The Impossible Fortune, page 24
With words it’s more difficult. I wish you could always have the same password for everything, but sometimes they don’t let you. I have used GerryMeadow for so many years, but sometimes you need numbers too, so I use GerryMeadow42, and sometimes you need special characters, and I use GerryMeadow42! When I had to use that one the other day, I got locked out, because I forgot that the exclamation mark was part of the password. I just thought I had been in a jolly mood when I wrote it down.
I had an email the other day that said that the password for my Gardeners’ World subscription had been ‘involved in a data breach’ and I should change it immediately. I don’t know why anyone would try to hack into my Gardeners’ World Magazine account – all I do is buy seeds and occasionally add a comment under one of Monty Don’s articles – but I tried to do as I was told. I put in GerryMeadow and it told me ‘Password not recognized’, so I asked to change my password, and tried to change it to GerryMeadow and it said, ‘Your new password cannot be the same as your previous password’, which didn’t make any sense at all, and so I have simply had to cancel my subscription.
Ibrahim sent Paul all sorts of questions about Holly and Nick, and wrote down the answers in a database. In the end he came up with a list of twenty possible codes that he thought might open the safe. ‘I can say with some confidence it is one of these numbers,’ he said. And, I’ll give Ibrahim this, he did say it with some confidence.
In the end Elizabeth got the better of him, and you could see he was disappointed. Imagine how furious he would be if I cracked Nick Silver’s code. It would be like Venezuela all over again.
How clever though. The phone number was the code. Jamie Usher was a fraudster, but he had absolutely no connection to Holly other than six random digits.
If I’d known when we met him that he was a fraudster, I would have asked him why someone was trying to hack into my Gardeners’ World account. Or maybe ask him to look up my password for me.
It was nice to see Donna yesterday. She was coy about where she was heading next, and I do understand why. If she was dropping in on us, she was heading north. And a long enough journey for Donna to say yes to cake, but a short enough journey for her to skip using the loo before she left. So you’d guess London, wouldn’t you? And I can think of only one person she might want to question in London, and that’s Paul.
Of course somebody should question him, I’m not a fool. I’ve investigated enough murders now to know who’s a suspect and who’s not a suspect. But if he’s involved, why were Nick’s texts sent to him? And why did he show them to us? Also, I trust Joanna’s judgement. I may not like the paint colour in her new hallway (too dark – a hallway should be welcoming) and she is wrong about sushi, but she has her father’s head on her shoulders, and if she doesn’t suspect Paul, neither do I.
I note as well that Donna is not investigating this case, and so someone else must have asked her to speak to Paul. My guess is Elizabeth. It’s not even a guess, I know it will have been Elizabeth.
This whole case is buzzing around me, and lots of other things seem to be too. I feel a bit useless. Perhaps the adrenaline from the wedding has finally left me?
Alan is wagging his tail at me, but heaven knows why. I haven’t contributed a single thing to the case. Ibrahim has a house full of guests and no one is telling me why. My best friend doesn’t trust me enough to tell me she’s questioning my son-in-law. My brownies were too heavy. I forgot to tell Joanna I love her.
What use am I? I’m not going to discover Nick Silver’s code. Some women make history, and some women make tea. I will never be Elizabeth.
I might go online and order a nice tea set for Jasper. That is something useful and practical I can actually do.
Life isn’t all about solving murders, fun though it is. Sometimes you have to help people before they’re dead.
I will never be Elizabeth. But, then, she will never be me. Perhaps I have my own job to do.
Let Alan wag his tail, and let Ibrahim crack the code instead.
57
Ibrahim brings in a tray with three mugs on it. Kendrick and Tia are lying on the floor, colouring in planets in Kendrick’s book.
‘I said it would be too babyish,’ says Kendrick, looking up. ‘But Tia said she didn’t mind.’
‘They had colouring-in books in prison,’ says Tia. ‘They were very popular.’
‘I have made myself three hot chocolates,’ says Ibrahim. ‘But three is too many for one man. I suppose I could share them if one of you is thirsty?’
