Two bulky sanitary towels had been rolled up in their own unromantic wrapping (“for Very Heavy Flow”): the sort of thing a young woman was unlikely to steal, especially if wearing skimpy clothing. Robin extracted them. There was nothing odd about the first. The second, however, emitted a small, crisp cracking noise as Robin bent it. Her excitement mounting, Robin turned it sideways and saw that it had been slit with what had probably been a razor blade. Wriggling her fingers into the tissue-like foam within, she felt a thick, folded piece of paper, which she eased out and unfolded.
The writing paper was exactly the same as that on which Kinvara had written her farewell note, with the name “Chiswell” embossed across the top and a Tudor rose, like a drop of blood, beneath it. A few disjointed words and phrases were scrawled in the distinctive, cramped handwriting Robin had seen so often in Chiswell’s office, and in the middle of the page one word had been circled many times.
251 Ebury Street
London
SW1W
Blanc de blanc
Suzuki
Mother?
Odi et amo, quare id faciam, fortasse requiris? Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.
Hardly breathing in her excitement, Robin took out her mobile, took several pictures of the note, then refolded it, replaced it in the sanitary towel and returned the package to the place it had been on the shelf. She attempted to flush the toilet, but it was clogged and all she achieved was that the water rose ominously in the bowl, refusing to subside, the cigarette butt bobbing there in swirling tissue.
“Sorry,” Robin said, opening the door. “Loo’s blocked.”
“Whatever,” said the impatient, drunk girl outside, “I’ll do it in the sink.”
She pushed past Robin and slammed the door.
Jimmy was still standing outside.
“Think I’m going to take off,” Robin told him. “I only really came t’see if that room was vacant, but soombody’s got in ahead of me.”
“Shame,” said Jimmy lightly. “Come to a meeting some time. We could use a bit of Northern soul.”
“Yeah, I might,” said Robin.
“Might what?”
Flick had arrived, holding a bottle of Budweiser.
“Come to a meeting,” said Jimmy, taking a fresh cigarette out of his pack. “You were right, Flick, she’s the real deal.”
Jimmy reached out and pulled Flick to him, pressing her to his side, and kissed her on the top of the head.
“Yeah, sh’iz,” said Flick, smiling with real warmth as she wound her arm around Jimmy’s waist. “Come to the next one, Bobbi.”
“Yeah, I might,” said Bobbi Cunliffe, the trade unionist’s daughter, and she bade them goodbye, pushed her way out of the hall and out into the cold stairwell.
Not even the sight and smell of one of the black-clad teenagers vomiting copiously on the pavement just outside the main door could dampen Robin’s jubilation. Unable to wait, she texted Strike the picture of Jasper Chiswell’s note while hurrying towards the bus stop.
52
I can assure you, you have been on the wrong scent entirely, Miss West.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
Strike had fallen asleep, fully clothed, his prosthesis still attached, on top of the bedcovers in his attic bedroom. The cardboard folder containing everything pertaining to the Chiswell file was lying on his chest, vibrating gently as he snored, and he dreamed that he was walking hand in hand with Charlotte through an otherwise deserted Chiswell House, which they had bought together. Tall, slim and beautiful, she was no longer pregnant. She trailed Shalimar and black chiffon behind her, but their mutual happiness was evaporating in the damp chill of the shabby rooms through which they were wandering. What could have prompted the reckless, quixotic decision to purchase this drafty house, with the peeling walls and the wires dangling from the ceiling?
The loud buzz of a text arriving jerked Strike from sleep. For a fraction of a second he registered the fact that he was back in his attic room, alone, neither the owner of Chiswell House nor the lover of Charlotte Ross, before groping for the phone on which he was half lying in the full expectation that he was about to see a message from Charlotte.
He was wrong: it was Robin’s name he saw when he peered groggily at the screen, and it was, moreover, one in the morning. Momentarily forgetting that she had been out at a party with Flick, Strike sat up hurriedly and the cardboard file that had been lying on his chest slid smoothly off him, scattering its various pages across the floorboards, while Strike squinted, blurry-eyed, at the photograph Robin had just sent him.
