Ron asks for Jack Mason at the reception of Stevie’s Sporting Lounge and is shown through to a private room, where Jack has already set up the balls on the table.
‘Ron Ritchie, is it?’ says Jack, holding out a hand. ‘The lad himself?’
Ron shakes Jack’s hand. ‘Thanks for seeing me, Jack – know you didn’t have to.’
‘Intrigued, aren’t I,’ says Jack Mason. ‘What’s does an old bugger like you want with an old bugger like me?’
‘Your name came up,’ says Ron.
‘Did it now?’ Jack replies.
Jack takes his first shot. Ron is glad they are playing snooker. It can be quite hard for two men to have a conversation together, but snooker, or golf, or darts, always seemed to make it easier. Men didn’t really meet for a coffee. Perhaps they did these days? Perhaps the coffee shops of Ramsgate were full of men chatting about their hopes and dreams, but Ron doubts it. Ron bends down over the table and takes his shot.
‘Used to drink with your brother,’ says Ron, tutting as a red ball rattles in the jaws of a pocket. ‘Lenny. I was sorry to hear about him.’
‘We all go sometime,’ says Jack, potting the red Ron had missed. ‘I know he liked you, I wouldn’t be here otherwise. So my name happened to come up? Any particular reason?’
‘Heather Garbutt,’ says Ron. If Jack Mason is fazed hearing the name, he doesn’t show it. He pots a black with ease and lines himself up for his next red.
‘Heard she died,’ says Jack Mason.
‘You heard right,’ says Ron. ‘Wouldn’t know anything about it, would you?’
‘Nope,’ says Jack Mason. ‘Ain’t heard a peep.’
‘Where were you Thursday morning?’
Jack stops playing for a moment. ‘Where was I Thursday morning? I’m meeting you as a favour, Ron. You get that? We’ve both been around the block, eh, so I’m not going to disrespect you. But make your next question a good one, or we’re going to fall out.’
Ron smiles. This is home ground for him, two men arguing, grievances being aired. You can’t beat a bit of conflict. He lets Jack take his next shot. A miss.
Ron leans a hand on the table. ‘Here’s where I am, Jack. Heather Garbutt worked for you, and fiddled millions while she did. Some of that money went into an account that sounds an awful lot like it belonged to you.’
‘What account?’ asks Jack.
‘Trident Construction,’ says Ron.
Jack nods, looking interested. ‘You got evidence of that?’
‘Yup,’ says Ron, and misses another red.
‘And that evidence,’ continues Jack. ‘Anybody else got it?’
‘Nope,’ says Ron. ‘But we made the connection to you easy enough, so if anyone really starts poking around Heather Garbutt’s death, someone else will find it too.’
‘Who’s “we”？’ asks Jack, as he pots yet another ball.
‘It would honestly take too long to explain,’ says Ron. ‘You’re thrashing me here.’
‘I think you’re a bit nervous,’ says Jack, potting a blue, and chalking his cue.
‘You read me wrong, then,’ says Ron. ‘And I haven’t finished. Just before Heather Garbutt goes to trial, a young journalist dies. Bethany Waites, from the local news. Drives herself off a cliff.’
‘Hell of a way to go,’ says Jack Mason, making another pot.
‘Never found her killer,’ says Ron. ‘But, a few weeks before she dies, Bethany messages her guv’nor because she’s just cracked a big story. Found a smoking gun.’