the paler squares of wallpaper where pictures had once hung. At least there is no need to be careful, to tiptoe around and not touch. Joyce has free rein. The house had been searched many years ago, and any evidence there might have been here is long gone.