Chapter 29
It turned out that Chris had been wrong and Donna had been right.
Chris Hudson finds himself jammed uncomfortably on a sofa, Ibrahim, whom he has met before, on one side, and tiny, chirpy, white-haired Joyce on the other.
It is clearly a two-and-a-half-seater sofa, and when Chris had been shown to it, his assumption was that he would be sharing it with only one other person.
Then, with a grace and swiftness he hadn’t expected from two people deep into their pensionable years, Ibrahim and Joyce had slid in on either side of him, and so here he was.
If he had known, he would have declined the invitation and taken one of the armchairs, now occupied by Ron Ritchie, looking sprightlier than when they last met, and the terrifying Elizabeth—who really doesn’t take no for an answer.
More to the point, he could have taken that cozy-looking IKEA recliner that Donna is virtually curled up in, feet tucked underneath her, without a care in the world.
Could he move? There is another seat, a hard-backed chair, but Joyce and Ibrahim would surely take offense?
They seem oblivious to his discomfort, and the last thing he would want to do was seem churlish.
He is sitting where he is sitting because of their kindness, and because he is to be the center of attention.
He understands and appreciates that. There is a psychology to seating arrangements that any good police officer picks up over the years.
He knows they have tried their best to make him feel important, and they would be horrified to know that the effect is actually the complete opposite.
Chris has just been given a cup of tea on a saucer, yet he is so hemmed in that he fears that any attempt to drink it might be physically impossible.
So here he is, stuck, but like a professional, he will make the best of it.
Look at Donna, though; she’s even got a side table for her tea.
Unbelievable. They couldn’t have made this more awkward for him if they’d tried. Still, stay professional.
“Shall we begin?” says Chris. He attempts to shift his weight forward, but without realizing it, Ibrahim has his elbow nestling against Chris’s hip, and he is forced to settle back again.
His teacup is too full to safely hold in one hand, and too hot to sip.
He would feel annoyance, but the kindly, attentive looks on the faces of the four residents make it impossible.
“As you know, myself and PC De Freitas, over there in the chair, making herself comfortable, are investigating the murder of Tony Curran. He’s a man I believe you all have some knowledge of, a local builder and property developer.
As you also know, Mr. Curran tragically passed away last week, and we have certain questions pertaining to this event. ”
Chris looks at his audience. They are nodding with such innocence, taking it all in.
It makes him glad he’s adopted a slightly more formal way of speaking.
Saying “pertaining” had been a good call.
He attempts a sip at the tea, but it is still scalding hot, and any blowing would send a wave over the brim.
It would also suggest to whoever made the tea that he would have preferred it to be less scalding, which would look rude.
Joyce has more bad news for him. “We have forgotten our manners, Detective Chief Inspector. We haven’t offered you any cake.” She produces a lemon drizzle, already cut into slices, and offers it across.
Chris, unable to raise a hand to say no thank you, says, “I won’t, I had a big lunch.” No such luck.
“Just try a slice; I made it specially,” says Joyce, in a voice so proud that Chris has no choice.
“Go on, then,” he says, and Joyce balances a slice of the cake on his saucer.
“So perhaps you have a suspect by now?” asks Elizabeth. “Or are you only looking at Ventham?”
“Ibrahim says it’s better than M and S lemon drizzle,” says Joyce.
“He will have a number of suspects,” says Ibrahim. “If I know DCI Hudson. He is very thorough.”
“If you notice anything unusual, that’s the almond flour,” says Joyce.
“Is that right, son? You got any suspects?” Ron asks Chris.
“Well, it wouldn’t be—”
“Narrowing it all down. Bet you got forensics?” says Ron Ritchie. “I always watch CSI with Jason. He’ll love all this. What you got? Fingerprints? DNA?”
Chris remembers Ron as being more confused than this the other day. “Well, that’s why I’m here, as you know. I know you and Joyce were having a drink with your son, Mr. Ritchie, and I think he may be joining us? It would be good to talk to him too.”
“He just texted,” says Ron. “He’ll be ten minutes.”
“I bet he’d love to know the circumstances,” says Elizabeth.
“He’d love that,” confirms Ron.
“Well,” says Chris, “again, it’s not really in my—”
“M and S lemon drizzle cake is over-sugared, Inspector, that’s my opinion,” interrupts Ibrahim. “Not just my opinion either, if you look at the discussion boards.”
Chris is struggling further now, because the slice of cake is slightly too big for the gap between the bottom of the cup and the edge of the saucer, and it is taking all his efforts to keep it balanced.
Still, he has had a career of interviewing killers, psychopaths, con artists, and liars of every sort, so he plows on.
“We really just need to talk to Mr. Ritchie and his son, and Joyce, I think you also saw—”
“CSI is too American for me,” interrupts Joyce. “Lewis is my favorite. It’s on ITV3. I’ve got them backing up on my Sky Plus. I think I’m the only one in the village who can work Sky Plus.”
“I like the Rebus books,” adds Ibrahim, “if you know them? Rebus is from Scotland, and goodness me, he has a terrible time of it.”
“Patricia Highsmith for me,” says Elizabeth.
“They’ll never top The Sweeney, though, and I’ve read all the Mark Billinghams,” says Ron Ritchie, again with more confidence than Chris remembers.
Elizabeth, meanwhile, has opened a bottle of wine and fills up the glasses that have suddenly appeared in her friends’ hands.
Chris cannot even attempt to sip his tea now, as lifting it to his lips would unbalance the cake, and lifting the cup off the saucer would tip the cake into the saucer’s center and make it impossible to put the cup back down.
He feels sweat start to trickle down his back, reminding him of the time he interviewed a twenty-five-stone Hells Angels enforcer with I KILL COPPERS tattooed around his neck.
Fortunately, Elizabeth is on hand to help him out. “You look a little hemmed in on that sofa, Detective Chief Inspector.”
“We normally meet in the Jigsaw Room, you see,” says Joyce. “But it’s not Thursday, and the Jigsaw Room is being used by Chat and Crochet.”
“Chat and Crochet is a fairly new group, Detective Chief Inspector,” says Ibrahim. “Formed by members who had become disillusioned with Knit and Natter. Too much nattering and not enough knitting, apparently.”
“And the main lounge is off-limits,” says Ron. “The Bowls Club have got a disciplinary hearing.”
“To do with Colin Clemence and his defense of medicinal marijuana,” says Joyce.
“So why don’t we sit you on the upright,” says Elizabeth, “and you can talk us through the whole thing?”
“Ooh yes,” says Joyce. “Talk slowly because it’s not really our area, but that would be lovely. And there’s some coffee and walnut where the lemon drizzle came from.”
Chris looks over at Donna. She simply shrugs and holds out her palms.