Chapter 38
The morning sun is rising in the Kent sky.
“Ibrahim, if you keep driving at twenty-nine miles per hour, this whole exercise will be moot,” says Elizabeth, her fingers drumming on the glove box.
“And if I crash on a sharp bend, the exercise will also be moot,” says Ibrahim, eyes fixed on the road, intending to remain steadfast.
“Would anyone like a Mini Cheddar?” asks Joyce.
Ibrahim was tempted, but he liked to have both hands on the wheel at all times. Ten and two.
Ron was the only one of them who had a car, but there had still been an argument about who was going to drive.
Joyce hadn’t had a license for thirty years, and so was out immediately.
Ron had put up a token fight, but Ibrahim knew he had lost his confidence on right-hand turns and would be secretly delighted to be voted down.
Elizabeth put up more spirited opposition, mentioning that she still held a fully valid tank license.
She really could play fast and loose with the Official Secrets Act at times.
But in the end it all came down to this: Ibrahim was the only one who understood how the satnav worked.
It had been Elizabeth’s idea, he was happy to grant her that.
They knew, somehow, that Ian Ventham had left Coopers Chase at exactly three p.m., and they knew that Tony Curran had been murdered at 3:32.
Ibrahim had had to explain to everyone what a Fitbit was.
And so here they were, timing the journey in Ron’s Daihatsu.
Ibrahim knew they could have just plotted the journey on the satnav, but he also knew no one else realized that, and he had fancied the drive. It had been a long time.
So Ibrahim is behind the wheel. Joyce and Ron are happily sharing their Mini Cheddars in the backseat, Elizabeth has stopped drumming her fingers and is now texting someone on her phone, and everyone had been to the toilet before they left, as per Ibrahim’s instructions.
Could Ian Ventham have made it from Coopers Chase to Tony Curran’s house in time to kill him? If he couldn’t, then they were barking up the wrong tree. They were about to find out.