The impossible fortune, p.15
The Impossible Fortune, page 15
They watch Tia leave, and the moment she is out of earshot Ibrahim says, ‘She’ll make you proud, I know it.’
She’ll make me a couple of hundred grand is what she’ll make me, thinks Connie.
‘When she calls me Mr Arif, I always mean to say, “Call me Ibrahim,” but I’ve decided I quite like “Mr Arif”. Usually only doctors call me Mr Arif. The last sentence in which somebody called me Mr Arif was “One has to expect some weakening of bladder control in one’s eighties, Mr Arif.”’
‘What can I do for you today?’ says Connie. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you on a Sunday, so I’m guessing it’s a favour?’
‘Well, life is about push and pull,’ says Ibrahim. ‘There might indeed be the smallest favour you could do for me.’
‘Shoot,’ says Connie. ‘Shoot’ is a phrase she often has to be careful with. If you’re ever in a room full of men with guns and someone wants to give you their number, it’s better to say ‘Go ahead’ than ‘Shoot’.
Ibrahim looks over his shoulder. ‘Have you heard of a man named Davey Noakes?’
‘Ravey Davey?’ says Connie. ‘Of course I’ve heard of him, I don’t live on the moon.’
‘Ah,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I hadn’t.’
Connie shakes her head. ‘Forty years in the business, Ravey had, and you’ve never heard of him?’
‘I think you might be the only drug dealer I’ve ever heard of,’ admits Ibrahim. ‘We live such siloed lives, don’t we? It’s social media in my view, it atomizes our shared gr–’
Connie interrupts: ‘What about him?’
‘You know him?’
‘Met him a few times,’ says Connie. ‘Not your type, I’d say, but I can put in a word for you. Some guys like an older man.’
‘You are obsessed with romance,’ says Ibrahim. ‘He dealt Ecstasy, I understand?’
Connie Johnson shakes her head in amazement. ‘Dealt Ecstasy? Saying Davey Noakes dealt Ecstasy is like saying that Taylor Swift sells records.’
‘I see,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And does she?’
‘He was a pioneer,’ says Connie. ‘Built the whole industry from scratch. Made his millions, never got nicked, got out before everybody started killing each other. Textbook drug dealer, textbook. You won’t see another like him.’
‘And what did he turn his hand to afterwards?’ Ibrahim asks.
‘Cyber stuff,’ says Connie. ‘Passwords, I don’t know. But he’s still making plenty of money.’
‘And how did your paths cross?’ Ibrahim asks.
‘I wrote him a fan letter once,’ says Connie, ‘and he wrote back, which, you know, he didn’t have to. And I went to a charity ball at his house – there were police, criminals, everyone. Bradley Walsh was there, you know from the TV?’
Ibrahim nods. ‘Finally someone I have heard of.’
‘Why the interest?’ Connie asks.
‘Have you heard of a place called The Compound?’
‘Of course I have,’ says Connie. The Compound, of all places. She wasn’t expecting that today. What has Ibrahim got himself involved with?
‘It was run by two friends of ours,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Holly Lewis and Nick Silver. I say “friends” – Nick vomited at a wedding and Holly died shortly after meeting us.’
‘Sorry for your loss,’ says Connie.
‘Anyway,’ says Ibrahim, ‘they met up with Davey Noakes not long before Holly Lewis’s murder.’
‘Any idea what about?’ Connie asks.
‘I believe they had a security issue,’ says Ibrahim. ‘They called upon the counsel of two individuals and Davey was one.’
‘Well, that’s Davey,’ says Connie. ‘He can cause your security issues or he can solve them, depending who he works for.’
Ibrahim nods. ‘I wonder if I might ask two further questions?’
‘Go right ahead,’ says Connie.
‘Thank you,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Do you think that Davey Noakes is the sort of person who, under a certain set of circumstances, might murder someone?’
Connie laughs. ‘Of course.’
Ibrahim nods. ‘And, secondly, are you a client of The Compound yourself?’
Connie tongs a couple of ice cubes into both drinks, and considers him. ‘Shall we retire to the cinema room? Anything you fancy watching?’
‘Anything you recommend?’
‘Do you watch Below Deck?’ Connie asks.
‘Jog my memory,’ says Ibrahim.
‘It’s a reality show following the crew of a super-yacht,’ says Connie.