Kendrick and Tia both leap to their feet. Tia looks so much younger than she did when she arrived. Seeing her with Kendrick reminds Ibrahim that she is just a child. Whatever Connie wants to turn her into, Ibrahim is determined he won’t allow it. What a life this girl might have.
Ibrahim sits down on the sofa, and Kendrick sits next to him. Tia sits in his armchair, tucks her legs underneath her and reaches for a mug.
‘Elizabeth was very clever to work out Holly’s code,’ says Kendrick.
‘I like to think I helped,’ says Ibrahim.
‘And Grandad,’ says Kendrick. ‘You all helped. The Thursday Murder Club.’
‘There was a murder club in prison too,’ says Tia. ‘They murdered people. What does your murder club do?’
‘We investigate things,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And with some success.’
‘Like Holly’s murder?’ Tia asks.
‘Mmm hmm,’ says Ibrahim. He doesn’t really want to be talking to Tia about murders; it seems to rub against his plan of turning her away from that sort of life. But at the same time he does enjoy talking about them, and the cat is well and truly out of the bag now. She knows about the explosion, the money, the codes.
‘So Holly had a code,’ says Tia. ‘And this guy Nick Silver has the other six digits.’
‘There you have it,’ says Ibrahim. ‘On the nose.’
‘So Nick Silver killed her,’ says Tia. ‘Case closed. This hot chocolate is amazing.’
‘Either that, or someone killed them both,’ says Ibrahim. ‘No one has heard from Nick Silver since the wedding, except for some texts that clearly weren’t from him.’
‘She dies; he disappears,’ says Tia. ‘I bet he killed her.’
‘Yeah, I bet too,’ says Kendrick.
‘Do you agree with everything Tia says now, Kendrick?’ Ibrahim teases.
‘Yes,’ says Kendrick, unteasable.
Ibrahim feels sleepy and happy. This feels like a family.
‘How do you know the texts weren’t from him?’ Tia asks.
‘I’ll show you,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And you’ll see.’
He fetches one of his printouts of the text exchange and hands it to Tia. She starts to read.
‘The language doesn’t sound like him,’ says Ibrahim. ‘And he doesn’t know simple information about his best friend.’
As Tia is reading, Kendrick gets up from the sofa and slides onto the armchair beside her. It fits them both. Two children. One running from something Ibrahim has yet to discover, the other being protected from something Ibrahim knows only too well. Kendrick puts his head on Tia’s shoulder as they read. How much longer does he have as a child, this clever boy? How much longer before life makes him an adult? Until his shoes have laces and his heart has scars? Until his shame deepens alongside his voice and he no longer wants to lie on the floor and colour in the planets?
‘No one talks like this,’ says Tia, rereading the messages, and Kendrick nods.
‘I told you so,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Elizabeth and I have combed them this way and that. We can’t say who sent them, but we can certainly say that it wasn’t Nick Silver.’
Tia nods and goes back to reading. Right at this moment Ibrahim wants to save these two from the world. To save them from Kendrick’s dad, and from Tia’s trouble. Tia is pointing something out to Kendrick. They could be brother and sister, the two of them. Ibrahim feels himself falling asleep. Ibrahim, Kendrick and Tia, three lost children. Of course you can’t save people from the world, all you can do is –
‘But you see it?’ Kendrick says to him, and Ibrahim stops himself from dozing off.
‘Mmm?’
‘You see it?’ Kendrick repeats. ‘You and Elizabeth? You see it?’
‘See what?’ Ibrahim asks.
Tia holds up the paper. ‘How many times have you looked at these messages?’
‘Once or twice,’ says Ibrahim. Can he see what? ‘Five times perhaps, no more than that. Let’s say twelve.’
Tia tilts her head at him. ‘And you didn’t spot it?’
Ibrahim reaches for an answer, but cannot, at present, find one.
‘These are from Nick Silver,’ says Kendrick.
‘That seems un–’
‘You really don’t see it?’ says Tia.
‘I think, umm,’ says Ibrahim. ‘I think I get the gist, but any input you have, you know, is gratefully received.’
