The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club, #3)(14)

She settles back in her chair. Your move, Ibrahim.

‘He told you to come here, did he?’ asks Connie. ‘You’re working for him?’

‘No, I’m working for Elizabeth Best, of MI5. Or MI6. One of them.’

Connie takes this in. ‘So MI5, or 6, want me to talk to Heather Garbutt?’

‘Indirectly, yes,’ says Ibrahim.

‘And will this help me in court? Can a gang of men in balaclavas bust me out of the dock?’

‘No, I’m afraid not,’ says Ibrahim. Though it occurs to him that they probably could. Elizabeth would know. Best not to promise anything.

‘Ibrahim,’ says Connie, ‘I don’t like being lied to.’

‘No,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I apologize.’

‘And,’ continues Connie, ‘it’s important that you know that the moment I’m out, I’m going to kill your friend Ron Ritchie for landing me in here.’

‘Noted.’

Connie thinks for a moment. ‘And do you know Bogdan?’

‘I do,’ admits Ibrahim.

‘I’m going to kill him too. Will you tell them both for me?’

‘I will pass on the message, yes.’

‘Is Bogdan seeing anyone, do you know?’

‘I don’t think so,’ says Ibrahim.

Connie nods. A prison warder approaches the table.

‘Time’s up, Johnson, that’s your twenty.’

Connie turns to him. ‘Five more minutes.’

‘You don’t run this jail,’ says the warder. ‘We do.’

‘Five more minutes, and I’ll get your son an iPhone,’ says Connie.

The warder thinks for a moment. ‘Ten minutes, and he wants an iPad.’

‘Thank you, Officer,’ says Connie and turns back to Ibrahim. ‘I’m so bored here, let’s do it. Give me everything you’ve got on Heather Garbutt. I’m still going to kill your friends, but until that happens let’s all agree to get along and have a bit of fun.’

Ibrahim nods. ‘You know you could just choose not to kill my friends, Connie?’

‘How do you mean?’ asks Connie, genuinely confused.

‘All that happened here is that they outsmarted you. Is that such a bad thing? They took advantage of your greed. Is your self-esteem so fragile that you can’t be outsmarted once in a while?’

Connie laughs. ‘But it’s my job, Ibrahim, it’s how I make my money. Surely you get that, you’re a bright man.’

‘Thank you,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I once took an IQ test, and –’

‘Say I didn’t kill Ron and Bogdan,’ Connie cuts across. ‘Let’s workshop that. Every chancer in Fairhaven would think they can take me on. Do you know my company slogan?’

‘I wasn’t even aware you had one,’ says Ibrahim.

‘Immediate and brutal retaliation,’ says Connie.

‘That makes sense,’ admits Ibrahim. ‘Are there no ethical drug dealers?’

‘In Brighton there’s a fair-trade cocaine dealer. He gets all his wraps stamped and everything. Cocaine from family-run farms, no pesticides.’

‘Well, that seems like a start,’ says Ibrahim.

‘He still threw someone off a multi-storey car park for stealing money from him.’

‘Small steps,’ says Ibrahim. ‘You know, perhaps I could bring Ron in to see you? You might not want to kill him quite so much if you really got to know him.’ Ibrahim thinks this through for a moment. Actually, Ron often has the opposite effect on people.

Connie considers this. ‘You’re interesting. Would you like a job?’

‘I have a job,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I’m a psychiatrist.’

‘A proper job though?’ says Connie.

‘No, thank you,’ says Ibrahim. Though it would be fun to work for a crime organization. All that planning, smoky backrooms, men wearing sunglasses indoors.

‘Then would you like to be my psychiatrist?’

Ibrahim takes this in for a moment. That would actually be a lot of fun. And interesting. ‘What would you want from a psychiatrist, Connie? What do you think you need?’

Connie thinks. ‘Learn to exploit weaknesses in my enemies, I guess. How to manipulate juries, how to spot an undercover police officer?’

‘Umm …’

‘Why I always pick the wrong men?’

‘That’s more my sort of thing,’ says Ibrahim. ‘If someone asks for my help, I always start with one question. Are you happy?’

Connie thinks. ‘Well, I’m in prison.’

‘But that aside?’

‘I mean. Maybe I could be happier? You know, five per cent. I’m OK.’

‘I can help with that. Five per cent, ten, fifty, whatever it might be. That’s my job. I can’t fix you, but I can make you run a little better.’

‘You can’t fix me?’

‘Humans can’t be fixed,’ says Ibrahim. ‘We’re not lawnmowers. I wish we were.’

‘Might be fun, mightn’t it?’ says Connie. ‘Unburden all my secrets. What do you charge? To buy suits like that?’

‘Sixty pounds an hour. Or less if someone can’t afford it.’