‘I have yet to catch it,’ says Ibrahim.
Connie leads Ibrahim into the darkness of the cinema room, two rows of four velvet armchairs all facing a huge screen. Ibrahim and Connie take seats in the front row, and she sees Ibrahim tilt his seat back.
‘So are you?’ says Ibrahim. ‘A client? You have things which require cold storage?’
‘I’m a criminal,’ says Connie. ‘I use cold storage, hot storage, encasing-something-in-concrete-and-dumping-it-in-the-sea storage. My whole job is storage. Money, drugs, evidence, information.’
‘But The Compound specifically,’ says Ibrahim. ‘You use it? You could get into it?’
‘Huh,’ says Connie. ‘Do you worry sometimes about our boundaries? As therapist and client?’
She has been reading about boundaries.
‘I think you and I make our own rules,’ says Ibrahim. Connie loves that he makes stuff up as he goes along. Ibrahim’s wisdom is artfully seasoned by self-interest. That’s why they get along. ‘I, because I’m older, and have earned the right to make my own rules, and you, because you adhere to rules very badly. So our boundaries are porous.’
Porous boundaries. Sure, thinks Connie. Whatever Ibrahim needs to tell himself. He speaks to a drug dealer every week, and he enjoys it. He disapproves of everything Connie does, and yet back he comes, like a dog to a favourite tree.
‘The Compound’s not really something I can speak to you about,’ says Connie. She really does need to shut this down if she can. ‘The less you know about it, the better.’
‘It’s just two friends talking,’ says Ibrahim. ‘We are friends, I hope?’
For a clever man, Ibrahim can be very transparent. He wants Connie to talk about The Compound; Connie doesn’t want to. He has approached her directly, and been rebuffed directly, and so she now has a whole afternoon of Ibrahim trying different tacks to get the information he wants. He has begun with flattery, but that’s not where he will end. He will be insufferable. Connie doesn’t want him getting tangled up with The Compound. Too many bad people, even for her. But if Ibrahim really wants to know something, there are very few places where she can hide from him.
‘I’ll make you a deal,’ says Connie. ‘If you can make it through an episode of Below Deck with me, I’ll help you get into The Compound.’
Ibrahim swishes his whisky around in its tumbler. ‘If I say yes, can we have more whisky?’
‘We can,’ says Connie.
‘Then it’s a deal,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Let’s get this Below Deck nonsense out of the way and then we can talk.’
34
‘She texted me a name,’ says Donna. ‘Jill Usher. Asked if I could look into her.’
‘But it’s not your case, Donna,’ says Chris. ‘It’s DCI Varma’s case.’
‘She died at Coopers Chase,’ says Donna, as Patrice fills her wine glass. ‘Elizabeth was the first to reach the body. That makes it our case, morally, although, yeah, not actually. I should have a poke around at least.’
‘So you’re going to do what Elizabeth tells you to do?’ Chris asks.
‘For now,’ says Donna. ‘Maybe when you’re armed we’ll be able to stand up to her.’
‘If you start investigating,’ says Patrice, dipping a carrot baton in some hummus, ‘who’s going to look after Prince Edward?’
‘That’s the thing – Elizabeth knew I was bored,’ says Donna, sheepishly. ‘We broke into an office, and that was fun.’
‘Honestly,’ says Chris. ‘I leave you alone for one week.’
It is a lovely, sleepy Sunday evening. Patrice has cooked a roast chicken, and Donna can smell it in the oven. Her mum has virtually been living with Chris over the summer holidays. Are her boss and her mum going to get married one of these days? Donna will cross that bridge when she comes to it. Chris has been regaling them both with tales of his firearms course.
At first he’d said he’s been firing guns all week, but after a couple of glasses of wine he admitted that he’s mainly been sitting in lectures being told how to avoid firing guns under any circumstances. But then they do have target practice.
‘Be careful though,’ says Chris.
‘You’re jealous Elizabeth asked me to help, and not you.’
‘Not my case,’ says Chris. ‘Let someone else deal with the Thursday Murder Club for once. I’ve got guns to fire.’
Donna raises an eyebrow.
‘Okay, I’ve got lectures about firing guns to go to.’
‘I’ll be careful, I promise,’ says Donna. ‘Won’t tread on anyone’s toes. If I find out something about Jill Usher, I’ll pass it on, but that’s it. She was squeaky clean at first glance though.’
