‘Quite so, Andrew,’ says Ibrahim. ‘“Teak-tough”. Enough of literature though. You say you recognized me? I am intrigued.’
‘A couple of days ago, you made a visit to Darwell Prison, I believe?’ Andrew Everton sees all the details of Connie’s visitors. Lovely close-up from the prison security cameras too.
‘Ah,’ says Ibrahim.
‘Ah,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘You gave your profession as “journalist”, though I could find no trace of you in relation to that. You visited a prisoner named Connie Johnson. A particularly brutal drug baron, currently on remand for a number of very serious crimes. You stayed with her for around half an hour, chatting, and I quote an official report here, “animatedly at times”. Correct?’
‘Well, I would say drug baroness, although I must learn to degender job titles,’ says Ibrahim. ‘But, other than that, correct.’
‘I wonder if I might ask what you and Connie Johnson spoke about?’
Ibrahim considers this. ‘I wonder if I might ask, in return, what business that is of yours?’
‘You might also be aware that another prisoner, Heather Garbutt, was found dead shortly afterwards, Mr Arif. And that Connie’s name was mentioned in a note found in her cell. That makes it my business.’
‘Indeed. Crime, and excellent writing, are your business,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Cigar?’
Andrew Everton shakes his head; he is having none of it. ‘Connie Johnson is possibly, in fact probably, the most dangerous woman my force has ever had to deal with. With luck she will be convicted and sent to prison for a very long time. If you jeopardize that in any way, I could make life very difficult for you, so I would counsel against it. If you’re in a position to help me, however, I would strongly recommend you do so.’
‘I understand your position,’ says Ibrahim. ‘That is admirably clear. I see why people like you. I see why you are Chief Constable. In America they sometimes vote for their chiefs of police, did you know that? It’s one of many idiosyn–’
‘So I’m going to ask you politely, one more time,’ interrupts Andrew Everton. ‘Why were you visiting Connie Johnson, and what did you speak about?’
Ibrahim drums his fingers on the arm of his sofa. ‘You place me in a quandary, Andrew. If I might still call you Andrew?’
Andrew Everton nods, and takes a sip of his tea.
‘You see, when I have a client,’ says Ibrahim, ‘everything we speak about is covered by patient-confidentiality laws.’
‘She is your client?’ asks Andrew Everton.
‘Well, that’s just it,’ says Ibrahim. ‘At the start of the meeting she wasn’t. But by the end of the meeting she was. So where does that leave us? Can I tell you what I spoke about, or can I not? Is the confidentiality retrospective, as it were? A thorny one, Andrew, no?’
‘A thorny one,’ nods Andrew. ‘Let me see if I can help with your dilemma.’
‘You are most kind,’ says Ibrahim.
‘The gentleman you were sitting with in the reading …’ says Andrew Everton.
‘Ron,’ says Ibrahim.
‘I also saw him on the television,’ says Andrew Everton, ‘so I’m aware you’re close. You will know, as I do, that today a pungent air of cannabis hung about him.’
‘I will take your word for that,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Ron always smells of something.’
‘You’ll also know that searches for cannabis in my force, and in most other forces, disproportionately fall on young black men. Something I have tried to address in the last few years, with some, if not enough success. So believe me it would really help my statistics if I were to sanction a drugs search on an old, white man. I can have officers in Ron’s flat within an hour.’
‘Goodness,’ says Ibrahim. ‘That’s very forthright.’
‘Would Ron like a team of officers rooting through his underwear?’
‘I don’t think anyone would like that,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Least of all the officers. But, also, I don’t think you’d do it. Ron would kick up a fuss, we’d all be there to take photos. I might even get our friend Mike Waghorn to take an interest. All too visible and messy, I think.’
Andrew Everton refuses to be outmanoeuvred. ‘Then your other friends. The ladies?’
‘Joyce and Elizabeth?’
‘You might be comfortable with a chief constable questioning you. Ron might take it in his stride. But two elderly women? How do you think the two of them would react if I decided to question them? Because if I have to, I will.’
Ibrahim laughs. ‘I wish you the very best of luck with that, Andrew. I must tell Elizabeth what you said – she will hoot. Of all the nuts to crack around here, I assure you I am very much the easiest.’
‘I need you to help me here, Ibrahim,’ says Andrew Everton.
Ibrahim leans forward. ‘Chief Constable. Andrew. I recognize it seems like I’m being obstructive. Really I understand that, and I can be very difficult at times. Unyielding, I was once described as. So I won’t be telling you what I have spoken to Connie Johnson about, and, assessing the situation as best I can, I don’t think you are particularly in a position to compel me to do so. But I can assure you that there is nothing that would concern you, and nothing that you need to worry about. Whether Connie Johnson is guilty or not is for the courts to decide. Whether she had some involvement with the death of Heather Garbutt, I doubt very much. But I can plainly assert to you that my chat with her, at the very least, was innocent.’
‘When will you see her next?’
‘No plans,’ says Ibrahim.
Andrew Everton nods. He is not quite sure what to do next.
One thing he is sure of, however, is that Ibrahim Arif has just lied to him.
27
Joyce
Carron Whitehead and Robert Brown Msc.
I have been googling, but there’s not much out there. I got so desperate I even used Bing, but the results were the same, if a bit slower. Ibrahim says there’s no use searching. He thinks the names will be in some kind of code. But, then, Ibrahim thinks that everything is in code.
I have Mike Waghorn’s email address now, but I am trying not to abuse it. I sent him what I thought was a very funny clip of a squirrel tasting almonds for the first time, but he replied saying that this was his work email and it wasn’t for clips from the internet and, besides, he had already seen it.
I hadn’t been brave enough to email him after that, so I was glad of the opportunity to send him the names. Whitehead and Brown? Ring any bells?
He thanked me, but said he’d never heard either name before. So perhaps they really are in code. He has passed them on to Pauline.
My big news is that we just had a reading at the Literary Society. And a good one too. The Chief Constable of Kent, if you can believe that? I have downloaded his books onto my Kindle. Ninety-nine pence each, thank you very much.
Ibrahim is going to Darwell Prison on Wednesday, to talk to Connie Johnson. He asked me what magazine she might like to read, but I wasn’t sure. I like Woman & Home, but I didn’t think it would be Connie’s thing, so I asked Joanna, and I told her that Connie was a thirty-something drug dealer who always wore lovely shoes, and she suggested Grazia.
Ron reported back from Jack Mason. Jack Mason says he knows for a fact that Bethany is dead. And he can only know that if he knows who killed her. Elizabeth has told Ron to go back and find out more, but it has focused all of our minds.
I might watch A Place in the Sun. Yesterday they were looking for a house in Crete. The wife fell in love with a little farmhouse, but there was no room for the husband to keep his hang-glider, and so they didn’t put in an offer. You could see the wife was heartbroken, but she married him, and so she must shoulder some of the blame.
I am also thinking about how we might be able to talk to Fiona Clemence. I know she doesn’t fit in with Jack Mason, but if she wrote those notes to Bethany years ago, she is still a suspect. And all suspects must be questioned.