‘Because I’ve heard your name before,’ says Connie. ‘Ibrahim Arif. Do you know where I heard that name?’
Ibrahim is all out of lies, as Connie leans over and whispers in his ear, ‘From your mate Ron Ritchie, the day I got arrested.’
She settles back in her chair. Your move, Ibrahim.
‘He told you to come here, did he?’ asks Connie. ‘You’re working for him?’
‘No, I’m working for Elizabeth Best, of MI5. Or MI6. One of them.’
Connie takes this in. ‘So MI5, or 6, want me to talk to Heather Garbutt?’
‘Indirectly, yes,’ says Ibrahim.
‘And will this help me in court? Can a gang of men in balaclavas bust me out of the dock?’
‘No, I’m afraid not,’ says Ibrahim. Though it occurs to him that they probably could. Elizabeth would know. Best not to promise anything.
‘Ibrahim,’ says Connie, ‘I don’t like being lied to.’
‘No,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I apologize.’
‘And,’ continues Connie, ‘it’s important that you know that the moment I’m out, I’m going to kill your friend Ron Ritchie for landing me in here.’
‘Noted.’
Connie thinks for a moment. ‘And do you know Bogdan?’
‘I do,’ admits Ibrahim.
‘I’m going to kill him too. Will you tell them both for me?’
‘I will pass on the message, yes.’
‘Is Bogdan seeing anyone, do you know?’
‘I don’t think so,’ says Ibrahim.
Connie nods. A prison warder approaches the table.
‘Time’s up, Johnson, that’s your twenty.’
Connie turns to him. ‘Five more minutes.’
‘You don’t run this jail,’ says the warder. ‘We do.’
‘Five more minutes, and I’ll get your son an iPhone,’ says Connie.
The warder thinks for a moment. ‘Ten minutes, and he wants an iPad.’
‘Thank you, Officer,’ says Connie and turns back to Ibrahim. ‘I’m so bored here, let’s do it. Give me everything you’ve got on Heather Garbutt. I’m still going to kill your friends, but until that happens let’s all agree to get along and have a bit of fun.’
Ibrahim nods. ‘You know you could just choose not to kill my friends, Connie?’
‘How do you mean?’ asks Connie, genuinely confused.
‘All that happened here is that they outsmarted you. Is that such a bad thing? They took advantage of your greed. Is your self-esteem so fragile that you can’t be outsmarted once in a while?’
Connie laughs. ‘But it’s my job, Ibrahim, it’s how I make my money. Surely you get that, you’re a bright man.’
‘Thank you,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I once took an IQ test, and –’
‘Say I didn’t kill Ron and Bogdan,’ Connie cuts across. ‘Let’s workshop that. Every chancer in Fairhaven would think they can take me on. Do you know my company slogan?’
‘I wasn’t even aware you had one,’ says Ibrahim.
‘Immediate and brutal retaliation,’ says Connie.
‘That makes sense,’ admits Ibrahim. ‘Are there no ethical drug dealers?’
‘In Brighton there’s a fair-trade cocaine dealer. He gets all his wraps stamped and everything. Cocaine from family-run farms, no pesticides.’
‘Well, that seems like a start,’ says Ibrahim.
‘He still threw someone off a multi-storey car park for stealing money from him.’
‘Small steps,’ says Ibrahim. ‘You know, perhaps I could bring Ron in to see you? You might not want to kill him quite so much if you really got to know him.’ Ibrahim thinks this through for a moment. Actually, Ron often has the opposite effect on people.
Connie considers this. ‘You’re interesting. Would you like a job?’
‘I have a job,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I’m a psychiatrist.’
‘A proper job though?’ says Connie.
‘No, thank you,’ says Ibrahim. Though it would be fun to work for a crime organization. All that planning, smoky backrooms, men wearing sunglasses indoors.
‘Then would you like to be my psychiatrist?’
Ibrahim takes this in for a moment. That would actually be a lot of fun. And interesting. ‘What would you want from a psychiatrist, Connie? What do you think you need?’
Connie thinks. ‘Learn to exploit weaknesses in my enemies, I guess. How to manipulate juries, how to spot an undercover police officer?’
‘Umm …’
‘Why I always pick the wrong men?’
‘That’s more my sort of thing,’ says Ibrahim. ‘If someone asks for my help, I always start with one question. Are you happy?’
Connie thinks. ‘Well, I’m in prison.’
‘But that aside?’
‘I mean. Maybe I could be happier? You know, five per cent. I’m OK.’
‘I can help with that. Five per cent, ten, fifty, whatever it might be. That’s my job. I can’t fix you, but I can make you run a little better.’
‘You can’t fix me?’
‘Humans can’t be fixed,’ says Ibrahim. ‘We’re not lawnmowers. I wish we were.’
‘Might be fun, mightn’t it?’ says Connie. ‘Unburden all my secrets. What do you charge? To buy suits like that?’
‘Sixty pounds an hour. Or less if someone can’t afford it.’
‘I’ll pay you two hundred an hour,’ says Connie.
‘No, it’s just sixty.’
‘If you charge less for someone who can’t afford it, then charge more for someone who can. You’re a businessman. How often can we meet?’
‘Once a week is best at first. And my schedule is pretty flexible.’
‘OK, I’ll sort it here. They lap this sort of thing up, mental health. And I’ll look into Heather Garbutt in the meantime. Girly chat, what’s your star sign, did you push a car off a cliff.’
‘Thank you. I shall look forward to speaking with you,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And seeing if I can persuade you not to murder Ron.’
‘Great,’ says Connie. ‘Let’s do Thursdays.’
‘Actually,’ says Ibrahim, ‘can we do Wednesdays? Thursdays are the one day I have something on.’
12
The last time Elizabeth had a bag and blindfold pulled from her head was in 1978. She was in the harshly lit administration block of a Hungarian abattoir, and was about to be questioned and tortured by a Russian Army general with a chest of bloodstained medals. As events transpired, there was to be no torture, as the General had left his tool bag in the car, and the car had driven off for the evening. So, in the end, she had got away with light bruising and an anecdote for dinner parties.
What had he wanted, the General? Elizabeth forgets. Something which no doubt seemed terribly important at the time. She knew people who had died for the blueprints to agricultural machinery. Very few things are so important you would risk your life for them, but all sorts of things are important enough to risk somebody else’s life.
As her blindfold is removed this time, there is no glare of strip lights, no grinning General and no blood-smeared filing cabinets. She is in a library, in a soft leather chair. The room is lit by candles, the kind Joyce buys. The man who removed her blindfold and uncuffed her has silently left the room and is out of her sight.
Elizabeth looks over to Stephen. He arches an eyebrow at her, and says, ‘Well, this is a to-do.’
‘Isn’t it?’ she agrees. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Right as rain, darling, you just keep your wits about you. I’m out of the old comfort zone here. Bash on the bonce, but no harm done. Probably knocked some sense into me.’
‘Your back all right?’
‘Nothing a Panadol won’t fix. Any idea what’s afoot here? Anything I can do to help?’
Elizabeth shakes her head. ‘This might be one for me.’