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.’