Page 34 of The Impossible Fortune (Thursday Murder Club Mysteries #5)

Connie Johnson sits cross-legged on a coconut mat, eyes closed.

One way or another it has been a stressful week, and she is enjoying the ‘Sounds of the Rainforest’ playlist on Spotify.

She has had to take out a premium subscription now, because you can’t meditate when the sounds of the rainforest are interrupted every fifteen minutes by adverts for Burger King Whopper Meal Deals.

She breathes in slowly through her mouth and counts to three, then breathes out slowly through her nose for a count of six.

A lot of people are resentful that she is back on the street.

She’d been able to control her empire fairly well from her prison cell.

The Wi-Fi could be patchy at times, due to the thickness of prison walls, but, all in all, deliveries arrived when they were supposed to, suppliers were paid on time and cash continued to be laundered in an orderly fashion.

But the odd two or three dealers had got ideas above their station during her unfortunate absence, and she is having to deal with them one by one, which has been time-consuming, and stressful.

More stressful for them, Connie admits that, but she has still earned a bit of down time in her yoga annexe.

Though she doesn’t often have two guests with her.

‘And find your centre,’ Connie says. ‘Find your centre, and let a flower bloom. Let the petals unfurl and catch the sun. Feel the warmth and feel the beauty. Let your mind drift on the breeze. Let your thoughts fade into nothing.’

She hears Tia hum in contentment.

‘I understand the principle,’ says Ibrahim, also cross-legged.

‘But I can’t let my thoughts fade into nothing without thinking about my thoughts fading into nothing, so I now have a new thought in my head, the thought of thoughts fading to nothing, and what am I to do with that thought? It’s cyclical.’

Connie opens her eyes. ‘You don’t love being “in the moment”, do you, Ibrahim?’

‘I don’t,’ says Ibrahim. ‘The trouble with the moment is that there’s always another moment on its way, and I find constantly being in them exhausting.’

‘Truth,’ says Tia.

‘But you tell me all the time to relax,’ says Connie. ‘To find a new way of thinking and being.’

‘Yes, I think it’s all well and good for other people,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I just can’t manage it myself.’

Connie is not entirely sure what Ibrahim is doing here today. Has she ever seen him on a Sunday before? She doesn’t think so. But he asked to pop round, and she’d told him he’d be very welcome if he didn’t mind joining her and Tia for a spot of yoga as they talked.

Connie pushes herself up. ‘How about a whisky?’

‘I think that might be rather better at making my petals bloom, thank you, Connie.’

Connie leads them out of the yoga annexe, past the pool and solarium, skirts the snooker room, and takes a shortcut through the cinema and into the whisky bar.

‘You have a lot of rooms,’ says Ibrahim.

‘I’ve sold a lot of drugs,’ says Connie, stepping behind a bar and pouring them both a measure. ‘Tia?’

‘Gotta go,’ says Tia. ‘Bit more prep for the job.’

‘That’s very industrious,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Preparing for your job on a day off.’

Tia shrugs.

‘Fail to prepare,’ says Connie, ‘prepare to fail.’

‘I hope the job is going well so far?’ says Ibrahim.

‘It’s coming on,’ says Tia.

Ibrahim smiles. ‘I’m sure you will be a great success.’

Ibrahim is so excited about Tia’s new job. He would be less excited if he knew the job was a warehouse heist, but what we don’t know can’t harm us.

Tia gives Connie a goodbye hug. ‘I’ll see you on Tuesday.’

‘I’ll be waiting,’ says Connie.

‘See you, Mr Arif,’ says Tia.

‘Don’t be afraid to ask if you don’t know something,’ says Ibrahim.

‘Thank you,’ says Tia. ‘I will.’

They watch Tia leave, and the moment she is out of earshot Ibrahim says, ‘She’ll make you proud, I know it.’

She’ll make me a couple of hundred grand is what she’ll make me, thinks Connie.

‘When she calls me Mr Arif, I always mean to say, “Call me Ibrahim,” but I’ve decided I quite like “Mr Arif”. Usually only doctors call me Mr Arif. The last sentence in which somebody called me Mr Arif was “One has to expect some weakening of bladder control in one’s eighties, Mr Arif.”’

‘What can I do for you today?’ says Connie. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you on a Sunday, so I’m guessing it’s a favour?’

‘Well, life is about push and pull,’ says Ibrahim. ‘There might indeed be the smallest favour you could do for me.’

‘Shoot,’ says Connie. ‘Shoot’ is a phrase she often has to be careful with. If you’re ever in a room full of men with guns and someone wants to give you their number, it’s better to say ‘Go ahead’ than ‘Shoot’.

Ibrahim looks over his shoulder. ‘Have you heard of a man named Davey Noakes?’

‘Ravey Davey?’ says Connie. ‘Of course I’ve heard of him, I don’t live on the moon.’

‘Ah,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I hadn’t.’

Connie shakes her head. ‘Forty years in the business, Ravey had, and you’ve never heard of him?’

‘I think you might be the only drug dealer I’ve ever heard of,’ admits Ibrahim. ‘We live such siloed lives, don’t we? It’s social media in my view, it atomizes our shared gr–’

Connie interrupts: ‘What about him?’

