The Bullet That Missed: (The Thursday Murder Club 3) by Richard Osman

The Bullet That Missed: (The Thursday Murder Club 3) by Richard Osman

Author:Richard Osman [Osman, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Amateur Sleuth, Traditional, Women Sleuths, Cozy, General, Humorous, Thrillers, Crime, Small Town & Rural, Friendship
ISBN: 9780241992395
Google: pehBEAAAQBAJ
Publisher: Penguin UK
Published: 2022-09-14T23:00:00+00:00


41

‘But how do you murder someone in a prison?’ asks Mike Waghorn.

Andrew Everton has done what he promised and made a few enquiries about Heather Garbutt. They are on the pier in Fairhaven, cups of tea in hand. Mike nods ‘hello’ to a few excited passers-by.

‘Easier than you’d think,’ says Andrew Everton, trying to blow through the tiny hole in the lid of his cup. ‘Though I’ve got the Home Office asking me the same questions now.’

‘There was no CCTV? Someone going into her cell?’ Mike is opening a skate park at eleven a.m., and Andrew Everton agreed to meet him beforehand. Mike is aware that not everybody has the Chief Constable at their beck and call. Perks of the job.

‘CCTV everywhere,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘But the one we need has mysteriously gone “missing”. Two hours of Heather Garbutt’s landing just erased.’

‘Jesus,’ says Mike. ‘That sort of thing common?’

‘Used to be more common,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘But it still happens. A few quid in someone’s pocket to erase the data.’

‘But that suggests definitely murder,’ says Mike. ‘That and the note she wrote?’

‘You’d think so,’ agrees Andrew Everton.

‘It must be connected to Bethany,’ says Mike, waving to a woman on a mobility scooter. ‘Has to be, doesn’t it? Heather Garbutt’s about to get out of prison, she fears for her life, and then she’s dead?’

‘Honestly,’ says Andrew Everton, ‘in prison, you never know. It’s its own world. But, put me on the spot and I’d say yes, it has to be connected. That’s not my official line, that’s as a friend.’

‘Appreciate it, Andrew,’ says Mike. ‘So catch whoever killed Heather Garbutt and maybe we catch whoever killed Bethany?’

‘Maybe,’ says Andrew Everton. He watches a young man in a tracksuit idle his way along the pier, hands in deep pockets. Where’s he off to this early in the morning? What’s in those pockets of his? The end of the pier is a good place for a private meeting. Who’s this lad meeting? Andrew misses being out on the streets sometimes, back in the thick of things, trusting his instincts. He likes being a politician, but he misses being a detective.

‘So who could get access to her cell?’ Mike asks.

‘Warders,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘We’re looking into them. Other prisoners, if they’re trusted.’

‘Another prisoner could have murdered her?’

‘Lot of murderers in prison,’ says Andrew Everton.

‘But to disable the CCTV as well? Surely a prisoner couldn’t do that?’

‘Some prisoners are better connected than others,’ says Andrew Everton.

‘So another prisoner could just walk into her cell, pick up the knitting needles, and –’

‘Do you mind?’ asks a man in decorators’ overalls, holding out a phone. ‘I wouldn’t normally, but my mum’s such a fan.’

Mike nods, then smiles for a selfie with the man.

‘I’ll keep at it, Mike,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘I promise.’

The man in the overalls walks on towards the café. He stops to put a tin down by some ornate ironwork covered in peeling paint, begins scraping it away and rubbing it down. The boy in the tracksuit joins him, takes a brush from his deep pockets and starts painting.



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