‘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.’
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?’