‘Simply that,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Another pair of eyes.’
‘If you were to come into possession of a large amount of heroin –’ asks Joyce.
‘How large?’ interrupts Samantha.
‘A hundred thousand pounds’ worth, or so,’ says Joyce. ‘Who might you think of selling it to? Are there shadowy figures you can call?’
‘Not off the top of my head,’ said Samantha.
‘There is a suggestion,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And only a suggestion, that if Kuldesh were of a mind to sell the heroin, he might call you.’
‘Indeed?’ says Samantha, sipping her tea. ‘And where does this suggestion spring from?’
‘Kuldesh made a call to an untraceable number,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Shortly before he passed away. And, for reasons best known to yourself, perfectly innocent, I’m sure, you yourself have an untraceable number. So, with that in mind, we wondered if you might be the shadowy figure we seek?’
‘Mmm,’ says Samantha. ‘That’s quite a leap. And a slanderous one at that.’
‘How do you make your money?’ Joyce asks, blowing on her tea to cool it down. ‘If you don’t mind me being nosy?’
‘Antiques,’ says Samantha.
‘We were looking at your house on Google,’ says Joyce. ‘There must be an awful lot of money in hat stands.’
‘I shall be doing some Googling of my own when you leave,’ says Samantha.
‘Any sidelines?’ asks Ibrahim.
‘I teach line dancing at the Seniors’ Club,’ says Samantha. ‘Unpaid though.’
‘Anyway,’ says Joyce, her tea finally cool enough to take a sip. ‘Heroin.’
The shop door opens, and a large man in a padded jacket and woolly hat fills the open doorway and then stoops inside.
‘Garth, darling,’ says Samantha. ‘This is Joyce and Ibrahim.’
‘And Alan,’ says Joyce.
Garth looks at Joyce and Ibrahim, expressionless, then looks back at Samantha, and shrugs. Alan makes a beeline for this exciting new man, but if Garth even notices Alan jumping up at him he doesn’t show it.
‘We hear this is your Battenberg,’ says Joyce, cake fork in hand. ‘It really is delicious.’
‘Stoneground flour,’ says Garth.
‘Garth, dearest,’ says Samantha. ‘Joyce here was just wondering who might buy a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of heroin?’
Garth looks directly at Joyce. ‘You’re selling heroin?’
‘No,’ giggles Joyce. ‘A friend of ours. Though give it a couple of years and I wouldn’t put it past us.’
‘Someone got himself killed,’ says Samantha. ‘Some deal or other gone wrong. The heroin went missing, and we’re being canvassed for our expert opinion.’
‘Don’t know nuthin’ about it,’ says Garth. ‘Funny question for a Thursday.’
‘Isn’t it?’ says Samantha.
Alan is absolutely infuriated that Garth won’t pay him attention. He’s bringing out every trick he has, but Garth won’t even look at him. Garth is thinking, like a mighty super-computer blinking into life. He fixes Joyce with a stare.
‘You know where the heroin is now, old lady?’
‘Joyce,’ says Joyce. ‘But no. Floating around somewhere. I suppose someone must have it. Someone must, mustn’t they? Wouldn’t you say, Garth?’
‘It’ll be somewhere, for sure,’ says Garth. ‘You got any idea? You got an inkling?’
‘Who would you call, Garth?’ asks Joyce. ‘If you suddenly had a box full of heroin in your drawer?’
‘I would call the police,’ says Garth, then nods to Samantha. ‘Wouldn’t I, honey?’
‘Anything illegal,’ agrees Samantha. ‘Straight to the police. Trust them with our lives.’ Joyce sips her tea.
‘Do you suppose you’re close to finding the heroin?’ asks Samantha. ‘Another cup of tea, Joyce?’
‘I don’t have the bladder for two cups of tea these days,’ says Joyce. ‘I used to be a camel in that respect.’
‘We will find it,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I remain confident of that. If you want my considered opinion –’
Garth, still being leaped at by Alan, turns away from Ibrahim and addresses Joyce. ‘This dog is a million bucks, by the way.’
‘You can stroke him if you’d like?’ says Joyce. ‘He’s called Alan.’
Garth shakes his head. ‘You gotta play hard to get with dogs. They gotta earn it off you.’
‘Absolutely,’ says Ibrahim, surreptitiously putting a Polo mint back into his pocket.
‘Ibrahim, I have a question,’ says Samantha. ‘The man who brought the heroin to the shop? You wouldn’t happen to know who that was?’
‘We do,’ says Ibrahim. ‘In fact, we’ve met him. He seemed agreeable enough, if prone to mood swings. Though I suppose that’s the nature of the business, isn’t it? Selling drugs is not like selling shoes, is it? Or selling antiques. It must attract a certain sort of –’
Garth holds up a hand to stop Ibrahim. ‘I need you to talk less. I have a low boredom threshold. I was born with it, the doctors can’t do nothing.’
‘Understood,’ says Ibrahim. ‘A low boredom threshold can often mean –’
Garth holds up his hand again. Ibrahim, with some difficulty, restrains himself. Annoying, because he had an interesting point to make. So often people will cut him off when he is merely in the foothills of an observation. It is very frustrating. What a lot the world misses out on by not giving Ibrahim enough time to really get into high gear. There is certainly an attention deficit in today’s society. The overwhelming stimuli of the modern world have all but destroyed … Ibrahim realizes that someone has just asked a question.
‘I’m sorry?’ he says.
‘I was asking, what is the gentleman’s name?’ Samantha is cutting another slice of Garth’s Battenberg.
‘Mr Dominic Holt,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Of Liverpool.’
‘Have you heard of him, perhaps?’ asks Joyce.
‘Dominic Holt?’ Samantha looks to Garth. Garth shakes his head.
‘We haven’t,’ says Samantha. ‘Sorry.’
But Ibrahim, gladly accepting a second slice of Battenberg, would bet his Petworth parking space that they are both lying.
30
‘Elizabeth has asked me to speak with you, Stephen,’ says Viktor. ‘Whisky?’
‘I shouldn’t, I’m driving, and you know how they are these days,’ says Stephen.
Stephen and Viktor sit on a wide, white semi-circular sofa in Viktor’s huge penthouse apartment. London is laid out before them through the panoramic windows. Elizabeth and Bogdan have moved outside, and are sitting on Viktor’s terrace, wrapped up against the cold.
‘Stephen, you have dementia,’ says Viktor. ‘I think you know?’
‘I, uh, there’s been talk of that, hasn’t there? I’m not completely out of it. Still got some juice in the battery.’
‘Elizabeth gives you this letter each morning?’ Viktor holds Stephen’s letter out to him. Stephen takes it, casts his eye over it.
‘Yes, I know this letter.’
‘You believe it?’
‘I think, yes, I think that’s my only option.’
‘It is a very brave letter,’ says Viktor. ‘Very wise. Very sad. Elizabeth says you are not sure what to do, the two of you?’
‘Remind me who you are again?’
‘Viktor.’
‘Yes, I know you are Viktor, it was “Viktor this” and “Viktor that” on the way up here. Who are you though? Why are we here?’
‘I was a high-ranking KGB official,’ says Viktor. ‘Now I am, I suppose, a kind of referee for international criminals. I solve disputes.’
‘And you know my wife how?’