The Bullet That Missed (Thursday Murder Club, #3)(12)

‘Lover, it’s been a long time for me too,’ says Pauline. ‘It was perfect. You’re a gent. And a handsome, funny gent at that. Let’s just go at our own pace, shall we?’

Ron nods, and eats some more of his steak. They hadn’t brought any ketchup, but other than that he couldn’t fault Le Pont Noir at all. Thank you, Jase.

‘You fancy a walk along the front after this?’ says Pauline. ‘While the sun’s still in the sky? Get an ice cream on the pier?’

Ron thinks about his knees. How much they hurt when he doesn’t use that blasted stick Jason bought for him. How they make him feel like an old man. Every step will hurt, all the more so for hiding it from Pauline. He’ll be laid up in bed all day tomorrow.

‘I’d love to,’ says Ron. ‘I’d love to.’ Perhaps he doesn’t need to hide anything from Pauline?

‘And I know your knee gives you gip,’ says Pauline. ‘So let’s get you a stick for goodness’ sake. I don’t need a tough guy slowing me down. I just want an ice cream and a kiss from Ron Ritchie on the pier.’

Ron smiles again. He still won’t be using a stick – he’s got standards – but it’s nice to hear.

Pauline gestures to her bag. ‘I’ve got a couple of spliffs in here too. They’ll help.’





10





How long has Elizabeth been unconscious? Impossible to tell.

So what does she know?

She is lying on the cold, metal floor of a speeding vehicle. Her hands are cuffed behind her, and her feet are bound. A blindfold covers her eyes, and white noise is being played at deafening volume through a pair of headphones. A familiar torture technique.

But, on the plus side, she is not dead. Which at least gives her options.

All she can control right now is her breathing, and so she does just that. Slow, deep and steady. Nothing to be gained by panicking. She suspects she is going to need all her energy when she finally discovers where she is being taken.

Would they have hit Stephen too? Or not seen the need? Is he here with her?

Elizabeth wriggles backwards across the floor of the vehicle – she has now deduced it must be a van – until she brushes up against another body. They are back to back. She knows it is Stephen, she can tell by the electricity.

With her hands behind her back, she feels for his hands. He is doing the same and their hands clasp, like those of sleepy, waking lovers. She squeezes Stephen’s hand, then worries that that is perhaps emasculating. Should he be squeezing her hand? In the circumstances it is probably right that she is being the reassuring presence. Stephen has not been in this sort of position before.

She puts her finger on his wrist, in what could easily be a sign of affection, but really she is checking his pulse. She is seeing if he is panicking.

His pulse is rock-steady: sixty-five beats per minute. Of course it is. Stephen will also be controlling his breathing, trusting that his wife will get him out of this.

But will she? Well, it very much depends on what this is, Elizabeth supposes. It’s the man sending her the texts certainly. Finally made good on his threats. But who is it? And what job does he have for her?

The van is beginning to slow down. As if it has left a major road and joined a minor one. Elizabeth takes note.

She will be missed in Coopers Chase, that’s a good thing. Joyce will spot that her light is not on this evening. Or will she? Will she be busy looking into Heather Garbutt? Will Ibrahim be thinking about Connie Johnson? Will Ron be busy with … well, that goes without saying. Will they even notice her absence? Will they raise the alarm?

Elizabeth knows she is already too far from home anyway. There will be no cavalry to save her this time. She has got herself into this mess, and she will have to get herself out of it.

The van comes to a halt. Elizabeth waits and breathes. She feels a hand on her shoulder, roughly dragging her up.

But whose hand?





11





‘So you’re not from the Sunday Times?’ asks Connie Johnson, not unreasonably in Ibrahim’s view. She is chewing gum. Again, fine by Ibrahim, good for dental health so long as it is sugar-free.

‘No, I lied,’ says Ibrahim, crossing his legs, then tugging down the hem of his trouser leg. ‘I thought you might be more likely to speak to me if you thought I was a journalist.’

They are sitting in a visiting room at Darwell Prison. Tables are spread out, but close enough that everyone can hear everyone else’s heartbreak if they choose to. Ibrahim is listening to every conversation, while conducting his own with Connie. That is his habit.

‘Then who are you?’ asks Connie. She is in a prison jumpsuit, but is surprisingly well made-up for someone with no obvious access to high-end cosmetics.

‘My name is Ibrahim Arif. I’m a psychiatrist.’

‘Well, that’s fun,’ says Connie, and she sounds like she means it. ‘Who sent you? Prosecution lawyer? See if I’m batshit?’

‘I already know you’re not batshit, Connie. You are a very controlled, intelligent, motivated woman.’

Connie nods. ‘Mmm, I’m very goal-oriented. I scored ninety-six on a Facebook quiz about it. That’s a nice suit. Someone’s doing all right.’

‘You set goals, Connie, and then you achieve those goals. Am I right?’