‘And that’s it?’ Chris asks.
‘That’s it,’ says Donna.
‘She’s hasn’t asked you to do anything else?’
‘Not a thing,’ says Donna.
‘Not even a tiny extra favour?’
‘I mean,’ says Donna, shrugging, ‘she wondered if I could talk to Joanna’s husband.’
‘She wants you to talk to Paul Brett?’
‘Well, she can’t,’ says Donna. ‘In case Joyce finds out.’
‘And you’re going to do it?’
‘You could come with if you fancied?’ Donna says. ‘When your course is done?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ says Chris.
‘You must be a bit tempted to help?’ says Patrice.
‘Help the Thursday Murder Club?’ says Chris.
‘You love them,’ says Patrice. ‘You miss them. I think you once called out “Joyce” in your sleep.’
‘Let me tell you a story,’ says Chris.
‘Oh, fabulous, if you would,’ deadpans Patrice, and she and Donna laugh.
‘A couple of months ago,’ says Chris, ‘Donna and I get a call. First thing in the morning. A garage owner in Rye has been found dead in his workshop. Nasty bang on the head, been hit by something a couple of hours before. Murder, no doubt about it.’
‘And you’re saying Elizabeth did it?’ Patrice suggests.
Chris ignores her. He’s on a roll. ‘We visit the workshop, Donna and me. Scenes of crime are there, and they find nothing they can use, so we’re probably dealing with a professional. Back we head to the office, and do our usual digging. Watkins, the guy was called: is he on our radar, who does he know, who might have a motive? And we draw another blank. Happens all the time.’
‘That chicken smells amazing, Mum,’ says Donna.
‘The secret is to kill it yourself,’ says Patrice. ‘Go on, darling, you were saying?’
‘So no forensics and no intelligence. Fine. A bit of old-fashioned police work, then. We go door-to-door –’
‘Well, I went door-to-door,’ says Donna.
‘That’s true,’ says Chris. ‘Rank has certain privileges. Donna goes door-to-door with a little crew, but no one has heard anything, so everybody trudges back to the station. We’re having our lunch and one of the junior PCs says he was harangued for twenty minutes by an elderly woman whose door he knocked on. She’d had her milk stolen that morning, and what was he going to do about it? The PC explains that he’s investigating a murder and her milk isn’t top of his priority list, and she whacks him with a walking stick and says, “What about my Crunchy Nut Cornflakes?” which gets the laugh he was looking for.’
‘I can feel a lesson coming on,’ says Patrice.
Chris nods. ‘You’re right. I’m listening to this PC, and I look at Donna. I want to get her attention, but she’s already looking at me. The two of us get up from the table, drive back to Rye and pay another visit to the woman with the stolen milk. She’s delighted we’re taking it seriously and invites us in. We ask what time her milk is usually delivered, and she says five thirty in the morning. We ask her if she has CCTV and she says no, but the neighbour across the road does.’
‘She said, “Because he’s a pervert,”’ adds Donna.
‘Over we pop and take a look, and there’s a man coming from the direction of Watkins’s garage at about quarter to six in the morning, all in black, gloves, you know the drill. He spots the milk on the doorstep, trots up and pinches it. As he walks back down the driveway, we get a clear shot of his face. Surely that’s our guy?’
‘What has this got to do with the Thursday Murder Club?’ Patrice asks.
‘We circulate the screenshot from the CCTV,’ continues Chris. ‘And a DI in Worthing gets in touch and says, I know this guy, Johnny Jacks, record as long as your arm, muscle for hire, GBH, all sorts, so off we go and talk to Johnny Jacks. He’s quiet, as they always are. Never heard of Watkins, never heard of Rye, only reluctantly admits he’s heard of milk. We search his car, and there’s a receipt for a petrol station just outside Rye, and there’s a hammer covered in Watkins’s DNA.’
‘There was even an empty milk bottle,’ says Donna.
‘So we arrest him, we charge him, he’s on remand, and when he comes to trial he’s going to prison for a long time. And all because we figured that the sort of man who’d murder in cold blood is also the sort of man who’d steal a bottle of milk from a doorstep.’
‘Congratulations,’ says Patrice. ‘That’s terrific work.’
