One of the warders doffs his cap to her as she makes her way along the steel walkway to Heather Garbutt’s cell, the clang of her Prada loafers echoing through the cavernous building.
Connie knocks, then swings open the cell door without waiting for a response. This is exactly the Heather she thought it was. Dark hair turning grey, skin loose and pale, but nothing a bit of Botox wouldn’t fix. Connie knows someone who can come in and take a look at her if needs be.
Heather Garbutt, sitting on a plastic chair at a metal desk, gazes up at Connie with unhappy eyes. No shock or surprise. Connie knows the life of a prisoner is one of unexpected visitors and unwanted interruptions. The life of a normal prisoner, at least. Connie has got a doorbell.
‘I don’t have any money,’ says Heather. ‘I don’t have cigarettes. I don’t think I have anything you need.’
Connie sits on the lower bunk of Heather’s bed. ‘You want money? You want cigarettes? I can do that.’
Heather is weighing her up, and Connie knows that is no easy job. On first meeting, people always find Connie affable. Fun even. But Heather has been in prison long enough to smell the danger on her too. So she is wary, and Connie doesn’t blame her one bit. Connie would be terrified in Heather’s shoes.
‘I don’t need anything, thank you. A bit of peace and quiet.’
‘I’ll be gone soon enough. What were you writing?’ asks Connie, tilting her head towards the desk.
‘Nothing,’ says Heather.
‘I’m Connie Johnson,’ says Connie. She gets up, walks behind Heather and starts to knead her shoulders. ‘Good friend, terrible enemy, but you’re in luck, because you and I are going to be friends. You feel very tense, by the way.’
‘Please, I don’t have anything.’ If Heather could make herself any smaller in her chair, she would disappear altogether.
Connie stops the massage, and walks back to the centre of the cell. ‘Everyone has something, Heather. You’re in for fraud, then? Ten years. Must have been a hell of a fraud.’
‘It was,’ says Heather.
‘They make you pay back the money too?’ asks Connie. ‘Knocked a couple of years off? Proceeds of Crime Act?’
‘They asked me to,’ said Heather. ‘But there weren’t any proceeds.’
‘Sure,’ says Connie, laughing. ‘But you’ll be out soon?’
Heather nods.
‘You must be happy about that?’
‘I’m happy when they lock my door at night,’ says Heather.
Connie looks around Heather’s cell. No family photos on the wall. A few prison library books on her desk. One is called Small Pleasures, and it has oranges on the cover. Connie thinks about the flat-screen TV in her own cell. And the mini-bar.
‘What a ball of fun you are,’ Connie says. ‘I can cheer you up. What do you like? Chocolate? Men? Booze? I can get you anything.’
‘Connie, I want to be left alone,’ says Heather. ‘Can you get me that?’
‘I can definitely get you that. I’ll be out of your hair in a heartbeat. I just need you to answer a question.’
‘Where did I hide the money?’
‘No, not where did you hide the money,’ says Connie. ‘Although where did you?’
‘There is no money,’ says Heather. ‘That’s why I’m still here.’
Connie nods. ‘You stick to your story, girl, good for you. No, I need to ask you the other question, Heather.’
Heather looks down at the floor. ‘No.’
‘Chin up, come on, we’re a team. Look at me.’
Heather looks up at Connie.
‘Heather, did you kill Bethany Waites?’
‘I can’t talk to you about that.’
‘Does that mean you did or you didn’t?’
‘It means I can’t talk to you about that. And shame on you for asking.’
Connie looks at Heather Garbutt, eyes back down to the floor, shoulders slumped. Why can’t she charm this woman? It absolutely infuriates Connie when people are resistant to her charms. She simply won’t allow it. Connie starts crying, and that gets Heather looking up all right.
‘Please don’t cry in here,’ says Heather. ‘It’s seen enough tears.’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Connie, trying to wipe the tears away. ‘It’s just you remind me so much of my mum. And we lost her last year.’
Heather looks at her, shakes her head the slightest amount and shrugs. ‘Don’t lie about that sort of thing, Connie.’
Connie stops crying immediately and sighs. ‘All right, we don’t have to be friends, but I’ve been given a job, and I want to do it. Just tell me, and we’re done. Bethany Waites was a journalist, she had worked out what you were doing, which was making millions sitting in a nice little office, doing bugger all. She was about to go public and suddenly someone pushes her car off a cliff. What does that look like to you?’
Heather gives the smallest of shrugs.
‘Come on,’ says Connie. ‘You killed her –’
‘No.’
‘Or you know who did?’
Connie notices that Heather does not say no to this question.
‘You know who killed Bethany? You’re covering for someone?’
‘Please,’ says Heather quietly. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘You’re safe with me, princess,’ says Connie. ‘Why would you cover for someone? They got something on you? I could kill them for you, you know?’
Heather is silent for a long moment. She then gets up, walks to the door of her cell and opens it. She shouts down the corridor to a warder. ‘Mr Edwards, there is someone in my cell. I’m being threatened.’
Connie hears footsteps climbing a metal staircase, and Heather walks slowly back into the cell and sits down again.
‘Sorry,’ Heather says. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
The footsteps from outside reach the doorway and a prison warder appears. ‘OK, let’s get you back to … oh, Connie, it’s you.’
‘Hello, Jonathon. Just visiting my friend Heather.’
‘Right you are,’ says Jonathon. ‘I’ll shut the door and give you a bit of peace.’
The door shuts behind him, and Connie turns back to Heather. ‘Listen, it was worth a try. Just tell me, Heather. It looks like you did it. But you don’t seem like a killer. And there was no evidence. So what are we saying? Your boss did it? Jack Mason? I met him at a do once. Someone was trying to stab him in the car park.’
Heather is having a long think.
‘It’s just you and me, Heather,’ says Connie, putting a hand on Heather’s shoulder. ‘No one will ever know. Who are you covering for? Jack Mason? You scared of him?’
‘You said you’ve been given a job?’
Connie nods.
‘By whom?’
‘No one you need to worry about.’
‘Don’t tell me who I need to worry about,’ says Heather. Connie likes this. Heather is showing a bit of heart at last.
‘You’re right, fair point. Heather, listen, I’m a very difficult person.’
Heather nods.
‘And I will be back here every day for the rest of your sentence until you tell me. Who killed Bethany Waites?’
‘You’ll get the same answer every time.’
‘I can be patient. And next time I’ll bring you something. KitKat? Coke Zero? A gun?’
Heather gives her first, small smile. This is more like it, thinks Connie. Finally.
‘I like knitting,’ says Heather. ‘I have a godson who has just had a baby. I’d like to knit something, but –’
‘But they don’t trust you with needles? Don’t blame them. Boy or girl?’
‘Boy,’ says Heather. ‘Mason, of all things.’
‘I’ll bring you a package straight away, blue wool, everything,’ says Connie. ‘And we’ll see how you’ve got on tomorrow.’
‘Thank you,’ says Heather. ‘I find it hard to trust people. It takes time.’
‘Well, you must never trust me, but the one thing we’ve both got is time,’ says Connie. ‘I’ll just keep coming back. I like to get a job done.’
Connie stands to leave. She reaches out a hand, and Heather takes it and shakes it.
‘I will quite look forward to seeing you again, Connie,’ says Heather. ‘I still won’t tell you what you want to know though.’
‘We’ll see about that, gorgeous,’ says Connie, and gives a little goodbye wink.
17
Thursday. The Jigsaw Room.
‘But your lights were off all night,’ says Joyce.