“I’ll put it under ‘sundries,’” said Strike. “All right, keep me posted.”
Barclay rang off. Deciding to take the opportunity to stretch his legs, Strike got out of the car, still smoking, leaned on the five-bar gate facing a wide, dark field, and rang Robin.
“It’s Vanessa,” Robin lied, when she saw Strike’s number come up on her phone.
She and Matthew had just eaten a takeaway curry off their knees while watching the news. He had arrived home late and tired; she didn’t need another argument.
Picking up the mobile, she headed out through the French doors onto the patio that had served as the smoking area for the party. After making sure that the doors were completely closed, she answered.
“Hi. Everything OK?”
“Fine. All right to talk for a moment?”
“Yes,” said Robin, leaning against the garden wall, and watching a moth banging fruitlessly against the bright glass, trying to enter the house. “How did it go with Dawn Clancy?”
“Nothing usable,” said Strike. “I thought I might have a lead, some Jewish ex-boss Jimmy had a vendetta against, but I rang the company and the poor bloke died of a stroke last September. Then I got a call from Chiswell just after I left her. He says the Sun’s sniffing around.”
“Yes,” said Robin. “They called his wife.”
“We could’ve done without that,” said Strike, with what Robin felt was considerable understatement. “I wonder who’s tipped off the papers?”
“I’d bet on Winn,” said Robin, remembering the way that Geraint had talked that afternoon, the name-dropping, the self-importance. “He’s just the type to hint to a journalist that there’s a story on Chiswell, even if he hasn’t got proof of it yet. Seriously,” she said again, with no real hope of an answer, “what d’you think Chiswell did?”
“Be nice to know, but it doesn’t really matter,” said Strike, who sounded tired. “We aren’t being paid to get the goods on him. Speaking of which—”
“I haven’t been able to plant the bug yet,” said Robin, anticipating the question. “I hung around as late as possible, but Aamir locked the door after they both left.”
Strike sighed.
“Well, don’t get overeager and balls it up,” he said, “but we’re up against it if the Sun’s involved. Anything you can do. Get in early or something.”
“I will, I’ll try,” said Robin. “I did get something odd about the Winns today, though,” and she told him about the confusion Della had made between herself and one of Chiswell’s real goddaughters, and the story of Rhiannon on the fencing team. Strike seemed only distantly interested.
“Doubt that explains the Winns wanting Chiswell out of office. Anyway—”
“—means before motive,” she said, quoting Strike’s own, oft-repeated words.
“Exactly. Listen, can you meet me after work tomorrow, and we’ll have a proper debrief?”
“All right,” said Robin.
“Barclay’s doing good work, though,” said Strike, as though the thought of it cheered him up. “He’s already well in with Jimmy.”
“Oh,” said Robin. “Good.”
After telling her that he would text the name of a convenient pub, Strike rang off, leaving Robin alone and pensive in the quiet dark of the yard, while stars grew pin-bright overhead.
Barclay’s doing good work, though.
As opposed to Robin, who had found out nothing but an irrelevancy about Rhiannon Winn.
The moth was still fluttering desperately against the sliding doors, frantic to get at the light.
Idiot, Robin thought. It’s better out here.
The ease with which the lie about Vanessa being on the phone had slid out of her mouth ought, she reflected, to have made her feel guilty, but she was merely glad that she had got away with it. As she watched the moth continuing to bang its wings hopelessly against the brilliant glass, Robin remembered what her therapist had said to her during one of the sessions when Robin had dwelled at length on her need to discern where the real Matthew ended and her illusions about him began.
“People change in ten years,” the therapist had responded. “Why does it have to be a question of you being mistaken in Matthew? Perhaps it’s simply that you’ve both changed?”
The following Monday would mark their first wedding anniversary. At Matthew’s suggestion, they were going to spend next weekend at a fancy hotel near Oxford. In a funny kind of way, Robin was looking forward to it, because she and Matthew seemed to get along better these days with a change of scene. Being surrounded by strangers nudged them out of their tendency to bicker. She had told him the story of Ted Heath’s bust turning green, along with several other (to her) interesting facts about the House of Commons. He had maintained a bored expression through all of them, determined to signal his disapproval of the whole venture.
Reaching a decision, she opened the French window and the moth fluttered merrily inside.
“What did Vanessa want?” asked Matthew, his eyes on the news as Robin sat down again. Sarah Shadlock’s stargazer lilies were sitting on a table beside her, still in bloom ten days after they had arrived in the house, and Robin could smell their heady scent even over the curry.
“I picked up her sunglasses by mistake last time we went out,” said Robin, feigning exasperation. “She wants them back, they’re Chanel. I said I’ll meet her before work.”
“Chanel, eh?” said Matthew, with a smile that Robin found patronizing. She knew that he thought he had discovered a weakness in Vanessa, but perhaps he liked her better to think that she valued designer labels and wanted to make sure she got them back.
“I’ll have to leave at six,” said Robin.
“Six?” he said, annoyed. “Christ, I’m knackered, I don’t want to wake up at—”
“I was going to suggest I sleep in the spare room,” Robin said.
“Oh,” said Matthew, mollified. “Yeah, OK. Thanks.”
19
I do not do it willingly—but, enfin—when needs must—Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
Robin left the house at a quarter to six the next morning. The sky was a faint blush pink and the morning already warm, justifying her lack of jacket. Her eyes flickered towards the single carved swan as she passed their local pub, but she forced her thoughts back onto the day ahead and not the man she had left behind.
On arrival in Izzy’s corridor an hour later, Robin saw that Geraint’s office door was already open. A swift peek inside showed her an empty room, but Aamir’s jacket hanging on the back of his chair.
Running to Izzy’s office, Robin unlocked it, dashed to her desk, pulled one of the listening devices from the box of Tampax, scooped up a pile of out-of-date agendas as an alibi, then ran back out into the corridor.
As she approached Geraint’s office, she slid off the gold bangle that she had worn for this purpose, and threw it lightly so that it rolled into Geraint’s office.
“Oh damn,” she said out loud.
Nobody responded from inside the office. Robin knocked on the open door, said “hello?” and put her head inside. The room was still empty.
Robin dashed across the room to the double power point just above the skirting board beside Geraint’s desk. Kneeling, she took the listening device out of her bag, unplugged the fan on his desk, pressed the device into place over the dual socket, reinserted the fan’s plug, checked that it worked, then, panting as though she had just sprinted a hundred yards, looked around for her bangle.
“What are you doing?”
Aamir was standing in the doorway in his shirtsleeves, a fresh tea in his hand.
“I did knock,” Robin said, sure that she was bright pink. “I dropped my bangle and it rolled—oh, there it is.”
It was lying just beneath Aamir’s computer chair. Robin scrambled to pick it up.
“It’s my mother’s,” she lied. “I wouldn’t be popular if that went missing.”