Culpepper answered on the third ring.
‘Strike,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Good. Calling to ask a favour.’
‘Go on,’ said Culpepper non-committally.
‘You’ve got a cousin called Nina who works for Roper Chard—’
‘How the hell do you know that?’
‘You told me,’ said Strike patiently.
‘When?’
‘Few months ago when I was investigating that dodgy dentist for you.’
‘Your fucking memory,’ said Culpepper, sounding less impressed than unnerved. ‘It’s not normal. What about her?’
‘Couldn’t put me in touch with her, could you?’ asked Strike. ‘Roper Chard have got an anniversary party tomorrow night and I’d like to go.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve got a case,’ said Strike evasively. He never shared with Culpepper details of the high-society divorces and business ruptures he was investigating, in spite of Culpepper’s frequent requests to do so. ‘And I just gave you the scoop of your bloody career.’
‘Yeah, all right,’ said the journalist grudgingly, after a short hesitation. ‘I suppose I could do that for you.’
‘Is she single?’ Strike asked.
‘What, you after a shag, too?’ said Culpepper, and Strike noted that he seemed amused instead of peeved at the thought of Strike trying it on with his cousin.
‘No, I want to know whether it’ll look suspicious if she takes me to the party.’
‘Oh, right. I think she’s just split up with someone. I dunno. I’ll text you the number. Wait till Sunday,’ Culpepper added with barely suppressed glee. ‘A tsunami of shit’s about to hit Lord Porker.’
‘Call Nina for me first, will you?’ Strike asked him. ‘And tell her who I am, so she understands the gig?’
Culpepper agreed to it and rang off. In no particular hurry to return to Matthew, Strike smoked his cigarette down to the butt before moving back inside.
The packed room, he thought, as he made his way across it, bowing his head to avoid hanging pots and street signs, was like Matthew: it tried too hard. The decor included an old-fashioned stove and an ancient till, multiple shopping baskets, old prints and plates: a contrived panoply of junk-shop finds.
Matthew had hoped to have finished his noodles before Strike returned, to underline the length of his absence, but had not quite managed it. Robin was looking miserable and Strike, wondering what had passed between them while he had been gone, felt sorry for her.
‘Robin says you’re a rugby player,’ he told Matthew, determined to make an effort. ‘Could’ve played county, is that right?’
They made laborious conversation for another hour: the wheels turned most easily while Matthew was able to talk about himself. Strike noticed Robin’s habit of feeding Matthew lines and cues, each designed to open up an area of conversation in which he could shine.
‘How long have you two been together?’ he asked.
‘Nine years,’ said Matthew, with a slight return of his former combative air.
‘That long?’ said Strike, surprised. ‘What, were you at university together?’
‘School,’ said Robin, smiling. ‘Sixth form.’
‘Wasn’t a big school,’ said Matthew. ‘She was the only girl with any brains who was fanciable. No choice.’
Tosser, thought Strike.
Their way home lay together as far as Waterloo station; they walked through the darkness, continuing to make small talk, then parted at the entrance to the Tube.
‘There,’ said Robin hopelessly, as she and Matthew walked away towards the escalator. ‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’
‘Punctuality’s shit,’ said Matthew, who could find no other charge to lay against Strike that did not sound insane. ‘He’ll probably arrive forty minutes bloody late and ruin the service.’
But it was tacit consent to Strike’s attendance and, in the absence of genuine enthusiasm, Robin supposed it could have been worse.
Matthew, meanwhile, was brooding in silence on things he would have confessed to nobody. Robin had accurately described her boss’s looks – the pube-like hair, the boxer’s profile – but Matthew had not expected Strike to be so big. He had a couple of inches on Matthew, who enjoyed being the tallest man in his office. What was more, while he would have found it distasteful showboating if Strike had held forth about his experiences in Afghanistan and Iraq, or told them how his leg had been blown off, or how he had earned the medal that Robin seemed to find so impressive, his silence on these subjects had been almost more irritating. Strike’s heroism, his action-packed life, his experiences of travel and danger had somehow hovered, spectrally, over the conversation.
