“As much as you are, Liz,” says Ron.
Elizabeth opens a folder and takes out a sheet of paper. “Well, Ron, I’ve already been over this with Ibrahim, because I had a job for him, but listen carefully. The cause of death was an overdose of fentanyl, administered very shortly before death. This information is straight from a man who has access to the email correspondence of the Kent Police Forensic Service, but it hasn’t yet been confirmed by Donna, even though I have texted her repeatedly. Happy, Ron?”
Ron nods. “Yeah, I’ll give you that. What’s fentanyl? That’s a new one on me.”
“It’s an opioid, Ron, like heroin,” says Joyce. “They use it in anesthesia, pain relief, all sorts of things. Very effective; patients rave about it.”
“Also you can mix it with cocaine,” says Ibrahim. “If you were a drug addict, say.”
“And the Russian security services use it for all sorts of things,” says Elizabeth.
Ron nods again, satisfied.
Ibrahim says, “And, as it must’ve been administered very shortly before his death, then we are all suspects in his murder.”
Joyce claps her hands. “Splendid. I’m not sure how any of us would have got hold of fentanyl, but splendid.” She is arranging Viennese whirls on a commemorative Prince Andrew–Sarah Ferguson wedding plate that Joanna had assumed she would like many years ago.
Ron is nodding, looking at the photos of the scene. Looking at the faces of the residents, craning for a better view of Ian Ventham’s slumped body. “So, someone at Coopers Chase killed him? Someone in these pictures?”
“And we are all in the pictures,” says Ibrahim.
“Except for Elizabeth, of course,” says Joyce. “Because she was taking the photos. But she would still be a suspect for any half-decent investigation.”
“I would hope so,” agrees Elizabeth.
Ibrahim walks over to a flip chart. “Elizabeth asked me to make a few calculations.”
Elizabeth, Joyce, and Ron settle into the Jigsaw Room chairs. Ron takes a Viennese whirl, to the relief of Joyce, who now feels able to do the same. They are off-brand, but there had been a documentary on Discovery that had said they were made in the same factory as the proper ones.
Ibrahim begins. “Somebody in that crowd administered an injection to Ian Ventham which killed him, almost certainly within a minute. There was a puncture wound found on his upper arm. I asked you all to compile a listof everybody you remembered seeing, which you kindly did, although not all of your lists were alphabetized in the way I had asked.”
Ibrahim looks at Ron, who shrugs. “Honestly, I get mixed up somewhere around F, H, and G, and then I give up.”
Ibrahim continues. “If we combine those lists—an easy job if you know your way around an Excel spreadsheet—then in total there were sixty-four residents at the scene, ourselves included. Then we add DCI Hudson and PC De Freitas, the builder Bogdan, who went missing—”
“He was up on the hill,” says Elizabeth.
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” says Ibrahim. “We add the driver of the low-loader, whose name was Marie, another Pole if that is of interest. She also teaches yoga, but that’s by the by. Karen Playfair, the lady who lives at the top of the hill, was there, as she was supposed to teach us about computers yesterday. And then, of course, Father Matthew Mackie.”
“That makes seventy, Ibrahim,” says Ron, now on to his second biscuit, whatever diabetes might say.
“And Ian Ventham makes seventy-one,” explains Ibrahim.
“So you think he might have driven up, started a ruck, then killed himself? All right, Poirot,” says Ron.
“This isn’t thinking, Ron,” says Ibrahim. “This is just a list. So no impatience, please.”
“Impatience is all I got,” says Ron. “It’s my superpower. You know Arthur Scargill once told me to be patient? Arthur Scargill.”
“So one of these seventy people killed Ian Ventham. Now, these are nicer odds than the Thursday Murder Club usually faces, but can we narrow down the field still further?”
“It would have to be someone with access to needles and drugs,” suggests Joyce.
“That’s everyone here, Joyce,” says Elizabeth.
“Quite so, Elizabeth,” agrees Ibrahim. “If I might be permitted a visualimage, that would be like looking for a needle in a haystack made entirely of needles.”
Ibrahim pauses under the assumption there might be applause at this point. In its absence, he continues.
