“We simply need to eliminate some people from our inquiries,” says Ibrahim.
“Maybe you had a good reason?” says Ron.
“Is there ever a good reason to murder someone, Ron?” asks Bernard.
Ron shrugs. “Maybe you’ve got something hidden down there in the graveyard. You a diabetic? Good with a needle?”
“We all are, Ron,” says Bernard.
“Where were you in the seventies, mate? Were you local?”
“That’s a peculiar question, Ron,” says Bernard. “If you don’t mind me saying?”
“All the same, were you?” says Ron.
“We’re just exploring avenues,” says Ibrahim. “We’re asking everyone.”
Bernard turns to Ibrahim. “Is this the game? Good cop, nasty cop?”
Ibrahim considers this. “Well, yes, that is the idea. Psychologically, it is often very effective. I have a book you could read if you are interested?”
Bernard lets out a long breath and turns to Ron. “Ron, you met my wife. You met Asima.”
Ron nods.
“And you were nothing but kind to her. She liked you.”
“Well, I liked her, Bernard. You had a good one there.”
“Everyone liked her, Ron,” says Bernard. “And yet you still ask me why I sit here? It’s nothing to do with the graveyard, and it’s nothing to do with needles. Or where I lived fifty years ago. I’m just an old man who misses his wife. So spare me.”
He stands. “Gentlemen, you have spoiled my morning. Shame on you both.”
Ibrahim looks up at him. “Bernard, I don’t believe you, I’m afraid. I want to, but I don’t. You have a story you are desperate to tell. So, anytime you want to talk, you know where to find me.”
Bernard smiles and shakes his head. “Talk? To you?”
Ibrahim nods. “Yes, talk to me, Bernard. Or to Ron. Whatever has happened, the worst thing you could do is to stay silent.”
Bernard tucks his paper under his arm. “With respect, Ibrahim, Ron, you have no idea what the worst thing I could do is.”
And with that, Bernard starts a slow walk down the hill.
82.
Joyce
Well, that was jolly good fun. For starters, I had never been to Folkestone.
Peter Ward is Bobby Tanner’s name now, but we are sworn to secrecy. He’s a florist.
I suppose I have two things to write about. Why was Peter Ward a florist? And, florist or not, who did he think killed Tony Curran?
I might write about Bernard too, but I will leave that to the end, because I want to think about it while I write the rest.
Peter Ward—I will call him Peter—left Fairhaven shortly after his brother died, for reasons you can imagine. He got himself a new passport. It’s easily done if you listen to Elizabeth and Peter, but I wouldn’t know how to go about it, would you? He ended up in Amsterdam, doing odd jobs. Not odd jobs as we would think about them, like clearing your gutters or painting a fence, but taking cocaine across the channel on ferries. Or, I suppose, threatening people. You could see that in him, underneath everything.
He fell in with a gang from Liverpool. He wouldn’t tell us the name, as if I would have any sway if he had. Their ruse was to smuggle drugs in the backs of those big flower lorries you see coming over from Holland and Belgium. That was their “angle.”
