“No,” said Robin, trying to stay calm. “I’m working a case.”
“—it’s over, it’s finished, Matt’s in pieces—”
“Goodbye, Sarah.”
Robin hung up, then read the text that had just arrived.
Meet me after work or I’m giving a statement to the press.
Eager as she was to return to the group next door and relay the sensational information she had just received, Robin remained where she stood, temporarily flummoxed by the threat, and texted back:
Statement to the press about what?
His response came within seconds, littered with angry typos.
The mail called the office this morning g and left a message asking how I feel about my dive shacking up with Cornish Strike. The sun’s been one this afternoon. You probably know he’s two timing you but maybe you don’t give a shit. I’m not having the papers calling me at work. Either meet me or I’m go give a statement to get them off my back.
Robin was rereading the message when yet another text arrived, this time with an attachment.
In case you haven’t seen it
Robin enlarged the attachment, which was a screenshot of a diary item in the Evening Standard.
THE CURIOUS CASE OF CHARLOTTE CAMPBELL AND CORMORAN STRIKE
A staple of the gossip columns ever since she ran away from her first private school, Charlotte Campbell has lived out her life in a glare of publicity. Most people would choose a discreet spot for their consultation with a private detective, but the pregnant Ms. Campbell—now Mrs. Jago Ross—chose the window table of one of the West End’s busiest restaurants.
Were detective services under discussion during the intense heart-to-heart, or something more personal? The colorful Mr. Strike, illegitimate son of rock star Jonny Rokeby, war hero and modern-day Sherlock Holmes, also happens to be Campbell’s ex-lover.
Campbell’s businessman husband will doubtless be keen to solve the mystery—business or pleasure?—upon his return from New York.
A mass of uncomfortable feelings jostled inside Robin, of which the dominant ones were panic, anger and mortification at the thought of Matthew speaking to the press in such a way as to leave open, spitefully, the possibility that she and Strike were indeed sleeping together.
She tried to call the number, but it went straight to voicemail. Two seconds later, another angry text appeared.
I’M WITH A CLIENT I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS
IN FRONT OF HIM JUST MEET ME
Angry now, Robin texted:
And I’m at New Scotland Yard. Find a quiet corner.
She could imagine Matthew’s polite smile as the client watched, his smooth “just the office, excuse me,” while he hammered out his furious replies.
We’ve got stuff to sort out and you’re acting like a child refusing to meet me. Either you come talk to me or I’m ringing the papers at eight. I notice you’re not denying your sleeping with him, by the way
Furious, but feeling cornered, Robin typed back:
Fine, let’s discuss it face to face, where?
He texted her directions to a bar in Little Venice. Still shaken, Robin pushed open the door to the incident room. The group was now huddled around a monitor showing a page of Jimmy Knight’s blog, from which Strike was reading aloud:
“… ‘in other words, a single bottle of wine at Le Manoir aux Quat’Saisons can cost more than a single, out-of-work mother receives per week to feed, clothe and house her entire family.’ Now that,” said Strike, “struck me as a weirdly specific choice of restaurant, if he wanted to rant about Tories and their spending. That’s what made me think he’d been there recently. Then Robin tells me ‘Blanc de Blanc’ is the name of one of their suites, but I didn’t put that together as quickly as I should’ve done. It hit me a few hours later.”
“He’s a hell of a bloody hypocrite on top of everything else, isn’t he?” said Wardle, who was standing, arms folded, behind Strike.
“You’ve looked in Woolstone?” Strike asked.
“The shithole in Charlemont Road, Woolstone, everywhere,” said Layborn, “but don’t worry. We’ve got a line on one of his girlfriends down in Dulwich. Checking there right now. With luck, we’ll have him in custody tonight.”
Layborn now noticed Robin, standing with her phone in her hand.
“I know you’ve already got people looking at it,” she told Layborn, “but I’ve got a contact at Christie’s. I sent her the picture of ‘Mare Mourning’ and she’s just called me back. According to one of their experts, it might be a Stubbs.”
“Even I’ve heard of Stubbs,” Layborn said.
“What would it be worth, if it is?” Wardle asked.
“My contact thinks upwards of twenty-two million.”
Wardle whistled. Layborn said, “Fuck me.”
“Doesn’t matter to us what it’s worth,” Strike reminded them all. “What matters is whether somebody might’ve spotted its potential value.”
“Twenty-two fucking million,” said Wardle, “is a hell of a motive.”
“Cormoran,” said Robin, picking her jacket off the back of the chair where she’d left it, “could I have a quick word outside? I’m going to have to leave, sorry,” she said to the others.
“Everything OK?” Strike asked, as they re-entered the corridor together and Robin had closed the door on the group of police.
“Yes,” said Robin, and then, “Well—not really. Maybe,” she said, handing him her phone, “you’d better just read this.”
Frowning, Strike scrolled slowly through the interchange between Robin and Matthew, including the Evening Standard clip.
“You’re going to meet him?”
“I’ve got to. This must be why Mitch Patterson’s sniffing around. If Matthew fans the flames with the press, which he’s more than capable of doing… They’re already excited about you and—”
“Forget me and Charlotte,” he said roughly, “that was twenty minutes that she coerced me into. He’s trying to coerce you—”
“I know he is,” said Robin, “but I have got to talk to him sooner or later. Most of my stuff’s still in Albury Street. We’ve still got a joint bank account.”
“D’you want me to come?”
Touched, Robin said:
“Thanks, but I don’t think that would help.”
“Then ring me later, will you? Let me know what happened.”
“I will,” she promised.
She headed off alone towards the lifts. She didn’t even notice who had just walked past her in the opposite direction until somebody said, “Bobbi?”
Robin turned. There stood Flick Purdue, returning from the bathroom with a policewoman, who seemed to have escorted her there. Like Kinvara, Flick had cried away her makeup. She appeared small and shrunken in a white shirt that Robin suspected her parents had insisted she wear, rather than her Hezbollah T-shirt.
“It’s Robin. How are you, Flick?”
Flick seemed to be struggling with ideas too monstrous to utter.
“I hope you’re cooperating,” said Robin. “Tell them everything, won’t you?”
She thought she saw a tiny shake of the head, an instinctive defiance, the last embers of loyalty not yet extinguished, even in the trouble Flick found herself.
“You must,” said Robin quietly. “He’d have killed you next, Flick. You knew too much.”
69
I have foreseen all contingencies—long ago.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm