Chapter 27
Donna looks out the window of the Ford Focus. What do people see in trees? There are just so many of them. Trunk, branches, leaves, trunk, branches, leaves, we get it. Her mind wanders.
Chris has shown her the photograph left near the body.
Surely it’s a red herring, though? It must be.
If you’re Jason Ritchie, or Bobby Tanner, or whoever took the photo, you’re asking for too much trouble.
It would be idiocy for any of the men to have left the photograph by the body.
A hundred different people might have murdered Tony Curran—why do the police’s job for them and narrow it down to three?
So someone else must’ve got hold of a copy of the photograph. But how?
Perhaps Tony Curran had had a copy. That would make sense. And perhaps Ian Ventham had seen it one day. Tony showing off? Ian had clocked it and tucked it away for future use? A bit of misdirection, to confuse the bungling cops? From what Donna has read, he seems the type who might try to do that.
They are passing through a village, which is a respite from the trees, but there is still not enough concrete for Donna. Maybe she’ll grow to love it. Maybe there was more to life than South London?
“What are you thinking?” asks Chris, eyes off to the left, trying to find the right road sign.
“I’m thinking of Atlanta Fried Chicken on Balham High Road. And I’m thinking we should show the photo to Ian Ventham,” says Donna. “Ask him if he’s ever seen it before.”
“Look him in the eye when he tells us he hasn’t?” says Chris as he indicates left and turns onto a narrow country road. “Good plan.”
“I’m also thinking, why don’t you ever iron your shirts?” says Donna.
“So this is what it’s like to have a shadow?” says Chris. “Well, I used to iron just the front bit, because the rest was always under a jacket. And then I thought, well, I’m wearing a tie too, so why bother at all? Does anyone really notice?”
“Of course they notice,” says Donna. “I notice.”
“Well, you’re a police officer, Donna. I’ll start ironing shirts when I get a girlfriend.”
“You won’t get a girlfriend until you start ironing your shirts.”
“It’s a real catch twenty-two for sure,” says Chris, turning onto a long driveway. “Anyway, I’ve always found that shirts sort of iron themselves while you’re wearing them.”
“Have you now?” says Donna, as they pull up in front of Ian Ventham’s house.