What a masterstroke from whoever hacked Fiona Clemence’s Instagram. Speculation is rife as to who it might be. As if Chris and Donna couldn’t work out exactly who it was.
The latest development for the crowd huddled around Donna’s computer, all desperate not to be called away to some sort of crime or other, is that the old guy from South East Tonight, Mike Waghorn, has just walked into the Viking’s library.
‘There’s your mate, Donna!’ says DS Terry Hallet.
‘He was my mate first,’ says Chris. ‘I breathalysed him!’
On the screen, Mike takes a chair, opposite an incredulous-looking Andrew Everton. Mike looks straight into whatever hidden camera is filming the scene.
‘Hi, I’m Mike Waghorn, reporting for South East Tonight –’
‘Mike, what are you –’ says Andrew Everton, but Mike hushes him.
‘I wanted to say a few words to the millions of people currently watching this livestream. The millions who have just heard the confessions of Chief Constable Andrew Ev–’
Andrew Everton leaps out of his chair and almost out of shot. He is caught and brought down by a muscled arm. You wouldn’t know whose arm it was unless you recognized the tattoos. Donna recognizes them instantly. So that’s where he was last night. ‘Trust me,’ he had said. Perhaps she should start making a habit of trusting him? She wonders if the whole gang is up there? Of course they are.
Mike Waghorn, ever the professional, waits for Andrew Everton’s muffled cries to disappear into the distance, before continuing.
‘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.’
82
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.’