“Fuck me backwards.”
Ignoring the mess of notes at his feet, he called her back.
“Hi,” said Robin jubilantly, over the unmistakable sounds of a London night bus: the clatter and roar of the engine, the grinding of brakes, the tinny ding of the bell and the obligatory drunken laughter of what sounded like a gaggle of young women.
“How the fuck did you manage that?”
“I’m a woman,” said Robin. He could hear her smile. “I know where we hide things when we really don’t want them found. I thought you’d be asleep.”
“Where are you—a bus? Get off and grab a cab. We can charge it to the Chiswell account if you get a receipt.”
“There’s no need—”
“Do as you’re bloody told!” Strike repeated, a little more aggressively than he had intended, because while she had just pulled off quite a coup, she had also been knifed, out alone on the street after dark, a year previously.
“All right, all right, I’ll get a cab,” said Robin. “Have you read Chiswell’s note?”
“Looking at it now,” said Strike, switching to speakerphone so that he could read Chiswell’s note while talking to her. “I hope you left it where you found it?”
“Yeah. I thought that was best?”
“Definitely. Where exactly—?”
“Inside a sanitary towel.”
“Christ,” said Strike, taken aback. “I’d never’ve thought to—”
“No, nor did Jimmy and Barclay,” said Robin smugly. “Can you read what it says at the bottom? The Latin?”
Squinting at the screen, Strike translated:
“‘I hate and I love. Why do I do it, you might ask? I don’t know. I just feel it, and it crucifies me…’ that’s Catullus again. A famous one.”
“Did you do Latin at university?”
“No.”
“Then how—?”
“Long story,” said Strike.
In fact, the story of his ability to read Latin wasn’t long, merely (to most people) inexplicable. He didn’t feel like telling it in the middle of the night, nor did he want to explain that Charlotte had studied Catullus at Oxford.
“‘I hate and I love,’” Robin repeated. “Why would Chiswell have written that down?”
“Because he was feeling it?” Strike suggested.
His mouth was dry: he had smoked too much before falling asleep. He got up, feeling achy and stiff, and picked his way carefully around the fallen notes, heading for the sink in the other room, phone in hand.
“Feeling it for Kinvara?” asked Robin dubiously.
“Ever see another woman around while you were in close contact with him?”
“No. Of course, he might not have been talking about a woman.”
“True,” admitted Strike. “Plenty of man love in Catullus. Maybe that’s why Chiswell liked him so much.”
He filled a mug with cold tap water, drank it down in one, then threw in a tea bag and switched on the kettle, all the while peering down at the lit screen of his phone in the darkness.
“‘Mother,’ crossed out,” he muttered.
“Chiswell’s mother died twenty-two years ago,” said Robin. “I’ve just looked her up.”
“Hmm,” said Strike. “‘Bill,’ circled.”
“Not Billy,” Robin pointed out, “but if Jimmy and Flick thought it meant his brother, people must sometimes call Billy ‘Bill.’”
“Unless it’s the thing you pay,” said Strike. “Or a duck’s beak, come to that… ‘Suzuki’… ‘Blanc de’… Hang on. Jimmy Knight’s got an old Suzuki Alto.”
“It’s off the road, according to Flick.”
“Yeah. Barclay says it failed its MOT.”
“There was a Grand Vitara parked outside Chiswell House when we visited, too. One of the Chiswells must own it.”
“Good spot,” said Strike.
He switched on the overhead light and crossed to the table by the window, where he had left his pen and notebook.
“You know,” said Robin thoughtfully, “I think I’ve seen ‘Blanc de blanc’ somewhere recently.”
“Yeah? Been drinking champagne?” asked Strike, who had sat down to make more notes.
“No, but… yeah, I suppose I must’ve seen it on a wine label, mustn’t I? Blanc de blancs… what does it mean? ‘White from whites?’”