The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club, #3)(39)

‘Someone will kill me.’ (Someone will kill you, Joyce. And I won’t allow that to happen.)

‘You really are ridiculous sometimes,’ says Joyce. ‘Since when do you do what you’re told? Who is telling you to kill Viktor?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘MI5?’

‘It would probably be MI6, Joyce, with respect. But no. A tall Swedish man.’

‘They’re all tall in Sweden,’ says Joyce. ‘It was on The One Show. So is he paying you?’

‘No, just the threat of death.’ (Your death, my lovely, kind, hugely over-talkative friend.)

‘OK, well, I’m assuming I don’t have the full picture, but I suppose I’m here to help, that’s what best friends are for.’

‘I rather think we are best friends, Joyce, aren’t we? It hadn’t really occurred to me.’

‘Of course we’re best friends,’ says Joyce. ‘Who did you think my best friend was? Ron?’

Elizabeth smiles again. Has she had a best friend before? Penny? Perhaps, but, really, they just shared a common hobby and a mutual respect. She’s had husbands and lovers. Field partners, cell mates, bodyguards. But a best friend?

‘Wait, is Stoke in Staffordshire?’ says Joyce.

‘Yes,’ says Elizabeth.

‘Then I have been to Staffordshire. We did a coach trip to Stoke, years back. Lovely ceramics. I bought a pot with Gerry’s name on it. It was spelt with a “J”, but it was the closest they had.’

‘Glad to get that cleared up,’ says Elizabeth.

‘Where does Viktor live?’

‘Somewhere you’re going to like very much,’ says Elizabeth.

Joyce nods. ‘You’re not really going to kill him, Elizabeth? I don’t think you’d bring me if you were really going to kill him?’

Elizabeth studies Joyce for a moment. ‘Who on earth do you think I would bring? Ron?’

She hoped that might make her friend laugh, but, instead, Joyce looks scared.

The train begins to slow, as it approaches London.





33





‘They are going to kill me,’ reads Ibrahim. ‘Only Connie Johnson can help me now.’

‘She was frightened, I can tell you that,’ says Connie Johnson, her feet up on the desk. They have been allowed a private meeting room, because of the importance of ‘good mental health’.

‘Frightened,’ repeats Ibrahim. ‘Frightened of you?’

Connie shakes her head. ‘I know when people are frightened of me. Frightened of someone though.’

‘Perhaps you like it when people are frightened of you?’ Ibrahim is making notes on his pad. ‘What would you say to that?’

‘Are we doing therapy?’ says Connie. ‘Or are we investigating a murder?’

‘I thought we could mix the two,’ says Ibrahim. ‘In therapy you must never waste a crisis.’

‘People being frightened is not my thing,’ says Connie. ‘Thank you for my Grazia by the way, it’s perfect. I don’t get a kick out of people being scared of me, I just do it because it’s easy to monetize.’

‘So who was she frightened of,’ says Ibrahim, ‘do you think?’

Connie shrugs and sips at the cappuccino a warder has made for her. It even has chocolate sprinkles. ‘Felt like she had a secret she was scared to tell.’

‘A secret that she seems to believe you know,’ says Ibrahim. ‘“Only Connie Johnson can help me.” What did she say to you? She gave you a clue, perhaps?’

‘If she did, I didn’t pick up on it,’ says Connie. ‘But I’ll keep thinking.’

‘If you would,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Do you have secrets, Connie?’

‘Nah,’ says Connie. ‘The combination to the safe in my lock-up, I suppose, but I don’t think that counts, does it? What are your secrets?’

‘That’s for another day,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Let’s start from the beginning. When you heard what had happened –’

‘With the knitting needles?’

‘With the knitting needles, yes,’ says Ibrahim. ‘What did you think?’

Connie takes a pause, and breaks off a piece of the KitKat another warder had brought in. On a tray. ‘Well, first off, I admired the ingenuity. Not easy to kill someone with knitting needles.’

‘Agreed,’ says Ibrahim.

‘And, second, I thought I shouldn’t have given her the knitting needles,’ says Connie. ‘But you can’t be ruled by hindsight, can you?’

‘That is a wise thing to say.’

‘Too late for her now,’ says Connie, draining the last of her cappuccino with a wince. ‘If I look into it a bit more, do you think you could bring me a new coffee-maker? I’ve got a Nespresso, but I’d like a De’Longhi.’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ says Ibrahim.

Connie nods. ‘Well, try your best. Here’s the only thing I can remember: when I went into her cell, Heather was writing something.’

Ibrahim stops writing and looks up at her. ‘What sort of thing?’

Connie shrugs. ‘She hid it away pretty quickly. Worth looking for though. They’ll have bagged up all her stuff.’