Beside him on the train, Robin too sat in silence. She had not enjoyed the evening one bit. Never before had she known Matthew quite like that; or at least, never before had she seen him like that. It was Strike, she thought, puzzling over the matter as the train jolted them. Strike had somehow made her see Matthew through his eyes. She did not know quite how he had done it – all that questioning Matthew about rugby – some people might have thought it was polite, but Robin knew better… or was she just annoyed that he had been late, and blaming him for things that he had not intended?
And so the engaged couple sped home, united in unexpressed irritation with the man now snoring loudly as he rattled away from them on the Northern line.
11
Let me know
Wherefore I should be thus neglected.
John Webster, The Duchess of Malfi
‘Is that Cormoran Strike?’ asked a girlish upper-middle-class voice at twenty to nine the following morning.
‘It is,’ said Strike.
‘It’s Nina. Nina Lascelles. Dominic gave me your number.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Strike, who was standing bare-chested in front of the shaving mirror he usually kept beside the kitchen sink, the shower room being both dark and cramped. Wiping shaving foam from around his mouth with his forearm, he said:
‘Did he tell you what it was about, Nina?’
‘Yeah, you want to infiltrate Roper Chard’s anniversary party.’
‘“Infiltrate” is a bit strong.’
‘But it sounds much more exciting if we say “infiltrate”.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said, amused. ‘I take it you’re up for this?’
‘Oooh, yes, fun. Am I allowed to guess why you want to come and spy on everyone?’
‘Again, “spy” isn’t really—’
‘Stop spoiling things. Am I allowed a guess?’
‘Go on then,’ said Strike, taking a sip from his mug of tea, his eyes on the window. It was foggy again; the brief spell of sunshine extinguished.
‘Bombyx Mori,’ said Nina. ‘Am I right? I am, aren’t I? Say I’m right.’
‘You’re right,’ said Strike and she gave a squeal of pleasure.
‘I’m not even supposed to be talking about it. There’s been a lockdown, emails round the company, lawyers storming in and out of Daniel’s office. Where shall we meet? We should hook up somewhere first and turn up together, don’t you think?’
‘Yeah, definitely,’ said Strike. ‘Where’s good for you?’
Even as he took a pen from the coat hanging behind the door he thought longingly of an evening at home, a good long sleep, an interlude of peace and rest before an early start on Saturday morning, tailing his brunette client’s faithless husband.
‘D’you know Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese?’ asked Nina. ‘On Fleet Street? Nobody from work’ll be in there, and it’s walking distance to the office. I know it’s corny but I love it.’
They agreed to meet at seven thirty. As Strike returned to his shaving, he asked himself how likely it was that he would meet anyone who knew Quine’s whereabouts at his publisher’s party. The trouble is, Strike mentally chided the reflection in the circular mirror as the pair of them strafed stubble from their chins, you keep acting like you’re still SIB. The nation’s not paying you to b
e thorough any more, mate.
But he knew no other way; it was part of a short but inflexible personal code of ethics that he had carried with him all his adult life: do the job and do it well.
Strike was intending to spend most of the day in the office, which under normal circumstances he enjoyed. He and Robin shared the paperwork; she was an intelligent and often helpful sounding board and as fascinated now with the mechanics of an investigation as she had been when she had joined him. Today, however, he headed downstairs with something bordering on reluctance and, sure enough, his seasoned antennae detected in her greeting a self-conscious edge that he feared would shortly break through into ‘What did you think of Matthew?’
This, Strike reflected, retiring to the inner office and shutting the door on the pretext of making phone calls, was exactly why it was a bad idea to meet your only member of staff outside working hours.
