Having trouble keeping up, Billy? Don’t worry about it. You might be a murderer five times over, but your denseness in this area isn’t your fault. Our education system fails so many. What are you – a car mechanic? A security guard? We can’t all be expected to understand such sophisticated concepts. Those of us who know what a book is shouldn’t crow about it – especially not within earshot of someone who thinks the word means white pages, folded and stapled in the middle, with a few random words tossed in.

Chapter 24

24

from Origami by Kim Tribbeck

Thursday, 22 January 2015

Remember that time you met a serial killer, a collection of police detectives, a psychological profiler and your ex-lover in a genteel market town’s best Indian restaurant at nine o’clock in the morning?

Of course you don’t remember it. It’s never happened to you. It doesn’t happen to most people.

The restaurant is the Khaybar. It’s on a cobbled street in Silsford called Guggle Lane. There are white linen tablecloths on the tables, covered by pink paper ones, and laminated menus standing upright between unlit candles and small white vases of fake red flowers. The interior says traditional Indian restaurant, but the building looks as if it would be better suited to an antique shop.

Along one wall there are booths, like in the Hourglass in Rawndesley. Ideal for privacy, which, as we all know, means the ability to stick your hand into another person’s body without attracting the attention of the wider community.

I wonder if Liam’s also remembering that evening, prompted by the booths. Next to him is the woman who introduced herself to me as Faith Kendell – his sister, Isobel. She’s been trying to catch my eye since I arrived, to inflict her grateful smile on me. Liam, by contrast, is studiously avoiding looking in my direction.

Drew’s sitting at a table on his own. When I walked in, he looked at me then quickly looked away. The message was clear: ‘Don’t sit with me.’ Happy to oblige, bro. We’re not going to be seeing one another again after today, are we? It’s funny how you can know some things for certain, without a word being spoken.

Despite the number of police present, I don’t feel safe. It’s not being murdered that I’m scared of; it never has been.

I’m afraid of Isobel Sturridge’s peculiar smile. No one’s moving to defend me against it as they would if she pulled out a gun, and although I’m not looking at it, I know it’s there.

Not understanding precisely what needs to be feared: that’s what frightens me.