‘Nick Silver’s alive,’ says Tia. ‘And he’s got a message for you.’
58
Elizabeth has learned, in her long, long career, to accept help from any corner. Never be precious. Even so, she would very much like to work out what Tia and Kendrick have spotted before they tell her. She sees Ibrahim poring over the texts too.
‘Is it invisible ink?’ Joyce asks.
‘Of course it’s not invisible ink,’ Elizabeth snaps. Though she takes a quick glance down to double-check.
‘If you take the first letters of each text,’ says Ibrahim, ‘it spells out PNCSJI. Now, if I can just –’
Kendrick holds up a finger. ‘I don’t know if it’s rude to interrupt, but could somebody read them out?’
‘Ooh, me!’ volunteers Joyce.
‘You’d be so good at it, Joyce,’ says Kendrick.
‘All of them?’ she asks.
‘One by one,’ says Tia. ‘If that’s okay?’
Joyce looks down at the printout, then looks at Elizabeth, Ibrahim and Ron in turn. She really can’t help building her part.
Paul it’s me. I have to lay low for a while but don’t worry, I’m safe.
‘Don’t worry, I’m safe,’ repeats Tia, and Joyce reads on.
No need mate, just wanted you to know I’m alive.
‘No need mate,’ says Kendrick.
Can’t ring this evening Paul. Will explain all soon.
‘Can’t ring this evening,’ says Tia. ‘Do we see it yet?’
We don’t, thinks Elizabeth, also noting that Tia is a very interesting proposition. Where has she sprung from? Joyce reads on.
Sorry mate, what is this? A test of our friendship? I’m letting you know I’m okay, and this is what I get?
‘A test of our friendship,’ says Kendrick. Elizabeth sees that Ibrahim has both his highlighter pen and his tongue out.
Kendrick gives Joyce a thumbs-up. ‘You’re doing such good reading.’
Jesus Paul. When I need you most, you pull this? We both know the name of the car. Stop messing around and let people know I’m okay.
‘When I need you most,’ says Tia.
I’m sorry if I’ve offended you Paul. I thought we were friends, but I can’t trust you. Signing off for good now.
‘Sorry if I’ve offended you,’ says Kendrick.
‘And there we have it,’ says Tia.
‘Grandad,’ says Kendrick, ‘you’ve worked it out?’
‘Course,’ says Ron. ‘Ages ago. Just waiting for the others to catch up.’
Elizabeth has scribbled down all of these phrases but still doesn’t see it. Perhaps it’s slang? A young person thing. She hopes so. That would be a good excuse for not seeing it.
‘Can I borrow your highlighter pen, Uncle Ibrahim?’ asks Kendrick. ‘We’re not allowed to use them at school, because Nathan Pearson was sniffing them and –’
‘You can use it,’ says Ibrahim.
Kendrick lays his piece of paper on Ibrahim’s table where they can all see it. He then highlights sections of each message.
Don’T WOrry, I’m safe
nO NEed mate
Can’t ring thiS EVENing
A test oF OUR friendship
WheN I NEed you most
Sorry iF I’VE offended you
Well, Elizabeth has seen a few things in her time. There it was, all along. Would she have spotted that, even in her glory days? She suspects not.
‘Two, one, seven, four, nine, five,’ says Ron. ‘I’ll be damned.’
‘Six messages, you see,’ says Tia. ‘That’s what started us thinking.’
‘So we started looking,’ says Kendrick. ‘Six numbers.’
‘He’s still alive,’ says Elizabeth.
Ibrahim nods. ‘And we have both halves of the code.’
THE FOLLOWING THURSDAY
59
You want a job doing properly, you do it yourself.
Danny Lloyd should be fuming. Fuming that the guy he hired at great expense had failed to kill Jason Ritchie, and fuming that he’s sitting in an Economy seat between two losers, on a flight back to Stansted. It was the only remaining ticket on the flight, and time is of the essence now.
It was a mistake to go to Portugal: you can’t be in control of things when you’re not in the same country. Danny is heading to the South Coast. He knows people, people know him, and there’s other business he can be taking care of while he waits for someone to do a proper job on Jason Ritchie.
