It was nice to see Donna yesterday. She was coy about where she was heading next, and I do understand why. If she was dropping in on us, she was heading north. And a long enough journey for Donna to say yes to cake, but a short enough journey for her to skip using the loo before she left. So you’d guess London, wouldn’t you? And I can think of only one person she might want to question in London, and that’s Paul.
Of course somebody should question him, I’m not a fool. I’ve investigated enough murders now to know who’s a suspect and who’s not a suspect. But if he’s involved, why were Nick’s texts sent to him? And why did he show them to us? Also, I trust Joanna’s judgement. I may not like the paint colour in her new hallway (too dark – a hallway should be welcoming) and she is wrong about sushi, but she has her father’s head on her shoulders, and if she doesn’t suspect Paul, neither do I.
I note as well that Donna is not investigating this case, and so someone else must have asked her to speak to Paul. My guess is Elizabeth. It’s not even a guess, I know it will have been Elizabeth.
This whole case is buzzing around me, and lots of other things seem to be too. I feel a bit useless. Perhaps the adrenaline from the wedding has finally left me?
Alan is wagging his tail at me, but heaven knows why. I haven’t contributed a single thing to the case. Ibrahim has a house full of guests and no one is telling me why. My best friend doesn’t trust me enough to tell me she’s questioning my son-in-law. My brownies were too heavy. I forgot to tell Joanna I love her.
What use am I? I’m not going to discover Nick Silver’s code. Some women make history, and some women make tea. I will never be Elizabeth.
I might go online and order a nice tea set for Jasper. That is something useful and practical I can actually do.
Life isn’t all about solving murders, fun though it is. Sometimes you have to help people before they’re dead.
I will never be Elizabeth. But, then, she will never be me. Perhaps I have my own job to do.
Let Alan wag his tail, and let Ibrahim crack the code instead.
57
Ibrahim brings in a tray with three mugs on it. Kendrick and Tia are lying on the floor, colouring in planets in Kendrick’s book.
‘I said it would be too babyish,’ says Kendrick, looking up. ‘But Tia said she didn’t mind.’
‘They had colouring-in books in prison,’ says Tia. ‘They were very popular.’
‘I have made myself three hot chocolates,’ says Ibrahim. ‘But three is too many for one man. I suppose I could share them if one of you is thirsty?’
Kendrick and Tia both leap to their feet. Tia looks so much younger than she did when she arrived. Seeing her with Kendrick reminds Ibrahim that she is just a child. Whatever Connie wants to turn her into, Ibrahim is determined he won’t allow it. What a life this girl might have.
Ibrahim sits down on the sofa, and Kendrick sits next to him. Tia sits in his armchair, tucks her legs underneath her and reaches for a mug.
‘Elizabeth was very clever to work out Holly’s code,’ says Kendrick.
‘I like to think I helped,’ says Ibrahim.
‘And Grandad,’ says Kendrick. ‘You all helped. The Thursday Murder Club.’
‘There was a murder club in prison too,’ says Tia. ‘They murdered people. What does your murder club do?’
‘We investigate things,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And with some success.’
‘Like Holly’s murder?’ Tia asks.
‘Mmm hmm,’ says Ibrahim. He doesn’t really want to be talking to Tia about murders; it seems to rub against his plan of turning her away from that sort of life. But at the same time he does enjoy talking about them, and the cat is well and truly out of the bag now. She knows about the explosion, the money, the codes.
‘So Holly had a code,’ says Tia. ‘And this guy Nick Silver has the other six digits.’
‘There you have it,’ says Ibrahim. ‘On the nose.’
‘So Nick Silver killed her,’ says Tia. ‘Case closed. This hot chocolate is amazing.’
‘Either that, or someone killed them both,’ says Ibrahim. ‘No one has heard from Nick Silver since the wedding, except for some texts that clearly weren’t from him.’
‘She dies; he disappears,’ says Tia. ‘I bet he killed her.’
‘Yeah, I bet too,’ says Kendrick.
‘Do you agree with everything Tia says now, Kendrick?’ Ibrahim teases.
‘Yes,’ says Kendrick, unteasable.
Ibrahim feels sleepy and happy. This feels like a family.
‘How do you know the texts weren’t from him?’ Tia asks.
‘I’ll show you,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And you’ll see.’
He fetches one of his printouts of the text exchange and hands it to Tia. She starts to read.
‘The language doesn’t sound like him,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And he doesn’t know simple information about his best friend.’
As Tia is reading, Kendrick gets up from the sofa and slides onto the armchair beside her. It fits them both. Two children. One running from something Ibrahim has yet to discover, the other being protected from something Ibrahim knows only too well. Kendrick puts his head on Tia’s shoulder as they read. How much longer does he have as a child, this clever boy? How much longer before life makes him an adult? Until his shoes have laces and his heart has scars? Until his shame deepens alongside his voice and he no longer wants to lie on the floor and colour in the planets?
‘No one talks like this,’ says Tia, rereading the messages, and Kendrick nods.
‘I told you so,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Elizabeth and I have combed them this way and that. We can’t say who sent them, but we can certainly say that it wasn’t Nick Silver.’
Tia nods and goes back to reading. Right at this moment Ibrahim wants to save these two from the world. To save them from Kendrick’s dad, and from Tia’s trouble. Tia is pointing something out to Kendrick. They could be brother and sister, the two of them. Ibrahim feels himself falling asleep. Ibrahim, Kendrick and Tia, three lost children. Of course you can’t save people from the world, all you can do is –
‘But you see it?’ Kendrick says to him, and Ibrahim stops himself from dozing off.
‘Mmm?’
‘You see it?’ Kendrick repeats. ‘You and Elizabeth? You see it?’
‘See what?’ Ibrahim asks.
Tia holds up the paper. ‘How many times have you looked at these messages?’
‘Once or twice,’ says Ibrahim. Can he see what? ‘Five times perhaps, no more than that. Let’s say twelve.’
Tia tilts her head at him. ‘And you didn’t spot it?’
Ibrahim reaches for an answer, but cannot, at present, find one.
‘These are from Nick Silver,’ says Kendrick.
‘That seems un–’
‘You really don’t see it?’ says Tia.
‘I think, umm,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I think I get the gist, but any input you have, you know, is gratefully received.’
‘Nick Silver’s alive,’ says Tia. ‘And he’s got a message for you.’
58
Elizabeth has learned, in her long, long career, to accept help from any corner. Never be precious. Even so, she would very much like to work out what Tia and Kendrick have spotted before they tell her. She sees Ibrahim poring over the texts too.
‘Is it invisible ink?’ Joyce asks.
‘Of course it’s not invisible ink,’ Elizabeth snaps. Though she takes a quick glance down to double-check.
‘If you take the first letters of each text,’ says Ibrahim, ‘it spells out PNCSJI. Now, if I can just –’