Where the sun never ceased, and the rain never fell
In the brook where we played, I remember it well.
‘“Where our secrets were kept”， well, that’s worth investigating. Repeat of “brook”， that suggests “Brooks” of course. And “Where the sun never ceased”， could that suggest the word “sun” without the n? So “Su”。’ Were they looking for someone called Su Brooks?
‘Kendrick, Google Su Broo–’
‘You played a trick on me, Uncle Ibrahim,’ says Kendrick.
‘A trick?’ says Ibrahim. Su Brooks. Su Brooks. Was she one of Heather’s fellow accountants perhaps? A pseudonym?
Kendrick looks up from the note. ‘Well, the handwriting is different, isn’t it? On the poem and on the note. The poem is so messy, and the note is so neat. So the note and the poem were written by different people.’
Ibrahim looks back and forth between the note and the poem. Yes. Well. It couldn’t have been much more obvious. Ibrahim was the only person who had seen both the note and the poem. But Ibrahim had seen things that were not there, instead of seeing what was right in front of him.
There was no secret message, there was just a lonely poem written by a woman who had given up hope. And a note, warning of death, appealing to Connie Johnson. Written by someone else entirely.
‘I’m glad you picked up on that, Kendrick,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I knew you would.’
‘It was just a test, I know,’ says Kendrick. ‘What did you want me to Google?’
Ibrahim hears Kendrick’s mum, Ron’s daughter, Suzi, calling him down for his tea. Su Brooks indeed. Ibrahim recognizes, not for the first time, that he is given to over-complicating things at times.
‘No need to Google anything. And maybe we keep the handwriting between ourselves for now,’ suggests Ibrahim.
‘Great, like a secret,’ agrees Kendrick. ‘Bye, Uncle Ibrahim, I love you.’
Kendrick’s screen goes blank. ‘I love you too,’ says Ibrahim. Kendrick was, once again, the right man for the job. If life ever seems too complicated, if you think no one can help, sometimes the right person to turn to is an eight-year-old.
Heather Garbutt had written the poem, of that there was little doubt: Connie had seen her write it. Which meant that Heather Garbutt had not written the note. So who had? And why?
Ibrahim will report his news to the gang immediately.
Though he might skip over a few details as to how his conclusion was reached.
44
‘You happy?’ asks Mike Waghorn. ‘You look great.’
‘Happy as I’ll ever be,’ says Donna, eyeing herself in the studio monitor. She doesn’t look bad. Pauline had insisted on coming in on her day off to do Donna’s make-up.
‘Two minutes on this VT,’ says the floor manager. South East Tonight is showing a report on a gluten-free bakery currently taking Folkestone by storm.
‘I’ll say, knife crime is on the up,’ Mike says to her. ‘You’ll say it isn’t as simple as that, Mike; I’ll say come off it, don’t give us that flannel; you’ll say something reassuring, and then we’ll play a VT of some people complaining in Fairhaven. Then I’ll ask if you have a message for those people, and you’ll say don’t have nightmares, or whatever comes to mind. You really look great, don’t be nervous.’
‘Thank you,’ says Donna. Is she nervous? She doesn’t feel nervous. Should she be? She looks around the small studio. The floor manager with her clipboard, the camera operator on Tinder, Carwyn, the producer, skulking, and, like a loyal hound, Chris, sitting and watching. This time he is giving her the thumbs-up. She returns it. If he is unhappy at being usurped, he is not showing it.