The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club #3)(32)

‘That was most enjoyable,’ says Ibrahim, walking in with the mint tea. ‘Most enjoyable. You have a rare talent.’

‘You just write one word, then another, and you pray that no one finds you out,’ says Andrew Everton. He had once heard Lee Child say something similar, and had liked it. ‘You have a lot of files. Is that a work thing?’

Ibrahim settles onto a sofa. ‘A life’s work, yes. Well, many lives. I’m a psychiatrist, Chief Constable.’

‘Call me Andrew,’ says Andrew Everton, well aware that Ibrahim is a psychiatrist. ‘I’m afraid I need something from you, and so I want to appear as unthreatening as possible.’

Ibrahim chuckles. ‘A fine tactic. Was the reading a ruse? Simply to come and see me?’

‘Partly. I saw you on television,’ says Andrew Everton. Saw him on television, dug into his files. ‘With your friends. I recognized you. So two birds with one stone really,’ he says, blowing on his tea. ‘I wanted an informal chat with you, and I also thought perhaps I might sell a few books.’

‘I’m certain you will,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Chief Constable Catherine Howard is very tough. Haunted, but tough.’

‘I describe her as “teak-tough” in Given in Evidence.’

‘Quite so, Andrew,’ says Ibrahim. ‘“Teak-tough”. Enough of literature though. You say you recognized me? I am intrigued.’

‘A couple of days ago, you made a visit to Darwell Prison, I believe?’ Andrew Everton sees all the details of Connie’s visitors. Lovely close-up from the prison security cameras too.

‘Ah,’ says Ibrahim.

‘Ah,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘You gave your profession as “journalist”, though I could find no trace of you in relation to that. You visited a prisoner named Connie Johnson. A particularly brutal drug baron, currently on remand for a number of very serious crimes. You stayed with her for around half an hour, chatting, and I quote an official report here, “animatedly at times”. Correct?’

‘Well, I would say drug baroness, although I must learn to degender job titles,’ says Ibrahim. ‘But, other than that, correct.’

‘I wonder if I might ask what you and Connie Johnson spoke about?’

Ibrahim considers this. ‘I wonder if I might ask, in return, what business that is of yours?’

‘You might also be aware that another prisoner, Heather Garbutt, was found dead shortly afterwards, Mr Arif. And that Connie’s name was mentioned in a note found in her cell. That makes it my business.’

‘Indeed. Crime, and excellent writing, are your business,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Cigar?’

Andrew Everton shakes his head; he is having none of it. ‘Connie Johnson is possibly, in fact probably, the most dangerous woman my force has ever had to deal with. With luck she will be convicted and sent to prison for a very long time. If you jeopardize that in any way, I could make life very difficult for you, so I would counsel against it. If you’re in a position to help me, however, I would strongly recommend you do so.’

‘I understand your position,’ says Ibrahim. ‘That is admirably clear. I see why people like you. I see why you are Chief Constable. In America they sometimes vote for their chiefs of police, did you know that? It’s one of many idiosyn–’

‘So I’m going to ask you politely, one more time,’ interrupts Andrew Everton. ‘Why were you visiting Connie Johnson, and what did you speak about?’

Ibrahim drums his fingers on the arm of his sofa. ‘You place me in a quandary, Andrew. If I might still call you Andrew?’

Andrew Everton nods, and takes a sip of his tea.

‘You see, when I have a client,’ says Ibrahim, ‘everything we speak about is covered by patient-confidentiality laws.’

‘She is your client?’ asks Andrew Everton.

‘Well, that’s just it,’ says Ibrahim. ‘At the start of the meeting she wasn’t. But by the end of the meeting she was. So where does that leave us? Can I tell you what I spoke about, or can I not? Is the confidentiality retrospective, as it were? A thorny one, Andrew, no?’

‘A thorny one,’ nods Andrew. ‘Let me see if I can help with your dilemma.’

‘You are most kind,’ says Ibrahim.

‘The gentleman you were sitting with in the reading …’ says Andrew Everton.

‘Ron,’ says Ibrahim.

‘I also saw him on the television,’ says Andrew Everton, ‘so I’m aware you’re close. You will know, as I do, that today a pungent air of cannabis hung about him.’

‘I will take your word for that,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Ron always smells of something.’

‘You’ll also know that searches for cannabis in my force, and in most other forces, disproportionately fall on young black men. Something I have tried to address in the last few years, with some, if not enough success. So believe me it would really help my statistics if I were to sanction a drugs search on an old, white man. I can have officers in Ron’s flat within an hour.’

‘Goodness,’ says Ibrahim. ‘That’s very forthright.’

‘Would Ron like a team of officers rooting through his underwear?’

‘I don’t think anyone would like that,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Least of all the officers. But, also, I don’t think you’d do it. Ron would kick up a fuss, we’d all be there to take photos. I might even get our friend Mike Waghorn to take an interest. All too visible and messy, I think.’