‘Carry on,’ says Elizabeth.
Andrew turns back to the text. He will sell a few copies, he thinks. Then he will thank Ibrahim for his questions, and ask a few of his own. He takes a sip of the water provided on the lectern. It turns out to be a vodka and tonic. Probably for the best.
‘No one present had ever witnessed a crime scene this awful, this macabre, this depraved. No one except Catherine Howard. Because Catherine Howard had seen this exact crime scene before. Just three nights ago, in fact. In a dream.’
Hands shoot up again.
26
Andrew Everton settles into a battered old armchair, underneath a painting of a boat. Looking around, he sees glass-fronted shelves, absolutely stacked with box files.
‘That was most enjoyable,’ says Ibrahim, walking in with the mint tea. ‘Most enjoyable. You have a rare talent.’
‘You just write one word, then another, and you pray that no one finds you out,’ says Andrew Everton. He had once heard Lee Child say something similar, and had liked it. ‘You have a lot of files. Is that a work thing?’
Ibrahim settles onto a sofa. ‘A life’s work, yes. Well, many lives. I’m a psychiatrist, Chief Constable.’
‘Call me Andrew,’ says Andrew Everton, well aware that Ibrahim is a psychiatrist. ‘I’m afraid I need something from you, and so I want to appear as unthreatening as possible.’
Ibrahim chuckles. ‘A fine tactic. Was the reading a ruse? Simply to come and see me?’
‘Partly. I saw you on television,’ says Andrew Everton. Saw him on television, dug into his files. ‘With your friends. I recognized you. So two birds with one stone really,’ he says, blowing on his tea. ‘I wanted an informal chat with you, and I also thought perhaps I might sell a few books.’
‘I’m certain you will,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Chief Constable Catherine Howard is very tough. Haunted, but tough.’
‘I describe her as “teak-tough” in Given in Evidence.’
‘Quite so, Andrew,’ says Ibrahim. ‘“Teak-tough”。 Enough of literature though. You say you recognized me? I am intrigued.’
‘A couple of days ago, you made a visit to Darwell Prison, I believe?’ Andrew Everton sees all the details of Connie’s visitors. Lovely close-up from the prison security cameras too.
‘Ah,’ says Ibrahim.
‘Ah,’ says Andrew Everton. ‘You gave your profession as “journalist”， though I could find no trace of you in relation to that. You visited a prisoner named Connie Johnson. A particularly brutal drug baron, currently on remand for a number of very serious crimes. You stayed with her for around half an hour, chatting, and I quote an official report here, “animatedly at times”。 Correct?’
‘Well, I would say drug baroness, although I must learn to degender job titles,’ says Ibrahim. ‘But, other than that, correct.’
‘I wonder if I might ask what you and Connie Johnson spoke about?’
Ibrahim considers this. ‘I wonder if I might ask, in return, what business that is of yours?’
‘You might also be aware that another prisoner, Heather Garbutt, was found dead shortly afterwards, Mr Arif. And that Connie’s name was mentioned in a note found in her cell. That makes it my business.’
‘Indeed. Crime, and excellent writing, are your business,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Cigar?’
Andrew Everton shakes his head; he is having none of it. ‘Connie Johnson is possibly, in fact probably, the most dangerous woman my force has ever had to deal with. With luck she will be convicted and sent to prison for a very long time. If you jeopardize that in any way, I could make life very difficult for you, so I would counsel against it. If you’re in a position to help me, however, I would strongly recommend you do so.’