‘You do know who killed her, then?’ Ron asks.
Jack smiles. ‘That’s enough chit-chat, I think. I’m always up for a game though, Ron. If you’re ever free.’
Ron looks up at Jack again, and sees another old man whose friends have died around him. ‘Me too, Jack.’
It’ll be just Ron’s luck if his potential new snooker partner turns out to be a murderer.
25
Chief Constable Andrew Everton gazes out at the sea of faces all looking up at him. Well, a couple of them are asleep, and two elderly gentlemen at the back are having a private discussion, but, other than that, everybody is looking up at him. He loves this sort of thing, he really does. Giving readings. He is not asked often and, in fairness, he has arranged this one himself, but it is still a thrill. Also, he spots the face he is looking for almost immediately. Bit of luck there.
He wears his uniform, of course, because it gives a sense of theatre, and it also gives him a bit of authority. He knows it will give his reading extra power. Not that it needs it, his writing is very powerful. This is a generation who respect you if you are a chief constable. Not like this new generation, but then you reap what you sow, and trust has to be a two-way street.
The woman who had just introduced him was called Marjory. Marjory had been surprised when Andrew had written to her, offering to do this reading, but she had given a quick ‘yes’ and promised to rally the troops, and so here they were. The last thing Marjory had said to him was that the previous speaker at the Coopers Chase Literary Society had been a woman who had written a book about fish, and she had gone down very well, so please don’t let us down. Andrew Everton didn’t intend to. He has chosen to read from his fourth book, Remain Silent. It is a follow-up to his previous works, Given in Evidence, Harm Your Defence and his first book, before he’d stumbled upon his elegant new system of titles, The Bloody Death of Archibald Devonshire.
His eyes scan the room, biding his time. He knows his silence, and his uniform, and his deep, brown eyes, are all building anticipation. He starts to read.
‘The corpse was mutilated beyond all recognition …’
He hears several ‘oohs’ and sees a woman in the front row wearing a tweed jacket and pearls lean forward eagerly.
‘Black-red blood pooled around the body, limbs were splayed at grotesque angles, like a swastika of death. Chief Constable Catherine Howard liked to keep a cool head while, all around, others were losing theirs –’
A hand shoots up. That doesn’t normally happen at readings. Andrew Everton decides to take the question, even though it is interrupting the narrative. He motions to the questioner, a woman in her nineties.
‘Sorry, dear, did you say Catherine Howard? Like the Queen? Henry VIII’s wife?’
‘Yes,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘Well, I suppose so.’
‘The same name?’ asks a man further back in the room. ‘Or the same person?’
‘Just the same name,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘The book is set in 2019.’
There are murmurs as this is discussed. An unofficial spokesperson seems to emerge. It is the woman with the tweed jacket in the front row.
‘Two things,’ says the woman in the front row. ‘I’m Elizabeth, by the way. Firstly, it’s confusing that she’s called Catherine Howard.’
Agreement from the room.
‘Well, I –’ begins Andrew Everton.
‘No, it is. And secondly,’ continues Elizabeth, ‘I suspect a series of books in which the real Catherine Howard were a detective might well be a bestseller. Are your books bestsellers, Chief Constable?’
‘In their field, yes,’ says Andrew Everton.