The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club #3)(47)

‘Do you smell of cannabis, Ron?’ asks Ibrahim.

‘I might do,’ concedes Ron.

‘I’m of half a mind to declare this meeting unofficial, you know? Unless I’m given a good reason.’

‘Well within your rights, old son,’ says Ron. ‘You give ’em hell.’

‘Thanks, Ron, I will,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Why do you smell of cannabis all the time now?’

‘Pauline,’ says Ron.

‘Oh, I see,’ says Ibrahim. ‘That covers it.’

‘It’s a lot stronger than I’m used to,’ says Ron. ‘I keep falling asleep on her bathroom floor.’

Ibrahim presses the buzzer to Joyce’s building, and the friends are let in.

‘Lift or stairs?’ asks Ibrahim.

‘Lift? Why not?’ says Ron. Ibrahim has noticed that he is trying to hide a limp. Still not using his stick.

They exit the lift, knock on the first door on the right, and Joyce lets them in. She gives them both a hug in turn.

‘Ooh, Ron, are you wearing perfume?’ asks Joyce. ‘It reminds me of something Joanna used to wear.’

Ron grunts, and takes off his coat. Alan has approached him with interest, and starts to lick his hand with professional thoroughness. Ibrahim spots Elizabeth seated in the living room.

‘Now, forgive me, but I must speak –’

‘Must you?’ asks Elizabeth.

‘I must. Good morning, Elizabeth. And a very early morning, if I might be allowed the observation.’

‘And to you,’ replies Elizabeth, motioning for him to continue.

‘We are the Thursday Murder Club, that is not news to anybody. We meet at eleven a.m. each Thursday in the Jigsaw Room. Let me take those three data points one by one –’

‘Cup of tea?’ asks Joyce.

‘Thank you, Joyce, yes,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Point one, we meet on Thursdays. On this point I am satisfied, it is indeed Thursday, we need discuss this no further –’

‘Ron, you absolutely reek of very high-grade skunk,’ says Elizabeth.

‘It stays in the hair,’ says Ron.

‘Point two, we meet at eleven a.m., and here, you see, our paths diverge, as it is eight a.m. Is there a reason, is there an explanation? None has been forthcoming.’

‘How is Pauline?’ calls Joyce from the kitchen as she fills the kettle.

Ron grunts a non-committal reply.

‘And from there onto point three,’ continues Ibrahim. ‘We meet in the Jigsaw Room, and, without putting the point too bluntly, I see no jigsaws.’

‘Skunk is very good for arthritis,’ says Elizabeth.

‘I don’t have arthritis,’ says Ron.

‘And I’ve never seen the classified files on the assassination of JFK,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Pull the other one, Ron, it’s got bells on.’

‘So before we go any further,’ continues Ibrahim, ‘I want to know if there is a good reason – and my definition of “good” will be strict – as to why we are meeting here and now. Because it plays havoc with my spreadsheet.’

Alan lollops into the room from the hallway, tail wagging, and makes an immediate beeline for Ibrahim. He starts tugging at Ibrahim’s sleeve.

‘Here is another man who is confused,’ says Ibrahim, now ruffling Alan’s head. ‘Another man who understands the importance of consistency. A man who knows it is walk time, not meeting time.’

Alan lies on the floor and exposes his belly for Ibrahim to tickle. Joyce puts his cup of tea on a side table.

‘Thank you, Joyce. And so my point is this. I was expecting to meet at eleven a.m. to talk through the latest developments in the Bethany Waites case. To discuss, perhaps, the note left by Heather Garbutt. To hear from Ron about Jack Mason. I even have some exciting news for you from my source at Darwell Prison. Joyce, is Alan’s collar a little tight?’

‘No,’ says Joyce. ‘Unless you know better than the Supervet.’

‘So, unless something fairly spectacular has happened in the last twenty-four hours, and I think I might have spotted that, I see no reason why we can’t move the meeting back to its regular time, and its regular place.’

‘You would spot it?’ says Elizabeth. ‘If something had happened?’

‘I am observant, yes,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Now, I want to show you something …’

‘How many pairs of shoes were there in the hall?’

‘I am not observant of shoes,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I am not perfect, Elizabeth.’

‘Why are we meeting at eight a.m.?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘And why are we meeting at Joyce’s? You want a good reason?’

‘Were there four pairs?’ asks Ibrahim. ‘That’s my first guess.’

‘A number of days ago,’ starts Elizabeth, ‘while you were fluttering your eyelashes at Connie Johnson, and Ron was, I don’t know, being seduced perhaps …’

Ron raises his cup of tea in a toast to that. ‘I’ve played a bit of snooker as well though.’

‘… I was kidnapped, alongside Stephen, and driven to, of all places, Staffordshire. Not now, Alan, I’m talking. After regaining consciousness I met a very large gentleman we are calling the Viking, real identity as yet unknown, but we are working on it. He had a proposition for me. I was to kill a man named Viktor Illyich, a former KGB station head. And, if I failed to kill him, or I chose not to, I would be killed.’