‘Of course we’re best friends,’ says Joyce. ‘Who did you think my best friend was? Ron?’
Elizabeth smiles again. Has she had a best friend before? Penny? Perhaps, but, really, they just shared a common hobby and a mutual respect. She’s had husbands and lovers. Field partners, cell mates, bodyguards. But a best friend?
‘Wait, is Stoke in Staffordshire?’ says Joyce.
‘Yes,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Then I have been to Staffordshire. We did a coach trip to Stoke, years back. Lovely ceramics. I bought a pot with Gerry’s name on it. It was spelt with a “J”, but it was the closest they had.’
‘Glad to get that cleared up,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Where does Viktor live?’
‘Somewhere you’re going to like very much,’ says Elizabeth.
Joyce nods. ‘You’re not really going to kill him, Elizabeth? I don’t think you’d bring me if you were really going to kill him?’
Elizabeth studies Joyce for a moment. ‘Who on earth do you think I would bring? Ron?’
She hoped that might make her friend laugh, but, instead, Joyce looks scared.
The train begins to slow, as it approaches London.
33
‘They are going to kill me,’ reads Ibrahim. ‘Only Connie Johnson can help me now.’
‘She was frightened, I can tell you that,’ says Connie Johnson, her feet up on the desk. They have been allowed a private meeting room, because of the importance of ‘good mental health’.
‘Frightened,’ repeats Ibrahim. ‘Frightened of you?’
Connie shakes her head. ‘I know when people are frightened of me. Frightened of someone though.’
‘Perhaps you like it when people are frightened of you?’ Ibrahim is making notes on his pad. ‘What would you say to that?’
‘Are we doing therapy?’ says Connie. ‘Or are we investigating a murder?’
‘I thought we could mix the two,’ says Ibrahim. ‘In therapy you must never waste a crisis.’
‘People being frightened is not my thing,’ says Connie. ‘Thank you for my Grazia by the way, it’s perfect. I don’t get a kick out of people being scared of me, I just do it because it’s easy to monetize.’
‘So who was she frightened of,’ says Ibrahim, ‘do you think?’
Connie shrugs and sips at the cappuccino a warder has made for her. It even has chocolate sprinkles. ‘Felt like she had a secret she was scared to tell.’
‘A secret that she seems to believe you know,’ says Ibrahim. ‘“Only Connie Johnson can help me.” What did she say to you? She gave you a clue, perhaps?’
‘If she did, I didn’t pick up on it,’ says Connie. ‘But I’ll keep thinking.’
‘If you would,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Do you have secrets, Connie?’
‘Nah,’ says Connie. ‘The combination to the safe in my lock-up, I suppose, but I don’t think that counts, does it? What are your secrets?’
‘That’s for another day,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Let’s start from the beginning. When you heard what had happened –’
‘With the knitting needles?’
‘With the knitting needles, yes,’ says Ibrahim. ‘What did you think?’
Connie takes a pause, and breaks off a piece of the KitKat another warder had brought in. On a tray. ‘Well, first off, I admired the ingenuity. Not easy to kill someone with knitting needles.’
‘Agreed,’ says Ibrahim.
‘And, second, I thought I shouldn’t have given her the knitting needles,’ says Connie. ‘But you can’t be ruled by hindsight, can you?’
‘That is a wise thing to say.’
‘Too late for her now,’ says Connie, draining the last of her cappuccino with a wince. ‘If I look into it a bit more, do you think you could bring me a new coffee-maker? I’ve got a Nespresso, but I’d like a De’Longhi.’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ says Ibrahim.
Connie nods. ‘Well, try your best. Here’s the only thing I can remember: when I went into her cell, Heather was writing something.’
Ibrahim stops writing and looks up at her. ‘What sort of thing?’
Connie shrugs. ‘She hid it away pretty quickly. Worth looking for though. They’ll have bagged up all her stuff.’
‘And what she was writing?’ says Ibrahim. ‘It wouldn’t have been the note she left?’
Connie shakes her head. ‘It was lots of writing. She was scribbling away.’
‘So what do you think, Connie? Why kill Heather Garbutt, and why kill her now?’
‘What I think is this,’ says Connie. ‘I think this doesn’t feel like the therapy I’m paying for. This feels like I’m an unpaid member of your gang.’
‘Well, we are all unpaid, but your point is valid,’ says Ibrahim. ‘It is a legitimate observation. Let’s talk a little about you. Would you like to start, or shall I?’
‘You start,’ says Connie.
Ibrahim thinks for a moment. ‘I think you are unhappy.’
‘Wrong,’ says Connie.
‘I think you make other people unhappy,’ says Ibrahim.
‘I’ll give you that,’ says Connie.
‘So you know you make other people unhappy, and yet you are happy? It must be hard to make peace with that fact?’
‘Other people are their own responsibility,’ says Connie.
‘Connie. You are very bright, you are hard-working. You spot opportunities. I think it is fair to say you are more powerful than many other people.’
Connie drums her fingers on the table. ‘Maybe.’
‘So therefore you are a bully,’ says Ibrahim. ‘If you are strong, you have a choice in life: to protect the weak, or to prey on the weak. You use the strengths you have been given to prey on the weak.’
‘So does everyone,’ says Connie.
‘I don’t,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Only sociopaths do.’
‘Well, then, I’m a sociopath,’ says Connie. ‘You should try it, it’s very lucrative.’
‘You sensed Heather Garbutt was frightened, Connie. And you sensed she was unable to tell the truth. And I think you cared about that.’
Connie pauses. ‘Not especially.’
‘You didn’t care?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘“Not really, no.” Yet you think I should find out what Heather was writing? You think maybe there’s more to her death than meets the eye?’
‘Maybe,’ says Connie.
‘I have good news and bad news for you, Connie,’ says Ibrahim, shutting his pad.
‘Enlighten me,’ says Connie.
‘The good news is that you care. So you are not a sociopath.’
‘And the bad news?’
‘The bad news is that means, at some point, you are going to have to come to terms with everything you’ve done in your life.’
Connie stares at Ibrahim for a long while. Ibrahim stares back.
‘You’re a fraud,’ says Connie, finally. ‘Nice suits, I’ll give you that, but a fraud.’
‘Perhaps so.’ There is a series of beeps on Ibrahim’s phone.
‘And that’s our hour up. More next week, or is that us done? It’s always your choice. Perhaps I am too much of a fraud for you?’
Connie gathers up her magazine and places the rest of the KitKat in her Hermès clutch bag. She stands, and holds out her hand to Ibrahim.
‘More next week,’ she says. ‘Please.’
‘As you wish,’ say Ibrahim.
‘I’ll keep digging for you,’ says Connie.
‘And I shall do the same for you,’ says Ibrahim.
34
‘What did you make of Pauline?’ asks Elizabeth.
‘I like her,’ says Joyce.
‘Well, I like her too,’ says Elizabeth. ‘But what did you make of her?’