Hunger forced him to emerge a few hours later. Robin had bought sandwiches as usual, but she had not knocked on the door to let him know that they were there. This, too, seemed to point to feelings of awkwardness after the previous evening. To postpone the moment when it must be mentioned, and in the hope that if he kept off the subject long enough she might never bring it up (although he had never known the tactic to work on a woman before), Strike told her truthfully that he had just got off the phone with Mr Gunfrey.
‘Is he going to go to the police?’ asked Robin.
‘Er – no. Gunfrey isn’t the type of bloke who goes to the police if someone’s bothering him. He’s nearly as bent as the bloke who wants to cut his son. He’s realised he’s in over his head this time, though.’
‘Didn’t you think of recording what that gangster was paying you to do and taking it to the police yourself?’ asked Robin, without thinking.
‘No, Robin, because it’d be obvious where the tip-off came from and it’ll put a strain on business if I’ve got to dodge hired killers while doing surveillance.’
‘But Gunfrey can’t keep his son at home for ever!’
‘He won’t have to. He’s going to take the family off for a surprise holiday in the States, phone our knife-happy friend from LA and tell him he’s given the matter some thought and changed his mind about interfering with his business interests. Shouldn’t look too suspicious. The bloke’s already done enough shitty stuff to him to warrant a cooling off. Bricks through his windscreen, threatening calls to his wife.
‘S’pose I’ll have to go back to Crouch End next week, say the boy never showed up and give his monkey back.’ Strike sighed. ‘Not very plausible, but I don’t want them to come looking for me.’
‘He gave you a—?’
‘Monkey – five hundred quid, Robin,’ said Strike. ‘What do they call that in Yorkshire?’
‘Shockingly little to stab a teenager,’ said Robin forcefully and then, catching Strike off guard, ‘What did you think of Matthew?’
‘Nice bloke,’ lied Strike automatically.
He refrained from elaboration. She was no fool; he had been impressed before now by her instinct for the lie, the false note. Nevertheless, he could not help hurrying them on to a different subject.
‘I’m starting to think, maybe next year, if we’re turning a proper profit and you’ve already had your pay rise, we could justify taking someone else on. I’m working flat out here, I can’t keep going like this for ever. How many clients have you turned down lately?’
‘A couple,’ Robin responded coolly.
Surmising that he had been insufficiently enthusiastic about Matthew but resolute that he would not be any more hypocritical than he had already been, Strike withdrew shortly afterwards into his office and shut the door again.
However, on this occasion, Strike was only half right.
Robin had indeed felt deflated by his response. She knew that if Strike had genuinely liked Matthew he would never have been as definitive as ‘nice bloke.’ He’d have said ‘Yeah, he’s all right,’ or ‘I s’pose you could do worse.’
What had irritated and even hurt was his suggestion of bringing in another employee. Robin turned back to her computer monitor and started typing fast and furiously, banging the keys harder than usual as she made up this week’s invoice for the divorcing brunette. She had thought – evidently wrongly – that she was here as more than a secretary. She had helped Strike secure the evidence that had convicted Lula Landry’s killer; she had even collected some of it alone, on her own initiative. In the months since, she had several times operated way beyond the duties of a PA, accompanying Strike on surveillance jobs when it would look more natural for him to be in a couple, charming doormen and recalcitrant witnesses who instinctively took offence at Strike’s bulk and surly expression, not to mention pretending to be a variety of women on the telephone that Strike, with his deep bass voice, had no hope of impersonating.
Robin had assumed that Strike was thinking along the same lines that she was: he occasionally said things like ‘It’s good for your detective training’ or ‘You could use a counter-surveillance course.’ She had assumed that once the business was on a sounder footing (and she could plausibly claim to have helped make it so) she would be given the training she knew she needed. But now it seemed that these hints had been mere throwaway lines, vague pats on the head for the typist. So what was she doing here? Why had she thrown away something much better? (In her temper, Robin chose to forget how little she had wanted that human resources job, however well paid.)
Perhaps the new employee would be female, able to perform these useful jobs, and she, Robin, would become receptionist and secretary to both of them, and never leave her desk again. It was not for that that she had stayed with Strike, given up a much better salary and created a recurring source of tension in her relationship.
