Chapter 16
As the minibus is about to leave, the doors slide open for a final time, and Elizabeth steps in and takes the seat next to Joyce.
“Good morning, Joyce,” she says, smiling.
“Well, this is a first,” says Joyce. “How lovely.”
“I’ve brought a book, if you don’t want to talk on the journey,” says Elizabeth.
“Ooh no, let’s talk,” says Joyce.
Carlito pulls away with his customary care.
“Splendid,” says Elizabeth. “I haven’t really brought a book.”
Elizabeth and Joyce settle into conversation.
They are very careful not to talk about the Tony Curran case.
One of the first things you learn at Coopers Chase is that some people can still actually hear.
Instead, Elizabeth tells Joyce about the last time she had been to Fairhaven, which was sometime in the 1960s and concerned a piece of equipment that had washed up on the beach.
Elizabeth refuses to be drawn into details, but she tells Joyce it was almost certainly now a matter of public record, and she could presumably look it up somewhere if she was interested.
The journey passes very pleasantly. The sun is up, the skies are blue, and murder is in the air.
As always, Carlito stops the minibus outside Ryman’s. Everyone knows to meet back here in three hours’ time. Carlito has done this job for two years now, and not a single person has ever been late. Except for Malcolm Weekes, who, as it turned out, had died in the lightbulb aisle in Robert Dyas.
Joyce and Elizabeth let the others out first, allowing the assault course of ramps and sticks and frames to disperse. Bernard doffs his hat to the ladies as he exits, and they watch as he shuffles toward the seafront, his Daily Express tucked under his arm.
As they step down from the bus and Elizabeth thanks Carlito, in perfect Portuguese, for his considerate driving, Joyce thinks to ask for the first time what Elizabeth is planning to do in Fairhaven.
“Same as you, dear. Shall we?” Elizabeth starts walking away from the seafront and Joyce chooses to follow, keen for adventure, but still hopeful she might have time for her tea and brownie.
A short walk away is Western Road and the broad stone steps of the Fairhaven police station. Elizabeth turns back to Joyce as the automatic doors open in front of her.
“Here’s the way I see it, Joyce. If we are going to investigate this murder—”
“We’re going to investigate the murder?”
“Of course we are, Joyce,” says Elizabeth. “Who better than us? But we have no access to any case files, any witness statements, any forensics, and we are going to have to change that. Which is why we’re here. I know I don’t need to say this, Joyce, but just back me up, whatever happens.”
Joyce nods—of course, of course. They walk in.
Once inside, the two ladies are buzzed through a security door into a public reception area.
Joyce has never been inside a police station before, though has watched every ITV documentary going, and she is disappointed that no one is being wrestled to the ground and dragged to a cell, their obscenities thrillingly bleeped out.
Instead there is just a young desk sergeant pretending he isn’t playing solitaire on his Home Office computer.
“How can I help you ladies?” he asks.
Elizabeth starts to cry. Joyce manages to control her double-take.
“Someone just stole my bag. Outside Holland she looks from Elizabeth to Joyce and back again—“help you?”