‘I don’t trust Mitch, I don’t trust Luca, I don’t trust Samantha, and I don’t trust Garth,’ says Joyce. ‘Although he is very rugged.’
‘I saw you had the private room,’ says Bob. ‘It was the talk of the restaurant.’
‘But I also think this,’ says Joyce. ‘If any of them had the heroin, or knew where it was, then they wouldn’t have come to lunch. I think they were all fishing for clues.’
‘And Kuldesh?’
‘I think someone around that table killed him,’ says Joyce. ‘At least one of them.’
‘And what about the man I saw?’ says Bob. ‘Dominic, with the bullet through his head?’
‘Could have been any of them,’ says Ron. ‘Villains shoot villains. Who cares?’
‘Thank you, Ron,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Really helping with the load while Elizabeth is not with us.’
‘Where is she anyway, Joycey?’
‘You know as well as I do where she is,’ says Joyce. ‘I saw you hug Stephen.’
‘Yeah,’ says Ron, and looks at the label on his lager instead of at Joyce. ‘Should we be helping?’
‘Nothing to be done,’ says Ibrahim. ‘She knows we’re here.’
A new message appears on the computer screen.
JEREMMY:
OK, I come to you. You sure you have money?
MERVYN:
Oh, that’s very kind of you, Jeremmy, thank you for going out of your way. People often fail to make allowances for those older than them. I sense your kindness and sensitivity. Will you stay for dinner? I would love to get to know you a little better. Perhaps we will be firm friends once Tatiana arrives!
‘Have they not noticed you don’t sound like Mervyn any more?’ Joyce asks.
‘They are so close to the money, they just want to believe,’ says Ibrahim. ‘It’s the same trick they play. Dangle the thing you want most just out of reach. Mervyn wants love; they want Mervyn’s money.’
JEREMMY:
I cannot have dinner. I have to leave. You have the money in cash?
MERVYN:
I do. The whole £2,800. Money well spent.
JEREMMY:
£5,000 now. For expenses.
MERVYN:
I don’t have £5,000.
JEREMMY:
Just ask. Otherwise I can’t come and Tatiana will be angry with us both.
MERVYN:
Well, we can’t have that. When can you come?
JEREMMY:
Tomorrow.
‘No,’ says Joyce. ‘Wait until Elizabeth is back. It’ll be something nice for her. An arrest.’
MERVYN:
Next week. I have an operation on my testes this week.
Ibrahim looks at Joyce. ‘If I say “testes” that’s the end of any argument. No man wants to negotiate.’
JEREMMY:
OK, next Wednesday. We have your address.
MERVYN:
Smashing. Looking forward to meeting you, Jeremmy.
Joyce claps her hands, waking Alan. ‘Lovely! What shall we do next?’
‘We were going to drink whisky and watch the snooker,’ says Ron. ‘It’s the only sport we both like.’
‘Though I’m coming around to darts,’ says Ibrahim.
‘The darts,’ corrects Ron.
‘Perhaps I’ll stay?’ says Joyce. ‘We can have a good old natter?’
‘If we’re watching the snooker,’ says Ibrahim, ‘then the only good old natter is about the snooker. How many points Mark Selby might be ahead, for instance. Or whether Shaun Murphy is likely to pull off a particularly tricky safety shot. There will be no general conversation.’
‘Perhaps I will take Alan for a walk,’ says Joyce. ‘Bob, would you care to join me?’
‘I, uh …’ There is something Bob doesn’t want to say.
‘You a snooker man, Bob?’ Ron asks.
‘I am, yes,’ says Bob. ‘I was about to head off and watch it.’
‘Fancy watching it with two mates?’
‘Well, I, yes, that would, that would be very enjoyable,’ says Bob, looking like a boy invited to a friend’s house after school.
‘No conversation not about snooker though,’ says Ron.
‘Perfect,’ says Bob.
Joyce stands. Alan is chasing his tail on Ron’s rug.
‘You’ll never catch it, Alan,’ says Ron.
‘That’s just it, isn’t it?’ says Joyce, pulling on her coat. ‘There’s always something just out of reach. Love, money. Alan’s tail. The heroin. Everyone chasing the thing they don’t have. Going mad until they get it.’
‘Mmm,’ says Ron, turning the snooker on.
‘It’s like that every night. I dream of Gerry. I know I can’t have him, but I never give up trying.’
Ibrahim and Ron both look at Joyce, and then at each other. Ibrahim gives a slight nod, and Ron rolls his eyes.
‘All right, you can stay and chat about whatever you want.’
‘Only if you’re sure,’ says Joyce, coat already halfway off again.
Nina Mishra doesn’t really like her job. Doesn’t like the pay, certainly. She really felt it yesterday, sitting around that table with the drug dealers and the art forgers, while she was being careful not to spill anything on her dress so she could fold it up and send it back to ASOS the next day.
Actually, that’s not fair. There are bits of the job she