He clicks his fingers, but somehow the flight attendant fails to notice. No matter, no matter.
It’s funny, isn’t it, how your priorities change? How the thing that was so important yesterday can take a back seat today. Yesterday all he could think about was Jason Ritchie. Kill Jason, kill Suzi, see where the cards fell. Danny Lloyd is a disrupter. Rules are for losers. Rules are for the two guys sitting either side of him. Danny doesn’t need them.
He’ll still kill Jason; he’ll have to now. Jason won’t have taken kindly to being shot at, and, while Danny doesn’t fear Jason, you do have to tread carefully in this game.
But something much more exciting has come up. The sort of thing that makes a two-hour Economy flight worthwhile. The geezer next to him moves his leg an inch. Danny turns to him.
‘If your leg touches my leg again, the second we get to Stansted, I’m going to break it.’
Danny turns away and shuts his eyes. He just tried to do a line of coke in the plane toilet, but all the surfaces are sloped.
He hopes he can get some sleep, because he’s looking forward to his dreams.
60
The metal cage is just large enough for two, and Ron and Connie are nose to nose in a dim, artificial light. They have started their slow descent, and the cage whirrs and whines around them.
The question for the gang was who would go down into The Compound with Connie, but Ron would accept no argument. He was going.
No one had liked it. Elizabeth had said, ‘Your plan is to travel in a small cage with a woman who has threatened to kill you, to an underground vault, whereupon you’ll retrieve a piece of paper worth a quarter of a billion pounds? That’s your grand plan.’
And, yep, that was his grand plan.
‘What shall we talk about?’ says Connie.
‘Who’s your favourite West Ham player?’ Ron asks.
‘Is this your small talk?’ says Connie.
‘Yep,’ says Ron. ‘Honed over many years.’
‘Maybe I will kill you,’ says Connie. ‘You have very fresh breath by the way.’
Ron nods. ‘You too. My favourite West Ham player’s Mark Noble. Who’s your favourite James Bond?’
‘That’s a better question,’ says Connie. ‘Pierce Brosnan. I’d climb that man like a tree.’
‘Agreed,’ says Ron. ‘Except the bit about the tree.’
The cage shudders. It would be a bad place to get trapped.
‘Talking of men I’d bang till they passed out,’ says Connie, ‘is your Jason still with that woman?’
‘He is,’ says Ron. ‘Might be serious.’
‘Shame,’ says Connie.
‘You’re not his type, Connie,’ says Ron, and Connie laughs.
‘I’d have made a good daughter-in-law to you, Ron,’ says Connie. ‘I’d have paid for the wedding and everything. Bogdan still dating Donna?’
‘Far as I know,’ says Ron.
‘Why are all the handsome men with great arms taken?’
‘Beats me,’ says Ron. ‘Can I ask you another question?’
‘Is it about West Brom?’
‘West Ham,’ says Ron.
‘Is it about West Ham?’
‘No,’ says Ron.
‘Ask away, I’m not going anywhere,’ says Connie, looking around her, then returning nose to nose.
‘What do you and Ibrahim talk about? You know, when you talk?’
The low light dims further, then flickers back to life. Connie thinks, then puffs her cheeks.
‘I don’t know,’ says Connie. ‘But I always feel better afterwards.’
‘Same,’ says Ron. ‘How does he do that?’
‘I think he likes people,’ says Connie. ‘That’s his secret.’
‘Even us,’ says Ron.
‘Even us,’ agrees Connie.
‘You wouldn’t really have killed me, would you?’ Ron asks.
‘Definitely,’ says Connie.
‘I’m half dead anyway these days,’ says Ron. His nose is suddenly an inch lower than Connie’s nose. ‘I can’t even stand on tiptoes any more.’
‘Who killed Holly, do you think?’ Connie asks.
‘Elizabeth thinks whoever did it will show themselves as soon as she’s got that piece of paper.’
‘Well …’ says Connie.
‘Yeah, well …’ says Ron.
