Steve stands. “I choose to be kind sometimes. I’m not always. I just can’t stand a bully.”
“I’m sorry,” says Mollie. “Do you have any daughters?”
“Yeah,” says Steve. “Well, no, a daughter-in-law. I don’t suppose that’s the same thing, is it? It feels like the same thing. Anyway, if anyone threatened her, I’d kill them. Which isn’t kind.”
There was no mention in anything Steve read of who was sailing with Fairbanks, or who might have shot him, or where that killer might have disappeared to. The police, quite rightly, are keeping that kind of thing to themselves for now. The public always wanted to know everything straightaway these days.
There was a short clip on Sky News of the sheriff, a man named Justin Scroggie, avoiding the questions of the assembled media in a very professional manner. “We will not rest until the killer of Mr. Fairbanks is found,” he said.
You really only say that when you know you’re not going to catch the killer. If you know you’re going to solve it, you just keep quiet, or you look straight into the camera and say, “We are actively pursuing a lead.”
Scroggie didn’t seem right to Steve either. Hair and uniform too neat to be a good cop. Perhaps Steve’s being too judgmental, but being judgmental is a good thing if you’re right.
“I’ll pay you back,” says Mollie. “It might be a while, though. I get forty quid a week.”
“Listen,” says Steve, “why don’t you take this dog for a walk so I can go to the pub? Then we’ll call it quits.”
“Deal,” says Mollie. “You won’t kill Lauren Gough, will you?”
“Ach,” says Steve. “We’ll see.”
The tiniest, tiniest part of Steve is envious of Justin Scroggie, and the case he has in front of him, but a pint and a pub lunch will fix all that.
8
From the Desk of François Loubet
ChatGPT, rewrite in the style of a friendly English gentleman, please.
I do like to write things down from time to time. It’s pure vanity, but everyone wants to be understood, don’t they? For reasons of privacy and security, and to avoid serious prison time, I have never received credit for my many, many crimes, and it would be nice to receive a bit of credit when I’m gone. For the people who love me to truly understand the scale of my achievements.
Though I promise not to be gone anytime soon!
To wit: a jolly interesting email has arrived. What do you make of this, I wonder?
Monsieur Loubet,
Please, please, please, Andrew Fairbanks has to be the last death. No more killing. This is not what I asked for. You can have all the money back if you make this stop.
Joe Blow
Goodness gracious me!
First, I should introduce “Joe Blow.” My partner in crime. Could be a woman, could be a man. Perhaps Joe is using ChatGPT just like me? “ChatGPT, make me sound like a whiny troublemaker!” I shouldn’t mock—this business frightens some people. But my point is that Joe Blow could be a sixty-year-old lorry driver from Inverness, for all I know. That’s the joy of ChatGPT. A marvelous invention for the writer and the criminal alike!
Whoever Joe Blow is, they work for Maximum Impact Solutions, I know that. And whoever they might eventually turn out to be, I have been paying them for some time to provide me with couriers to help with my business interests.
And now it seems that my partner in crime is getting cold feet? Sometimes they do. It’s a blasted nuisance. Perhaps Joe Blow needs a lesson in manners? Shall we?
Oh, I quite agree, Joe, I quite agree. No more killing.
Though I note that there have been only three deaths, and in the grand scheme of things I would argue that does not constitute an awful lot. Let us not dwell on semantics, though, we are friends!
And this latest one, Mr. Fairbanks, might finally do the trick and frighten Jeff Nolan away, shouldn’t you think? No more blasted trouble from him after this one, is what I surmise.
Believe me when I say I understand the ambit of your queasiness. But you cannot take my money and not expect a little blood on your hands! That would be, with respect, naive. You must keep the money I have paid you; you have earned it with all the information you have sent me. However, we had a deal. I can suggest investments if that would be at all useful?
One mustn’t urinate a windfall against a wall, must one?
You will be glad to hear that our arrangement is now over—unless Mr. Jeff Nolan continues to contact me, in which case our connection will resume.
Gosh, Mr. Jeff Nolan is a man who does not seem to take a bally hint!
You do have to accept we have acted as a team, though, Joe, and that these deaths are as much your responsibility as they are mine. Where there is money, people die. You wanted my money, and thus you find yourself here.
Amy Wheeler will be the last one, I promise. Does she need to die? Hmm, to be discussed, but I do believe that her death will tie up any loose ends. I trust I have your cooperation in this matter?
Although perhaps we should dispose of Jeff Nolan too? Would that be overkill? Please forgive my pun, Joe!
With warmest regards,
François Loubet
There, I think I have made myself plain to our friend Joe Blow.
The problem is, people are very happy to make a few pounds sterling off me, but they can get very squeamish when the bullets start flying, and the sharks come out to play.
There are many, many layers between me and these murders, but it always pays to be cautious. That’s the lesson I hope I am teaching you here, in this silly voice I am growing to love.
