The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club, #3)(13)

‘I do,’ says Connie, then looks around her. ‘Though I am in prison, aren’t I, Ibrahim Arif? So I’m not perfect.’

‘Who among us is?’ asks Ibrahim. ‘It is healthy to admit that to ourselves. I wonder if you might like a task, Connie?’

‘A task? You need coke? You don’t look like you need coke. You want someone murdered? You look like you could afford it.’

‘Nothing illegal at all,’ says Ibrahim. He absolutely loves talking to criminals, he can’t deny it. It’s the same with famous people too. He loved talking to Mike Waghorn. ‘Quite the opposite.’

‘The opposite of illegal, OK. And what’s in it for me?’

‘For you, nothing at all,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I just suspect it’s something you’d be rather good at. And therefore you’d rather enjoy.’

‘I mean, I’m quite busy,’ says Connie, smiling.

‘I see that,’ says Ibrahim, smiling back. Connie’s smile looks real, and so his is real in return.

‘OK, what’s the task?’ says Connie. ‘I like your cheek, and I like your suit – let’s talk business.’

Ibrahim quietens a little, keeps his voice flat and under the radar. ‘There’s an inmate here called Heather Garbutt. Do you know her?’

‘Is she the Pevensey Strangler?’

‘I don’t think so, no,’ says Ibrahim.

‘There’s a Heather on D-Wing,’ says Connie. ‘Older, looks clever. Like a teacher who robbed a bank?’

‘Let’s assume that’s her for now,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Do you think you could befriend her? Perhaps find something out for me?’

‘Sounds like the sort of thing I could do,’ says Connie. Ibrahim can already see her mind is in motion. ‘What do you need to find out?’

‘I need to find out if she murdered a television reporter called Bethany Waites in 2013. By pushing her car over a cliff.’

‘Cool,’ says Connie, a small grin creeping onto her face. ‘I’ll just ask her. Nice cup of tea, isn’t it mild for the time of year, and did you murder someone?’

‘Well, I’ll leave it up to you how you approach the question,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Your area, not mine. And maybe she didn’t do it – that would also be useful information.’

‘I bet she did, though,’ says Connie. ‘I’ve never pushed a car off a cliff, always wanted to.’

Ibrahim raises his palms. ‘There’s still time, I’m sure.’

‘And there’s really nothing in it for me?’ asks Connie. ‘You can’t smuggle in a SIM card for me or something?’

‘I don’t think I could,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I could Google how to do it, though, and give it a go.’

‘Don’t stress, I’ve got plenty. And you don’t want to know how they get smuggled in.’

Ibrahim thinks he will Google it anyway. He is really enjoying himself. He hasn’t been out much since his mugging, but, bit by bit, he is regaining his confidence, and bit by bit he is feeling his old self return. There are scars, yes, but that at least means the bleeding has stopped. And it’s nice to remember he’s good at this sort of thing. At reading people. At understanding trouble, and redirecting it. He likes Connie, and she likes him. Although one has to be careful: she is a ruthless killer and, without wishing to be judgemental about it, that is fairly bad. He will have good news to report back to the gang later though. He starts thinking about SIM cards. They are very small, Ibrahim knows that, so he wonders how you … Ibrahim realizes that Connie has just said something, and that he has missed it. That is unlike him. Very unlike him. Time to sharpen up.

‘I’m sorry,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I didn’t catch that?’

‘You were off in dreamland, Ibrahim,’ says Connie. ‘Let me ask you again. As a psychiatrist, what do you think motivates me?’

This is easy meat for Ibrahim. Sure, we are all different, all unique snowflakes leading unique lives, but we are all the same under the bonnet.

‘Momentum, I would say. A desire for movement and change.’ Ibrahim steeples his fingers. ‘Some people need everything to stay the same – I am a little like that. If they changed the music on the Shipping Forecast, for example, I would hyperventilate. But some people need everything to change. You need everything to change. That chaos is where you are able to hide yourself.’

‘Hmm,’ says Connie. ‘How wise, Mr Ibrahim Arif. But do you think honesty is important to me?’

Where’s this going? Ibrahim has a sinking feeling. ‘I imagine so. In your line of work, honesty is, ironically, paramount.’

‘You imagine so, do you?’ asks Connie. ‘Where did you get my name, mate? How did you hear about Connie Johnson? Who sent you?’

‘A client,’ says Ibrahim. He is a bad liar, and tries to avoid lies whenever he can. But he’s had to lie more and more often since he met Elizabeth, Joyce and Ron.

‘Because I’ve heard your name before,’ says Connie. ‘Ibrahim Arif. Do you know where I heard that name?’

Ibrahim is all out of lies, as Connie leans over and whispers in his ear, ‘From your mate Ron Ritchie, the day I got arrested.’