‘You know him?’

‘Met him a few times,’ says Connie. ‘Not your type, I’d say, but I can put in a word for you. Some guys like an older man.’

‘You are obsessed with romance,’ says Ibrahim. ‘He dealt Ecstasy, I understand?’

Connie Johnson shakes her head in amazement. ‘Dealt Ecstasy? Saying Davey Noakes dealt Ecstasy is like saying that Taylor Swift sells records.’

‘I see,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And does she?’

‘He was a pioneer,’ says Connie. ‘Built the whole industry from scratch. Made his millions, never got nicked, got out before everybody started killing each other. Textbook drug dealer, textbook. You won’t see another like him.’

‘And what did he turn his hand to afterwards?’ Ibrahim asks.

‘Cyber stuff,’ says Connie. ‘Passwords, I don’t know. But he’s still making plenty of money.’

‘And how did your paths cross?’ Ibrahim asks.

‘I wrote him a fan letter once,’ says Connie, ‘and he wrote back, which, you know, he didn’t have to. And I went to a charity ball at his house – there were police, criminals, everyone. Bradley Walsh was there, you know from the TV?’

Ibrahim nods. ‘Finally someone I have heard of.’

‘Why the interest?’ Connie asks.

‘Have you heard of a place called The Compound?’

‘Of course I have,’ says Connie. The Compound, of all places. She wasn’t expecting that today. What has Ibrahim got himself involved with?

‘It was run by two friends of ours,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Holly Lewis and Nick Silver. I say “friends” – Nick vomited at a wedding and Holly died shortly after meeting us.’

‘Sorry for your loss,’ says Connie.

‘Anyway,’ says Ibrahim, ‘they met up with Davey Noakes not long before Holly Lewis’s murder.’

‘Any idea what about?’ Connie asks.

‘I believe they had a security issue,’ says Ibrahim. ‘They called upon the counsel of two individuals and Davey was one.’

‘Well, that’s Davey,’ says Connie. ‘He can cause your security issues or he can solve them, depending who he works for.’

Ibrahim nods. ‘I wonder if I might ask two further questions?’

‘Go right ahead,’ says Connie.

‘Thank you,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Do you think that Davey Noakes is the sort of person who, under a certain set of circumstances, might murder someone?’

Connie laughs. ‘Of course.’

Ibrahim nods. ‘And, secondly, are you a client of The Compound yourself?’

Connie tongs a couple of ice cubes into both drinks, and considers him. ‘Shall we retire to the cinema room? Anything you fancy watching?’

‘Anything you recommend?’

‘Do you watch Below Deck ?’ Connie asks.

‘Jog my memory,’ says Ibrahim.

‘It’s a reality show following the crew of a super-yacht,’ says Connie.

‘I have yet to catch it,’ says Ibrahim.

Connie leads Ibrahim into the darkness of the cinema room, two rows of four velvet armchairs all facing a huge screen. Ibrahim and Connie take seats in the front row, and she sees Ibrahim tilt his seat back.

‘So are you?’ says Ibrahim. ‘A client? You have things which require cold storage?’

‘I’m a criminal,’ says Connie. ‘I use cold storage, hot storage, encasing-something-in-concrete-and-dumping-it-in-the-sea storage. My whole job is storage. Money, drugs, evidence, information.’

‘But The Compound specifically,’ says Ibrahim. ‘You use it? You could get into it?’

‘Huh,’ says Connie. ‘Do you worry sometimes about our boundaries? As therapist and client?’

She has been reading about boundaries.

‘I think you and I make our own rules,’ says Ibrahim.

Connie loves that he makes stuff up as he goes along.

Ibrahim’s wisdom is artfully seasoned by self-interest. That’s why they get along.

‘I, because I’m older, and have earned the right to make my own rules, and you, because you adhere to rules very badly. So our boundaries are porous.’

Porous boundaries. Sure, thinks Connie. Whatever Ibrahim needs to tell himself. He speaks to a drug dealer every week, and he enjoys it. He disapproves of everything Connie does, and yet back he comes, like a dog to a favourite tree.

‘The Compound’s not really something I can speak to you about,’ says Connie. She really does need to shut this down if she can. ‘The less you know about it, the better.’

‘It’s just two friends talking,’ says Ibrahim. ‘We are friends, I hope?’

For a clever man, Ibrahim can be very transparent.

He wants Connie to talk about The Compound; Connie doesn’t want to.

He has approached her directly, and been rebuffed directly, and so she now has a whole afternoon of Ibrahim trying different tacks to get the information he wants.

He has begun with flattery, but that’s not where he will end.

He will be insufferable. Connie doesn’t want him getting tangled up with The Compound.

Too many bad people, even for her. But if Ibrahim really wants to know something, there are very few places where she can hide from him.

‘I’ll make you a deal,’ says Connie. ‘If you can make it through an episode of Below Deck with me, I’ll help you get into The Compound.’

Ibrahim swishes his whisky around in its tumbler. ‘If I say yes, can we have more whisky?’

‘We can,’ says Connie.

‘Then it’s a deal,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Let’s get this Below Deck nonsense out of the way and then we can talk.’