At five o’clock on the dot Robin stopped typing in mid-sentence, pulled on her trench coat and left, closing the glass door behind her with unnecessary force.
The bang woke Strike up. He had been fast asleep at his desk, his head on his arms. Checking his watch he saw that it was five and wondered who had just come into the office. Only when he opened the dividing door and saw that Robin’s coat and bag were gone and her computer monitor dark did he realise that she had left without saying goodbye.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he said impatiently.
She wasn’t usually sulky; it was one of the many things he liked about her. What did it matter if he didn’t like Matthew? He wasn’t the one marrying him. Muttering irritably under his breath, Strike locked up and climbed the stairs to his attic room, intending to eat and change before meeting Nina Lascelles.
12
She is a woman of an excellent assurance, and an extraordinary happy wit, and tongue.
Ben Jonson, Epicoene, or The Silent Woman
Strike proceeded along the dark, cold Strand towards Fleet Street that evening with his hands balled deep in his pockets, walking as briskly as fatigue and an increasingly sore right leg would permit. He regretted leaving the peace and comfort of his glorified bedsit; he was not sure that anything useful would come of this evening’s expedition and yet, almost against his will, he was struck anew in the frosty haze of this winter’s night by the aged beauty of the old city to which he owed a divided childhood allegiance.
Every taint of the touristic was wiped away by the freezing November evening: the seventeenth-century façade of the Old Bell Tavern, with its diamond windowpanes aglow, exuded a noble antiquity; the dragon standing sentinel on top of the Temple Bar marker was silhouetted, stark and fierce, against the star-studded blackness above; and in the far distance the misty dome of St Paul’s shone like a rising moon. High on a brick wall above him as he approached his destination were names that spoke of Fleet Street’s inky past – the People’s Friend, the Dundee Courier – but Culpepper and his journalistic ilk had long since been driven out of their traditional home to Wapping and Canary Wharf. The law dominated the area now, the Royal Courts of Justice staring down upon the pass
ing detective, the ultimate temple of Strike’s trade.
In this forgiving and strangely sentimental mood, Strike approached the round yellow lamp across the road that marked the entrance to Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese and headed up the narrow passageway that led to the entrance, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the low lintel.
A cramped wood-panelled entrance lined with ancient oil paintings opened on to a tiny front room. Strike ducked again, avoiding the faded wooden sign ‘Gentlemen only in this bar’, and was greeted at once with an enthusiastic wave from a pale, petite girl whose dominant feature was a pair of large brown eyes. Huddled in a black coat beside the log fire, she was cradling an empty glass in two small white hands.
‘Nina?’
‘I knew it was you, Dominic described you to a T.’
‘Can I get you a drink?’
She asked for a white wine. Strike fetched himself a pint of Sam Smith and edged onto the uncomfortable wooden bench beside her. London accents filled the room. As though she had read his mood, Nina said:
‘It’s still a real pub. It’s only people who never come here who think it’s full of tourists. And Dickens came here, and Johnson and Yeats… I love it.’
She beamed at him and he smiled back, mustering real warmth with several mouthfuls of beer inside him.
‘How far’s your office?’
‘About a ten-minute walk,’ she said. ‘We’re just off the Strand. It’s a new building and there’s a roof garden. It’s going to be bloody freezing,’ she added, giving a pre-emptive shiver and drawing her coat more tightly around her. ‘But the bosses had an excuse not to hire anywhere. Times are hard in publishing.’
‘There’s been some trouble about Bombyx Mori, you said?’ asked Strike, getting down to business as he stretched out his prosthetic leg as far as it would go under the table.
‘Trouble,’ she said, ‘is the understatement of the century. Daniel Chard’s livid. You don’t make Daniel Chard the baddie in a dirty novel. Not done. No. Bad idea. He’s a strange man. They say he got sucked into the family business, but he really wanted to be an artist. Like Hitler,’ she added with a giggle.