‘No, I lied,’ says Ibrahim, crossing his legs, then tugging down the hem of his trouser leg. ‘I thought you might be more likely to speak to me if you thought I was a journalist.’
They are sitting in a visiting room at Darwell Prison. Tables are spread out, but close enough that everyone can hear everyone else’s heartbreak if they choose to. Ibrahim is listening to every conversation, while conducting his own with Connie. That is his habit.
‘Then who are you?’ asks Connie. She is in a prison jumpsuit, but is surprisingly well made-up for someone with no obvious access to high-end cosmetics.
‘My name is Ibrahim Arif. I’m a psychiatrist.’
‘Well, that’s fun,’ says Connie, and she sounds like she means it. ‘Who sent you? Prosecution lawyer? See if I’m batshit?’
‘I already know you’re not batshit, Connie. You are a very controlled, intelligent, motivated woman.’
Connie nods. ‘Mmm, I’m very goal-oriented. I scored ninety-six on a Facebook quiz about it. That’s a nice suit. Someone’s doing all right.’
‘You set goals, Connie, and then you achieve those goals. Am I right?’
‘I do,’ says Connie, then looks around her. ‘Though I am in prison, aren’t I, Ibrahim Arif? So I’m not perfect.’
‘Who among us is?’ asks Ibrahim. ‘It is healthy to admit that to ourselves. I wonder if you might like a task, Connie?’
‘A task? You need coke? You don’t look like you need coke. You want someone murdered? You look like you could afford it.’
‘Nothing illegal at all,’ says Ibrahim. He absolutely loves talking to criminals, he can’t deny it. It’s the same with famous people too. He loved talking to Mike Waghorn. ‘Quite the opposite.’
‘The opposite of illegal, OK. And what’s in it for me?’
‘For you, nothing at all,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I just suspect it’s something you’d be rather good at. And therefore you’d rather enjoy.’
‘I mean, I’m quite busy,’ says Connie, smiling.
‘I see that,’ says Ibrahim, smiling back. Connie’s smile looks real, and so his is real in return.
‘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.’