‘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?’
‘I mean. Maybe I could be happier? You know, five per cent. I’m OK.’
‘I can help with that. Five per cent, ten, fifty, whatever it might be. That’s my job. I can’t fix you, but I can make you run a little better.’
‘You can’t fix me?’
‘Humans can’t be fixed,’ says Ibrahim. ‘We’re not lawnmowers. I wish we were.’
‘Might be fun, mightn’t it?’ says Connie. ‘Unburden all my secrets. What do you charge? To buy suits like that?’
‘Sixty pounds an hour. Or less if someone can’t afford it.’
‘I’ll pay you two hundred an hour,’ says Connie.
‘No, it’s just sixty.’
‘If you charge less for someone who can’t afford it, then charge more for someone who can. You’re a businessman. How often can we meet?’
‘Once a week is best at first. And my schedule is pretty flexible.’
‘OK, I’ll sort it here. They lap this sort of thing up, mental health. And I’ll look into Heather Garbutt in the meantime. Girly chat, what’s your star sign, did you push a car off a cliff.’
‘Thank you. I shall look forward to speaking with you,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And seeing if I can persuade you not to murder Ron.’
‘Great,’ says Connie. ‘Let’s do Thursdays.’
‘Actually,’ says Ibrahim, ‘can we do Wednesdays? Thursdays are the one day I have something on.’
12
The last time Elizabeth had a bag and blindfold pulled from her head was in 1978. She was in the harshly lit administration block of a Hungarian abattoir, and was about to be questioned and tortured by a Russian Army general with a chest of bloodstained medals. As events transpired, there was to be no torture, as the General had left his tool bag in the car, and the car had driven off for the evening. So, in the end, she had got away with light bruising and an anecdote for dinner parties.
What had he wanted, the General? Elizabeth forgets. Something which no doubt seemed terribly important at the time. She knew people who had died for the blueprints to agricultural machinery. Very few things are so important you would risk your life for them, but all sorts of things are important enough to risk somebody else’s life.
As her blindfold is removed this time, there is no glare of strip lights, no grinning General and no blood-smeared filing cabinets. She is in a library, in a soft leather chair. The room is lit by candles, the kind Joyce buys. The man who removed her blindfold and uncuffed her has silently left the room and is out of her sight.
Elizabeth looks over to Stephen. He arches an eyebrow at her, and says, ‘Well, this is a to-do.’
‘Isn’t it?’ she agrees. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Right as rain, darling, you just keep your wits about you. I’m out of the old comfort zone here. Bash on the bonce, but no harm done. Probably knocked some sense into me.’
‘Your back all right?’
‘Nothing a Panadol won’t fix. Any idea what’s afoot here? Anything I can do to help?’
Elizabeth shakes her head. ‘This might be one for me.’