‘How nicely?’ Elizabeth asks. ‘If you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Not interested,’ says Paul. ‘I lent them the money because they were friends and they needed it. If I get some money back, that’s okay; if I don’t, that’s okay too. I just liked seeing them do well. You can’t let money be your master.’
Joanna leans into Ibrahim. ‘When the hedge fund has social get-togethers, I don’t let him speak.’
‘Let’s control what we can,’ says Elizabeth. ‘We need to find The Compound, and I need to get Holly’s SIM card analysed. Find out if there’s anything on there about Davey Noakes or Lord Townes. I can do that this afternoon if anyone fancies a trip up to London. Joyce?’
‘Paul and Joanna have just arrived, so I might not –’ Joyce’s sentence is stopped by a look from Elizabeth. ‘But I’d love to, yes, London it is.’
‘We’ll look after Alan while you’re in London, Joycey,’ says Ron. ‘Kendrick’s desperate to take him for a walk.’
‘He’s staying today as well?’ Ibrahim asks. It is always a delight to spend time with Ron’s grandson, but something is amiss there.
‘I asked if he could stay until Sunday,’ says Ron. ‘Going home to his mum in the morning.’
Just his mum. Ibrahim tucks that observation away.
The meeting is at an end. Ibrahim flattens the creases on his trousers before getting up. Lots to think about.
What do they know? Holly Lewis is dead, and if Nick Silver isn’t dead too something very peculiar is happening with his phone. A huge sum of money is buried somewhere nearby, and there are two six-digit codes needed to claim it.
That should be enough to be getting on with, shouldn’t it? He’ll enjoy thinking about the codes, that’s for certain.
Still, Ibrahim feels at a slight loss. Elizabeth and Joyce are heading off together. He could probably join them if he really wanted to, but one doesn’t like to ask. Ron has Pauline, Joanna has Paul, even Alan has Kendrick. Ibrahim feels a long day is stretching ahead of him, and wonders how he might fill the empty hours.
Murders are all well and good, but who does he have?
26
Joyce sits on a dining-room chair, stared at, once again, by the many, many porcelain cats.
They are back in Purley. Joyce bets that not many people go to Purley twice in two days. I mean, some people live there or work there, so they’ll be back and forth all the time. But civilians like her? Twice? In two days? Joyce doubts it very much.
They’d walked past the British Heart Foundation shop on their way to Jasper’s. They really did have some nice mugs in there. Joyce thought perhaps she should buy a few for him, but decided it was too presumptuous. Give him time.
Elizabeth sits next to Jasper. He still wears his shirt and bow tie, but today has switched to corduroys, which is a step up. Elizabeth hands him the SIM card. ‘A little charred.’
‘I’ve seen worse,’ says Jasper, taking a phone from his pocket and inserting the SIM card. The phone is about twice the size of a regular phone, even Ibrahim’s new one, and is a sleek black with absolutely no markings.
‘That’s an unusual phone,’ says Joyce. ‘Joanna has a Samsung which she swears by.’
‘Can’t get one of these in a shop,’ says Jasper. ‘If you know what I mean?’
‘Jasper, of course she knows what you mean,’ says Elizabeth. ‘She knows you were a spy, stop showing off.’
‘You show off all you like, Jasper,’ says Joyce.
The screen of Jasper’s phone lights up. He starts to scroll.
‘Anything?’ Elizabeth asks.
‘It’s not ideal,’ says Jasper. ‘It’s not ideal. There’s bits and bobs.’
‘I like your trousers, Jasper,’ says Joyce. ‘They really suit you.’
‘I found them in the back of a magazine,’ says Jasper. ‘Elasticated. And fifteen pounds.’
‘We’re particularly interested in recent calls and texts,’ says Elizabeth. Joyce can see she is losing patience. Elizabeth has less interest in lonely men than Joyce does. ‘She died at around nine forty-five last night.’
‘Nine forty-five last night?’ Jasper asks.
‘Yes,’ says Joyce. ‘We’d been having dinner, I gave her some brownies, not my best.’
Brownies! Joyce should have baked some brownies for Jasper. But when would she have had the time? Everything has been such a rush since the wedding. But still, Joyce curses her thoughtlessness.
‘If she died at nine forty-five,’ says Jasper, ‘then I have a call you might be very interested in. Very interested indeed, I should say. On the interest scale, were it to be numbered one through ten, I might suggest a ten.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Jasper,’ says Elizabeth.
‘Your friend Holly Lewis,’ says Jasper, enjoying the theatre, ‘who died at nine forty-five p.m., made her final phone call last night at nine forty-four p.m.’
‘Just after she left us?’ says Joyce.
‘Just after she left you,’ confirms Jasper. ‘And just before she met the bomb. Hello, Mr Bomb. Or Mrs Bomb. Are bombs men or women, do we think?’
Joyce thinks that perhaps bombs are women. Once they’ve exploded, that’s an end to it. Men are more like guns: they’re constantly reloading.
Jasper scrawls down a number on a piece of paper and slides it across to Elizabeth.
‘How long was the call?’ Elizabeth asks, looking at the number.
‘Didn’t get connected, but she tried it,’ says Jasper. ‘Perhaps she was rudely interrupted, ha, ha, ha. No, I know she died, that’s very serious, I apologize.’ Elizabeth looks at Joyce. ‘So Holly Lewis was trying to call someone when the bomb went off.’
Elizabeth is already calling somebody.
‘I’ll work on the rest of it this week,’ says Jasper. ‘See if I can find anything else useful for you. You came to see me at a good time: it’s quite quiet.’
There is a cat calendar hanging on the dining-room wall. Jasper’s month is empty except for the word BINS written in painfully neat handwriting each Wednesday.
‘A number for you,’ says Elizabeth into her phone. ‘Could you run it straight away? … Well, because I’m asking … I’m aware it’s a Saturday, Clive … I don’t even know what the Malaysian Grand Prix Qualifying is … Monday morning? For goodness’ sake, Clive, you’re not the Post Office, you’re a spy … there’s no such thing as an ex-spy … tell your wife to turn the potatoes down for a minute … Clive Baxter, I need to know who that number belongs to, which will take you a matter of moments; a young woman was killed last night, and your assistance would be greatly appreciated, as I suspect my assistance was greatly appreciated when you were being throttled half to death in Odessa in 1974 … Thank you, Clive, yes, I’ll hold.’
Elizabeth starts pacing. Joyce looks around once again at all the cats. The cats that Jasper hates. The cats that were still here on the off-chance that their absence might offend someone who had bought him one.
‘Jasper,’ says Joyce, gently, ‘how many people who bought you these over the years are still alive?’
Jasper looks around the collection, assigning a name in his mind to each one. ‘Well, Cousin John is still knocking about, I suppose, but that would be it.’
‘And where is Cousin John?’
‘New Zealand,’ says Jasper.
Joyce nods. ‘Why don’t we pack some of them up?’
‘Some of the cats?’
‘Store them away somewhere,’ says Joyce. ‘Then you could really make the place your own, couldn’t you?’
Jasper looks around as if seeing it for the first time ever. ‘A few bookshelves perhaps?’
‘Make it a proper dining room,’ says Joyce. ‘Invite people over.’
‘Who would come?’ Jasper asks.
‘We’d come,’ says Joyce, indicating Elizabeth. At that moment Elizabeth begins nodding and writing something on a pad.