“No, not for a few years now.”
“Same, same. A blessing in some ways. I was a slave to it. Anyway, I’d say he’s a nine, wouldn’t you? Old Bernard? He was there, you could see he doesn’t want the place bulldozed, and he worked in science or something, didn’t he?”
“Petrochemicals, I think.”
“There you are, then, fentanyl. Nine.”
Ibrahim is inclined to agree. Bernard does not seem to be living entirely in grace. He writes “9” next to Bernard Cottle’s name.
“Of course, if they are banging, Joyce won’t like that nine,” says Ron.
“Joyce has the same information that we have. She will already know he’s a nine.”
“She’s no fool, that one,” agrees Ron. “What about that girl from the top of the hill? The farmer’s girl with the computers?”
“Karen Playfair,” says Ibrahim.
“She was there, eh?” says Ron. “Bang in the middle of it. Probably knows a thing or two about drugs. Pretty too, and that’s always trouble.”
“Is it?”
“Always,” says Ron. “To me, anyway.”
“Motive?” asks Ibrahim.
Ron shrugs. “Affair? Forget graveyards, it’s usually an affair.”
“A seven perhaps?” says Ibrahim. “Or perhaps a seven with an asterisk, and a footnote explaining that the asterisk means ‘in need of further investigation’?”
“Asterisk seven,” agrees Ron, though with a pronunciation of the wordasteriskvery much his own. “And that just leaves the four of us, eh? The only ones left on the list?”
Ibrahim looks down at the list and nods.
“Shall we?” asks Ron.
“You think there is a chance one of us did it?”
“Well, I didn’t do it, that’s for sure,” says Ron. “They can redevelop what they like; more the merrier, far as I’m concerned.”
“And yet you led the objections at the public meeting, you lobbied the council, and you started the barricade? All designed to stop the redevelopment?”
“Of course,” says Ron, as if his friend has lost his mind. “No one takes liberties with me. And when else do you get the chance to cause a bit of troublewhen you’re nearly eighty? But mate, think of the service charge, the new facilities. Probably won’t happen now. No way I’d have killed him; that’d be cutting off my nose. Score me a four.”
Ibrahim shakes his head. “You get a seven. You are very combative, you are hotheaded, often irrational, you were there at the heart of the scuffle, and you are insulin-dependent, so you know how to use a needle. That adds up.”
Ron nods, fair enough. “All right, let’s call me a six.”
Ibrahim taps his pen against his book seven times before looking up. “And your son I think perhaps knew Tony Curran a little. Which adds up to seven.”
Ron is no longer in his place of peace, and his ice cubes now dance a different jig. He remains quiet, if not calm. “Don’t bring Jason into this, Ibrahim. You know better than that.”
Interesting, thinks Ibrahim, but says nothing. “Are we scoring ourselves, Ron, or are we not scoring ourselves?”
Ron stares at his friend for a long while. “We are, we are, you’re right. Well, if I’m a seven then you’re a seven too.”
“That’s fine,” says Ibrahim, and writes it in his book. “Any reason?”
“So many reasons, mate.” Ron thinks. He is smiling now, the tension broken. “Too smart by half, there’s one. You might want to write these down. You’re a psychopath, or sociopath, whichever one the bad one is. Terrible handwriting, that’s a sure sign. You’re an immigrant, and we’ve all read about them. There’s some poor British psychiatrist, a white fella, sitting at home without a job because of you. Also, perhaps you’re furious that your hair is thinning; people have killed over less.”
