She puts her finger on his wrist, in what could easily be a sign of affection, but really she is checking his pulse. She is seeing if he is panicking.
His pulse is rock-steady: sixty-five beats per minute. Of course it is. Stephen will also be controlling his breathing, trusting that his wife will get him out of this.
But will she? Well, it very much depends on what this is, Elizabeth supposes. It’s the man sending her the texts certainly. Finally made good on his threats. But who is it? And what job does he have for her?
The van is beginning to slow down. As if it has left a major road and joined a minor one. Elizabeth takes note.
She will be missed in Coopers Chase, that’s a good thing. Joyce will spot that her light is not on this evening. Or will she? Will she be busy looking into Heather Garbutt? Will Ibrahim be thinking about Connie Johnson? Will Ron be busy with … well, that goes without saying. Will they even notice her absence? Will they raise the alarm?
Elizabeth knows she is already too far from home anyway. There will be no cavalry to save her this time. She has got herself into this mess, and she will have to get herself out of it.
The van comes to a halt. Elizabeth waits and breathes. She feels a hand on her shoulder, roughly dragging her up.
But whose hand?
11
‘So you’re not from the Sunday Times?’ asks Connie Johnson, not unreasonably in Ibrahim’s view. She is chewing gum. Again, fine by Ibrahim, good for dental health so long as it is sugar-free.
‘No, I lied,’ says Ibrahim, crossing his legs, then tugging down the hem of his trouser leg. ‘I thought you might be more likely to speak to me if you thought I was a journalist.’
They are sitting in a visiting room at Darwell Prison. Tables are spread out, but close enough that everyone can hear everyone else’s heartbreak if they choose to. Ibrahim is listening to every conversation, while conducting his own with Connie. That is his habit.
‘Then who are you?’ asks Connie. She is in a prison jumpsuit, but is surprisingly well made-up for someone with no obvious access to high-end cosmetics.
‘My name is Ibrahim Arif. I’m a psychiatrist.’
‘Well, that’s fun,’ says Connie, and she sounds like she means it. ‘Who sent you? Prosecution lawyer? See if I’m batshit?’
‘I already know you’re not batshit, Connie. You are a very controlled, intelligent, motivated woman.’
Connie nods. ‘Mmm, I’m very goal-oriented. I scored ninety-six on a Facebook quiz about it. That’s a nice suit. Someone’s doing all right.’
‘You set goals, Connie, and then you achieve those goals. Am I right?’
‘I do,’ says Connie, then looks around her. ‘Though I am in prison, aren’t I, Ibrahim Arif? So I’m not perfect.’
‘Who among us is?’ asks Ibrahim. ‘It is healthy to admit that to ourselves. I wonder if you might like a task, Connie?’
‘A task? You need coke? You don’t look like you need coke. You want someone murdered? You look like you could afford it.’
‘Nothing illegal at all,’ says Ibrahim. He absolutely loves talking to criminals, he can’t deny it. It’s the same with famous people too. He loved talking to Mike Waghorn. ‘Quite the opposite.’
‘The opposite of illegal, OK. And what’s in it for me?’
‘For you, nothing at all,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I just suspect it’s something you’d be rather good at. And therefore you’d rather enjoy.’
‘I mean, I’m quite busy,’ says Connie, smiling.
‘I see that,’ says Ibrahim, smiling back. Connie’s smile looks real, and so his is real in return.
‘OK, what’s the task?’ says Connie. ‘I like your cheek, and I like your suit – let’s talk business.’
Ibrahim quietens a little, keeps his voice flat and under the radar. ‘There’s an inmate here called Heather Garbutt. Do you know her?’
‘Is she the Pevensey Strangler?’
‘I don’t think so, no,’ says Ibrahim.
‘There’s a Heather on D-Wing,’ says Connie. ‘Older, looks clever. Like a teacher who robbed a bank?’
‘Let’s assume that’s her for now,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Do you think you could befriend her? Perhaps find something out for me?’
‘Sounds like the sort of thing I could do,’ says Connie. Ibrahim can already see her mind is in motion. ‘What do you need to find out?’
‘I need to find out if she murdered a television reporter called Bethany Waites in 2013. By pushing her car over a cliff.’
‘Cool,’ says Connie, a small grin creeping onto her face. ‘I’ll just ask her. Nice cup of tea, isn’t it mild for the time of year, and did you murder someone?’
‘Well, I’ll leave it up to you how you approach the question,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Your area, not mine. And maybe she didn’t do it – that would also be useful information.’
‘I bet she did, though,’ says Connie. ‘I’ve never pushed a car off a cliff, always wanted to.’
Ibrahim raises his palms. ‘There’s still time, I’m sure.’
‘And there’s really nothing in it for me?’ asks Connie. ‘You can’t smuggle in a SIM card for me or something?’
‘I don’t think I could,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I could Google how to do it, though, and give it a go.’
‘Don’t stress, I’ve got plenty. And you don’t want to know how they get smuggled in.’
Ibrahim thinks he will Google it anyway. He is really enjoying himself. He hasn’t been out much since his mugging, but, bit by bit, he is regaining his confidence, and bit by bit he is feeling his old self return. There are scars, yes, but that at least means the bleeding has stopped. And it’s nice to remember he’s good at this sort of thing. At reading people. At understanding trouble, and redirecting it. He likes Connie, and she likes him. Although one has to be carefuclass="underline" she is a ruthless killer and, without wishing to be judgemental about it, that is fairly bad. He will have good news to report back to the gang later though. He starts thinking about SIM cards. They are very small, Ibrahim knows that, so he wonders how you … Ibrahim realizes that Connie has just said something, and that he has missed it. That is unlike him. Very unlike him. Time to sharpen up.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I didn’t catch that?’
‘You were off in dreamland, Ibrahim,’ says Connie. ‘Let me ask you again. As a psychiatrist, what do you think motivates me?’
This is easy meat for Ibrahim. Sure, we are all different, all unique snowflakes leading unique lives, but we are all the same under the bonnet.
‘Momentum, I would say. A desire for movement and change.’ Ibrahim steeples his fingers. ‘Some people need everything to stay the same – I am a little like that. If they changed the music on the Shipping Forecast, for example, I would hyperventilate. But some people need everything to change. You need everything to change. That chaos is where you are able to hide yourself.’
‘Hmm,’ says Connie. ‘How wise, Mr Ibrahim Arif. But do you think honesty is important to me?’
Where’s this going? Ibrahim has a sinking feeling. ‘I imagine so. In your line of work, honesty is, ironically, paramount.’
‘You imagine so, do you?’ asks Connie. ‘Where did you get my name, mate? How did you hear about Connie Johnson? Who sent you?’
‘A client,’ says Ibrahim. He is a bad liar, and tries to avoid lies whenever he can. But he’s had to lie more and more often since he met Elizabeth, Joyce and Ron.