Ibrahim is always up by six. The swimming pool doesn’t open until seven, for health-and-safety reasons. He has argued, unsuccessfully, that the risk of drowning while swimming unsupervised is dwarfed by the risk of dying from cardio-vascular disease or respiratory or circulatory illness due to lack of regular exercise. He even produced an algorithm proving that keeping the pool open twenty-four hours a day, would make residents thirty-one point seven per cent safer than closing it overnight. The Leisure & Recreation Amenities Committee remained unmoved. Ibrahim could see that their hands were tied by various directives and so held no grudge. The algorithm was neatly filed away, should it ever be needed again. There was always a lot to do.
‘I have a job for you, Ibrahim,’ says Elizabeth, sipping a mint tea. ‘Well, a job for you and Ron, but I’m putting you in charge.’
‘Very wise,’ says Ibrahim, nodding. ‘If I might say?’
Elizabeth had rung him the night before with the news about Tony Curran. She had heard from Ron, who had heard it from Jason, who had heard it from a source yet to be documented. Dead in his kitchen, blunt force trauma to the head, found by his wife.
Ibrahim usually likes to spend this hour looking through old case notes and sometimes even new ones. He still has a few clients and, if they are ever in need, they will make the trip out to Coopers Chase and sit in the battered chair under the painting of the sailing boat, both of which have followed him around for nearly forty years now. Yesterday, Ibrahim had been reading the notes of an old client of his, a Midland Bank manager from Godalming who took in stray dogs and killed himself one Christmas Day. No such luck this morning, Ibrahim thinks. Elizabeth had arrived with the sunrise. He is finding the break in his routine challenging.
‘All I need you to do is to lie to a senior police officer,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Can I trust you with that?’
‘When can you not trust me, Elizabeth?’ says Ibrahim. ‘When have I let you down?’
‘Well, never, Ibrahim,’ agrees Elizabeth. ‘That’s why I like to keep you around. Also, you make very good tea.’
Ibrahim knows he is a safe pair of hands. Over the years he has saved lives and saved souls. He was good at what he did, and that’s why, even now, some people will drive for miles, past the old phone box and the farm shop, turning right just after the bridge and left by the wooden bus stop, just to speak to an eighty-year-old psychiatrist, long retired.
Sometimes he fails – who doesn’t, in this world? – and those are the files that Ibrahim will reach for in those early mornings. The bank manager who sat in the battered chair and cried and cried and could not be saved.
But this morning there are different priorities, he understands that. This morning the Thursday Murder Club has a real-life case. Not just yellowing pages of smudged type from another age. A real case, a real corpse and, somewhere out there, a real killer.
This morning Ibrahim is needed. Which is what he lives for.
12
PC Donna De Freitas carries a tray of teas into the incident room. A local builder, Tony something, has been murdered, and judging by the size of the assembled team it’s a big deal. Donna wonders why. If she takes her time with the teas, maybe she can find out.
DCI Chris Hudson is addressing the team. He always seems nice enough. He once opened some double doors for her without looking like he wanted a medal for it.
‘There are cameras at the property, and plenty of them. Get the footage. Tony Curran left Coopers Chase at 2 p.m. and he died at 3.32, according to his Fitbit. That’s only a small window to search.’
Donna has placed the tea tray on a desk while she stoops to tie her shoelace. She hears Coopers Chase mentioned, which is interesting.
‘There are also cameras on the A214, around 400 metres south of Curran’s home, and half a mile north, so let’s get hold of that footage too. You know the time frame.’ Chris stops for a moment and looks over at where Donna De Freitas is crouching.
‘Everything all right, Constable?’ he asks.
Donna straightens up. ‘Yes, sir, just tying my shoelaces. Wouldn’t want to trip with a tray of tea.’
‘Very wise,’ agrees Chris. ‘Thank you for the tea. We’ll let you get on now.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ says Donna, and walks towards the door.
She realizes that Chris – a detective of course – has probably spotted that her shoes have no laces. But surely he wouldn’t blame a young constable for a bit of healthy curiosity?
As she opens the door to leave she hears Chris Hudson continue.
‘Until we get all that, the biggest lead is the photograph the killer left by the body. Let’s take a look.’
Donna can’t resist turning and sees, projected onto the wall, an old photograph, three men in a pub, laughing and drinking. Their table is covered in banknotes. She only has a moment, but she recognizes one of the men immediately.
Things would be very different when Donna was part of a murder squad; very different. No more visiting primary schools to write serial numbers on bikes in invisible ink. No more politely reminding local shopkeepers that overflowing bins were actually a criminal off–
‘Constable?’ says Chris, snapping Donna from her train of thought. Donna takes her eyes off the photo and looks at Chris. Firmly, but kindly, he motions that she is free to leave. Donna smiles at Chris and nods. ‘Daydreaming. Sorry, sir.’
She opens the door, walks through, back to the boredom. She strains to hear every last word before the door finally swings shut.
‘So, three men, all of whom we obviously know very well. Shall we take them one by one?’
The door clunks shut. Donna sighs.
13
Joyce
I hope you will forgive a morning diary entry, but Tony Curran is dead.
Tony Curran is the builder who put this place up. Perhaps he even laid the bricks in my fireplace? Who knows? I mean, probably not. He probably had someone else to do that for him, didn’t he? And all the plastering and what have you. He would have just overseen things, I suppose. But I bet his fingerprints are here somewhere. Which is quite a thrill.
Elizabeth rang me last night with the news. I would never describe Elizabeth as breathless, but, honestly, she wasn’t far off.
Tony Curran was bludgeoned, of all things, by hand, or hands, unknown. I told her what I’d seen with Ron and Jason, the row between Curran and Ian Ventham. She told me she already knew, so she must have spoken to Ron before she spoke to me, but she was polite enough to listen as I gave my view of it. I asked her if she was taking notes and she said she would remember it.
Anyway, Elizabeth seems to have some sort of plan. She said she is seeing Ibrahim this morning.
I asked her if there was any way I might be able to help and she said that there was. So I asked her what that way might be and she said if I held my horses, I would find out soon enough.
So I suppose I sit and wait for instructions? I’m going to take the minibus into Fairhaven later, but I shall keep my mobile on just in case.
I have become someone who has to keep their mobile on.
14
‘So who killed Tony Curran, and how do we catch him?’ asks Elizabeth. ‘Or catch “him or her”, I know I should say, but it’s probably “him”. What kind of woman would bludgeon someone? A Russian woman, but that’s about it.’