‘Frightened,’ repeats Ibrahim. ‘Frightened of you?’
Connie shakes her head. ‘I know when people are frightened of me. Frightened of someone though.’
‘Perhaps you like it when people are frightened of you?’ Ibrahim is making notes on his pad. ‘What would you say to that?’
‘Are we doing therapy?’ says Connie. ‘Or are we investigating a murder?’
‘I thought we could mix the two,’ says Ibrahim. ‘In therapy you must never waste a crisis.’
‘People being frightened is not my thing,’ says Connie. ‘Thank you for my Grazia by the way, it’s perfect. I don’t get a kick out of people being scared of me, I just do it because it’s easy to monetize.’
‘So who was she frightened of,’ says Ibrahim, ‘do you think?’
Connie shrugs and sips at the cappuccino a warder has made for her. It even has chocolate sprinkles. ‘Felt like she had a secret she was scared to tell.’
‘A secret that she seems to believe you know,’ says Ibrahim. ‘“Only Connie Johnson can help me.” What did she say to you? She gave you a clue, perhaps?’
‘If she did, I didn’t pick up on it,’ says Connie. ‘But I’ll keep thinking.’
‘If you would,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Do you have secrets, Connie?’
‘Nah,’ says Connie. ‘The combination to the safe in my lock-up, I suppose, but I don’t think that counts, does it? What are your secrets?’
‘That’s for another day,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Let’s start from the beginning. When you heard what had happened –’
‘With the knitting needles?’
‘With the knitting needles, yes,’ says Ibrahim. ‘What did you think?’
Connie takes a pause, and breaks off a piece of the KitKat another warder had brought in. On a tray. ‘Well, first off, I admired the ingenuity. Not easy to kill someone with knitting needles.’
‘Agreed,’ says Ibrahim.
‘And, second, I thought I shouldn’t have given her the knitting needles,’ says Connie. ‘But you can’t be ruled by hindsight, can you?’
‘That is a wise thing to say.’
‘Too late for her now,’ says Connie, draining the last of her cappuccino with a wince. ‘If I look into it a bit more, do you think you could bring me a new coffee-maker? I’ve got a Nespresso, but I’d like a De’Longhi.’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ says Ibrahim.
Connie nods. ‘Well, try your best. Here’s the only thing I can remember: when I went into her cell, Heather was writing something.’
Ibrahim stops writing and looks up at her. ‘What sort of thing?’
Connie shrugs. ‘She hid it away pretty quickly. Worth looking for though. They’ll have bagged up all her stuff.’
‘And what she was writing?’ says Ibrahim. ‘It wouldn’t have been the note she left?’
Connie shakes her head. ‘It was lots of writing. She was scribbling away.’
‘So what do you think, Connie? Why kill Heather Garbutt, and why kill her now?’
‘What I think is this,’ says Connie. ‘I think this doesn’t feel like the therapy I’m paying for. This feels like I’m an unpaid member of your gang.’
‘Well, we are all unpaid, but your point is valid,’ says Ibrahim. ‘It is a legitimate observation. Let’s talk a little about you. Would you like to start, or shall I?’