Chapter 28
You can hold your breath for three minutes if you really put your mind to it,” says Ian Ventham. “It’s all about controlling your diaphragm. The body doesn’t need as much oxygen as they say. Look at mountain goats, if you need proof.”
“That makes sense, Mr. Ventham,” says Chris. “But perhaps we can get back to the photograph?”
Ian looks at the photograph again, and shakes his head again. “No, I’m certain, I’ve never seen it. I recognize Tony, of course, God rest his soul, and that’s the boxer, isn’t it?”
“Jason Ritchie,” says Chris.
“My boxing trainer says I could have turned pro,” says Ian. “Physique plus mentality. There’s some stuff you can’t teach.”
Chris nods again. Donna looks around Ian’s living room, one of the more extraordinary rooms she has ever seen. There is a bright red grand piano with golden keys. The piano stool is ebony and zebra skin.
“I don’t suppose you and Tony had a falling-out, Mr. Ventham?” says Chris. “Before he died?”
“A falling-out?” asks Ian.
“Mmm,” says Chris.
“Me and Tony?”
“Mmm,” repeats Chris.
“We never argued,” says Ian. “Arguing is very bad for your well-being. You look at the science of it, it thins the blood. Thinner blood, less energy. Less energy, slippery slope.”
Donna is listening to every word, just taking it all in, but her eyes continue to scan the room. There is a large oil painting in a huge gold frame above the fireplace. It is a painting of Ian carrying a sword. There is a stuffed eagle in front of it, wings outstretched.
“Well, we can all agree with that,” says Chris. “But what if I told you I’ve got three witnesses who saw the two of you arguing before he was killed?”
Donna watches as Ian leans forward slowly, puts his elbows on his thighs, and rests his chin on his clasped hands. He is giving every impression of pretending to think.
“Well, listen,” he says, taking his elbows off his thighs and spreading his hands. “We had an argument, sure—sometimes you have to, don’t you. Just to release the toxins. I guess that would explain what they saw?”
“Okay, yes, that would explain it,” agrees Chris. “But I wonder if I could ask what the argument was about?”
“Of course, sure,” says Ian. “It’s a valid question, and I appreciate you asking it, because when all’s said and done, Tony died.”
“Tony was murdered, actually. Shortly after the argument,” says Donna, looking at an emerald-encrusted skull, getting bored of being quiet.
Ian nods at her. “Accurate, yep, he was. You have a bright future. Well, listen, how much do you know about automatic sprinkler systems?”
“As much as the next man,” says Chris.
“I want to fit them to all the new flats; Tony didn’t want the expense.
To me—and listen, this is just me, just how I do business—the safety of my clients is paramount.
And I mean paramount. So I said this to Tony, and he’s more laissez-faire about the whole thing—not my style—and we .
. . I’m not going to say argued; I’m going to say we bickered. ”
“And that was that?” asks Chris.
“And that was that,” says Ian. “Just sprinklers. If you want to find me guilty of something, find me guilty of going above and beyond as regards building safety.”
Chris nods, then turns to Donna. “I think that’s us done for now, Mr. Ventham. Unless my colleague has any questions?”
Donna wants to ask why Ventham is lying about the row, but that’s probably a bit much. What should she ask? What would Chris want her to ask?
“Just one question, Ian,” says Donna. She doesn’t want to call him Mr. Ventham. “Where did you go when you left Coopers Chase that day? Did you come home? Perhaps you visited Tony Curran? To continue discussing the sprinklers?”
“I did neither,” says Ian, and he seems on solid ground. “I drove up the hill and met with Karen and Gordon Playfair; they own the land up there. They’ll vouch for me, I’m sure. At least Karen will.”
Chris looks at her and nods. Her question was okay.
“You’re very beautiful, by the way,” says Ian to Donna. “For a police officer.”
“You’ll see how beautiful I am if I ever have to arrest you,” says Donna, remembering, a moment too late, that rolling her eyes was probably unprofessional.
“Well, not beautiful,” adds Ian. “But attractive enough for round here.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Ventham,” says Chris, standing. “If there’s anything else we’ll be in touch. And if you ever need to tell me that I’m beautiful, you have my number.”
As Donna stands, she takes a final look around the room. The last thing she notices is Ian’s aquarium. At the bottom of the tank is an exact scale replica of his house. A clown fish emerges from an upstairs window, and Donna and Chris make their way out.
Donna’s phone pings as she and Chris reach the car.
A text from Elizabeth, which doesn’t seem right to Donna at all. Surely a message from Elizabeth should be delivered in Morse code, or by an intricate series of flags?
Donna smiles to herself and opens the text. “It’s the Thursday Murder Club,” she tells Chris, “asking if we could come over to Coopers Chase, sir. They have some information.”
“The Thursday Murder Club?” asks Chris.
“That’s what they call themselves. There’s four of them, a little gang.”
Chris nods. “I’ve met Ibrahim, and poor old Ron Ritchie. Are they in this gang?”
Donna nods. She has no idea why he said “poor old Ron Ritchie,” but no doubt Elizabeth will be behind that, somehow. “Shall we go and see them? Elizabeth says Jason Ritchie will be there.”
“Elizabeth?” says Chris.
“She’s their . . .” Donna thinks. “I don’t know what you’d say. Whatever Marlon Brando was in The Godfather.”
“Last time I went to Coopers Chase someone clamped the Focus,” says Chris. “I was charged ￡150 to release it, by a pensioner with a high-vis jacket and an adjustable spanner. You reply to Elizabeth, and you tell her we’ll visit when we decide, not when she decides. We’re the police.”
“I’m not sure that Elizabeth will take no for an answer,” says Donna.
“Well, she’s going to have to, Donna. I’ve been in this job for nearly thirty years, and I’m not going to be pushed around by four pensioners.”
“Okay,” says Donna. “I’ll let her know.”