Chapter 41
Ibrahim had wanted to drive the Daihatsu right up to Tony Curran’s front gate, just for the purposes of absolute accuracy. Elizabeth had told him that this was poor fieldcraft, however, and so they are now in a lay-by about three hundred meters from Curran’s house. It will do, he supposes.
Ibrahim has his notebook open on the hood and is showing some calculations to Joyce and Elizabeth. Ron is urinating in the woods.
“So it took us thirty-seven minutes at an average speed of twenty-seven and a half miles per hour. There was no traffic, because I am very efficient at plotting routes. I have a sixth sense. Other people would have hit traffic, I assure you.”
“I will recommend you for a gallantry honor,” says Elizabeth. “As soon as we get back. Now, what does this mean for Ventham?”
“Would you like the detailed answer, or the simple answer?” asks Ibrahim.
“The simple answer, please, Ibrahim,” says Elizabeth, without hesitation.
Ibrahim pauses. Perhaps he had phrased his question poorly? “But I have prepared a detailed answer, Elizabeth.”
He lets this hang in the air, until Joyce says, “Well, let’s all enjoy the detailed answer, shall we?”
“As you wish, Joyce,” Ibrahim says, turning over a page in his notebook.
“Now, Ventham could have taken one of three routes. He might have taken our route, but I doubt it; I don’t think he has my insight for road networks.
Route two, along the A21, looks the most obvious on the map; it’s the straightest line, but here our friend temporary roadworks comes into play.
I spoke yesterday to a very interesting man at Kent County Council, who says the roadworks are to do with fiber optics.
Would you would like me to elaborate further on fiber optics, Joyce? ”
“I think I’m okay, if Elizabeth is,” says Joyce.
Ibrahim nods. “Another time. So route three, you could take the London Road, down past Battle Abbey, cut across, and then down the B2159. Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that seems slower, surely?”
“I was certainly thinking something, but it wasn’t that,” says Elizabeth. Ibrahim could swear he senses impatience, but he is going as quickly as he can.
“So, we take our speed, which you will remember was . . . ?”
“I’ve forgotten, Ibrahim; forgive me,” says Joyce.
“Approximately twenty-seven and a half miles per hour, Joyce,” says Ibrahim, with his trademark patience.
“Of course,” Joyce replies, nodding.
“And we will allow an extra three miles per hour for Ian Ventham’s average speed.
I was being careful, as you know.” Ibrahim looks at both Elizabeth and Joyce and is gratified by their quick nods.
“So, I then took the liberty of aggregating his three possible routes, dividing the answer by his average speed, and subtracting a margin of error. I have calculated the margin of error in a rather elegant way. Take a look at my notebook and you’ll see the math.
We take the average speed of route A, and then we—”
Ibrahim stops as a noise comes from the woods. It is Ron emerging, zipping himself up, without a care in the world.
“Better out than in,” says Ron.
“Ron!” says Elizabeth, as if greeting her oldest friend in the world. “We were about to enjoy Ibrahim showing us some math, but I imagine you’d have little patience with that?”
“No math, Ibrahim, old son,” says Ron. “Could Ventham have got here on time?”
“Well, I can show—”
Ron waves this away. “Ibrahim, I’m seventy-five, mate. Could he have done it?”