I’m only glad she wasn’t here the other day when Viktor was covered in mud. I know I have a power shower, but even that struggled.
I explained that Viktor was an old friend of Elizabeth, and that he was staying, temporarily, while he was having work done on his flat. Joanna asked Viktor where his flat was, and Viktor replied that it was in Embassy Gardens, and Joanna said, is that the one with the swimming pool, and Viktor agreed that it was, and the football chairman （he is called Scott） said those places were worth millions, and Viktor agreed again, and Joanna said, so you’re having a million-pound apartment done up but you’re staying with my mum, and Viktor said he couldn’t imagine a finer place to stay in all of England, and Joanna said, level with me, is something dodgy going on here, and we admitted that, yes, something dodgy was going on, and I showed Joanna the photo of Viktor in his grave and said we would tell her all about it at lunch. Joanna turned to Scott and said, well you can’t say I didn’t warn you, she didn’t use to be like this. Scott asked Viktor which football team he supported and Viktor said Chelsea, so Scott said he knew people at Chelsea and could get Viktor a special hospitality box and to come and watch a game sometime, and Viktor said not to worry, he already has one.
I sent Joanna to the fridge on a pretext, and she clocked the almond milk straight away. She said I should really buy the low-sugar almond milk, but you could tell she thought it was a step in the right direction.
Alan likes Scott, by the way, which I’m taking as a good sign. Although, thus far, Alan has liked everyone.
They have just left. Scott has a Porsche; he showed it to Viktor, and Viktor nodded in that way men do. Joanna took me aside and asked me if there was anything going on between me and Viktor, and I told her there wasn’t, and she gave me a look halfway between relief and disappointment. He is very lovely, Viktor, very kind, but he’s not my type. Gerry was my type, Bernard was my type. Perhaps another one will be along one day. He’d better get a move on though, I’m nearly seventy-eight.
Ibrahim had us all round to his last night. He showed us Heather Garbutt’s poem, the one that Connie Johnson found, and he showed us the note. The note that was not written by Heather Garbutt. So who wrote it?
I have persuaded Elizabeth to come on a little trip with me. To Elstree, where Fiona Clemence films Stop the Clock. You can get there on the train. Joanna knows someone who knows someone who knows someone, and I’m hoping we might get the chance to say hello. And, you know us, a chance is all we need.
By the way, I am reading Given in Evidence. One of the books by the Chief Constable. I only picked it up because there’s a Hilary Mantel looming on my bedside table, and I didn’t feel up to it yet.
It is not at all bad, he really draws you in.
Someone tries to murder the boss, Big Mick, in some gangland family in Glasgow, but the bodyguard dives in the way of the bullet. So the book is all about the gangland boss trying to work out who tried to shoot him. It sparks this big gang war, and you can tell Andrew Everton is a policeman, because it all sounds real.
The fun thing in the end, after all this bloodshed and plenty of swearing, is we find out that the bodyguard was the intended victim after all: his girlfriend caught him cheating. So no one was trying to kill Big Mick, and all the carnage was for nothing.
I’ve read a lot worse, that’s all I’ll say. I can still see the Hilary Mantel out of the corner of my eye. I know I’ll enjoy it, but I’m going to need a run-up.
Do you know another thing I thought when I was reading Andrew Everton’s novel? I thought maybe I should write a book.
47
The text comes through as Elizabeth is getting into bed. It is the Viking.
You have made a big mistake.
Has she? Elizabeth thinks about the photo.
The bullet. The bullet that missed.
The Viking has been into Viktor’s apartment. How is that possible? He has seen the bullet hole. She has been sloppy. But, really, how on earth could he have got in?