‘Thank you,’ says Chris. ‘But I tell this story for one reason only. This year I’ve been involved in eight murder investigations. Solved five of them, know who did two of them but I’m still looking for evidence. A lot of hard work, a lot of wrong turns, a lot of late nights. But in that time, not once have I been visited by any pensioners demanding information from me, hiding evidence from me, intellectually undermining me, or in any other way interfering in any murder investigation. And, I’ll be honest, I haven’t missed it, and I haven’t missed them.’
Chris sits back. He looks exhausted. Point made.
Donna and Patrice look at each other.
‘Yeah, you have,’ says Patrice.
‘You have,’ agrees Donna.
‘Donna,’ says Chris, ‘you do Elizabeth’s bidding if you want. But I’m made of stronger stuff. I’m a good investigator – I don’t need the Thursday Murder Club to help me.’
‘What if they need you to help them?’ Donna asks.
‘They never need me to help them,’ says Chris.
Matter closed.
‘Anyway, he’s too busy shooting guns with the boys,’ says Patrice.
‘There’s a woman there too,’ protests Chris.
‘Let me guess,’ says Donna. ‘You all underestimated her and it turned out she’s the best shot of the lot of you?’
‘I don’t want to be gendered about it,’ says Chris. ‘But she’s actually coming joint twelfth out of fifteen.’
‘And where are you?’ Donna asks.
‘Also joint twelfth,’ says Chris. ‘I’d be eighth, but I shot a mum pushing a pram instead of a terrorist.’
MONDAY
35
Bogdan has insisted on driving them and waiting outside.
Joyce honestly can’t see the point. ‘We could have got a taxi, Bogdan. You don’t need to give up your morning for us.’
‘I wait,’ says Bogdan. ‘In case he kills you.’
‘He’s not going to kill us,’ says Joyce. ‘He’s a lord.’
‘What about Lord Lucan?’ says Bogdan. ‘He killed someone. I saw a documentary.’
‘I once met Lord Lucan,’ says Elizabeth.
‘How long before the murder?’ asks Bogdan.
‘Oh, it was after the murder,’ says Elizabeth, at which point Bogdan turns into the driveway of Headcorn Hall.
The house squats before them at the end of the long driveway. The driveway itself is starting to lose the battle with the nature around it, weeds and wild flowers poking through the gravel. Joyce wonders why the gardeners haven’t taken care of that. You wouldn’t see a weed on Downton Abbey. The grasslands around the house have also seen better days, but perhaps Lord Townes is an environmentalist and goes for the ‘untamed’ look. A lot of very rich people are environmentalists now. Ron says it’s the ones who can’t afford helicopters any more. It was Ron who told them Lord Townes had booked in for a visit to The Compound on Wednesday morning. Elizabeth is keen to meet him before he goes.
Joyce is hoping that a butler might greet them outside. Not that she would say it out loud, but on the journey down, as Elizabeth and Bogdan were talking about the best things to do if you got kidnapped, Joyce imagined a butler with a deep voice who had served the Townes family for generations and been unable to find love, after a doomed, fleeting romance with a scullery maid forty years earlier made him close his heart. Many years later the man – Henderson perhaps, Phillips, Brabazon – meets a woman in a mauve cardigan, and is transported back in time. Nothing is said, but there is a glance, a stolen look, and, as she leaves, he bows his head and says, ‘Madam,’ and she bows her head and says, ‘Henderson.’ What happens after that is a mystery, as she’d fallen asleep, to be woken by Elizabeth saying, ‘The key thing if you’re tied up in the boot is to kick out the brake lights.’
As they crunch to a halt, Joyce sees there is no Henderson, so there goes that little dream. Lord Townes himself has come out to greet them. Of course there could be a fantasy in which Joyce marries a lord, but that is a lot less likely than a butler, and probably a lot less fun. Joyce resolves to make do. Meeting a lord is quite exciting in itself.
‘You must be Elizabeth Best and Joyce Meadowcroft,’ says Lord Townes. ‘What an enormous pleasure.’
‘Lord Townes,’ says Elizabeth, and shakes his hand. Joyce curtsies.
‘No need for any nonsense,’ says Lord Townes, grasping Joyce’s hand. ‘Come on in the both of you. I’m Robert to friends, and I can tell we’re going to be friends, so I’m Robert to you. Does your driver need anything?’
