The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club #3)(40)

‘And what she was writing?’ says Ibrahim. ‘It wouldn’t have been the note she left?’

Connie shakes her head. ‘It was lots of writing. She was scribbling away.’

‘So what do you think, Connie? Why kill Heather Garbutt, and why kill her now?’

‘What I think is this,’ says Connie. ‘I think this doesn’t feel like the therapy I’m paying for. This feels like I’m an unpaid member of your gang.’

‘Well, we are all unpaid, but your point is valid,’ says Ibrahim. ‘It is a legitimate observation. Let’s talk a little about you. Would you like to start, or shall I?’

‘You start,’ says Connie.

Ibrahim thinks for a moment. ‘I think you are unhappy.’

‘Wrong,’ says Connie.

‘I think you make other people unhappy,’ says Ibrahim.

‘I’ll give you that,’ says Connie.

‘So you know you make other people unhappy, and yet you are happy? It must be hard to make peace with that fact?’

‘Other people are their own responsibility,’ says Connie.

‘Connie. You are very bright, you are hard-working. You spot opportunities. I think it is fair to say you are more powerful than many other people.’

Connie drums her fingers on the table. ‘Maybe.’

‘So therefore you are a bully,’ says Ibrahim. ‘If you are strong, you have a choice in life: to protect the weak, or to prey on the weak. You use the strengths you have been given to prey on the weak.’

‘So does everyone,’ says Connie.

‘I don’t,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Only sociopaths do.’

‘Well, then, I’m a sociopath,’ says Connie. ‘You should try it, it’s very lucrative.’

‘You sensed Heather Garbutt was frightened, Connie. And you sensed she was unable to tell the truth. And I think you cared about that.’

Connie pauses. ‘Not especially.’

‘You didn’t care?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘“Not really, no.” Yet you think I should find out what Heather was writing? You think maybe there’s more to her death than meets the eye?’

‘Maybe,’ says Connie.

‘I have good news and bad news for you, Connie,’ says Ibrahim, shutting his pad.

‘Enlighten me,’ says Connie.

‘The good news is that you care. So you are not a sociopath.’

‘And the bad news?’

‘The bad news is that means, at some point, you are going to have to come to terms with everything you’ve done in your life.’

Connie stares at Ibrahim for a long while. Ibrahim stares back.

‘You’re a fraud,’ says Connie, finally. ‘Nice suits, I’ll give you that, but a fraud.’

‘Perhaps so.’ There is a series of beeps on Ibrahim’s phone.

‘And that’s our hour up. More next week, or is that us done? It’s always your choice. Perhaps I am too much of a fraud for you?’

Connie gathers up her magazine and places the rest of the KitKat in her Hermès clutch bag. She stands, and holds out her hand to Ibrahim.

‘More next week,’ she says. ‘Please.’

‘As you wish,’ say Ibrahim.

‘I’ll keep digging for you,’ says Connie.

‘And I shall do the same for you,’ says Ibrahim.





34





‘What did you make of Pauline?’ asks Elizabeth.

‘I like her,’ says Joyce.

‘Well, I like her too,’ says Elizabeth. ‘But what did you make of her?’

‘I asked her about the comments from the other day,’ says Joyce. ‘About Bethany’s clothes. But she batted them away. And she said she had no memory of the notes.’

‘It’s almost as if she were trying to lead us to something,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Or away from something.’

‘She agreed we should talk to Fiona Clemence though,’ says Joyce. ‘She thought that was a tremendous idea.’

Elizabeth raises a doubtful eyebrow to her friend.

The black cab pulls in, and Elizabeth and Joyce step out. Elizabeth takes a good look around. Who is watching? There are guards at the door of the American Embassy up ahead, and there’s a group of young women going through the revolving doors of a publisher’s building on her left. Looking up, she can see plenty of windows, plenty of places in which to hide and watch. A sniper’s paradise. Joyce is also looking around, but with an entirely different focus.

‘There’s a swimming pool!’ says Joyce.

‘I know,’ confirms Elizabeth.

‘In the sky,’ says Joyce, looking up and shielding her eyes from the bright winter sun.

‘I told you you’d like it,’ says Elizabeth.

The swimming pool runs between the tops of two tall, residential buildings. Its glass floor makes it seem suspended in mid-air. Elizabeth is unimpressed. It’s just engineering plus money. Perhaps some imagination too, but she bets they copied it from somewhere. Perhaps if someone had built it for the public to use, she would marvel at it. But you can only swim in the sky if you have money, and if you have money you can do pretty much anything, so forgive her for not getting excited.