The long hike to and around Chelsea Physic Garden the previous day had not benefited Strike’s hamstring injury. As his stomach was playing up from a constant diet of Ibuprofen, he had eschewed painkillers for the past twenty-four hours, with the result that he was in what his doctors liked to describe as “some discomfort” as he sat with his one and a half legs up on the office sofa on Thursday afternoon, his prosthesis leaning against the wall nearby while he reviewed the Chiswell file.
Silhouetted like a headless watchman against the window of his inner office was Strike’s best suit, plus a shirt and tie, which hung from the curtain rail, shoes and clean socks sitting below the limp trouser legs. He was going out to dinner with Lorelei tonight and had organized himself so that he need not climb the stairs to his attic flat again before bed.
Lorelei had been typically understanding about his lack of communication during Jack’s hospitalization, saying with only the slightest edge to her voice that it must have been a horrible thing to go through on his own. Strike had too much sense to tell her that Robin had been there, too. Lorelei had then requested, sweetly and without rancor, dinner, “to talk a few things through.”
They had been dating for just over ten months and she had just nursed him through five days of incapacity. Strike felt that it was neither fair, nor decent, to ask her to say what she had to say over the phone. Like the hanging suit, the prospect of having to find an answer to the inevitable question “where do you see this relationship going?” loomed ominously on the periphery of Strike’s consciousness.
Dominating his thoughts, however, was what he saw as the perilous state of the Chiswell case, for which he had so far seen not a penny in payment, but which was costing him a significant outlay in salaries and expenses. Robin might have succeeded in neutralizing the immediate threat of Geraint Winn, but after a promising start Barclay had nothing whatsoever to use against Chiswell’s first blackmailer, and Strike foresaw disastrous consequences should the Sun newspaper find its way to Jimmy Knight. Balked of the mysterious photographs at the Foreign Office that Winn had promised him, and notwithstanding Chiswell’s assertion that Jimmy would not want the story in the press, Strike thought an angry and frustrated Jimmy was overwhelmingly likely to try and profit from a chance that seemed to be slipping through his fingers. His history of litigation told its own story: Jimmy was a man prone to cutting off his own nose to spite his face.
To compound Strike’s bad mood, after several straight days and nights hanging out with Jimmy and his mates, Barclay had told Strike that unless he went home soon, his wife would be initiating divorce proceedings. Strike, who owed Barclay expenses, had told him to come into the office for a check, after which he could take a couple of days off. To his extreme annoyance, the normally reliable Hutchins had then caviled at having to take over the tailing of Jimmy Knight at short notice, rather than hanging around Harley Street, where Dodgy Doc was once again consulting patients.
“What’s the problem?” Strike had asked roughly, his stump throbbing. Much as he liked Hutchins, he had not forgotten that the ex-policeman had recently taken time off for a family holiday and to drive his wife to hospital when she broke her wrist. “I’m asking you to switch targets, that’s all. I can’t follow Knight, he knows me.”
“Yeah, all right, I’ll do it.”
“Decent of you,” Strike had said, angrily. “Thanks.”
The sound of Robin and Barclay climbing the metal stairs to the office at half past five made a welcome distraction from Strike’s increasingly dark mood.
“Hi,” said Robin, walking into the office with a holdall over her shoulder. Answering Strike’s questioning look, she explained, “Outfit for the Paralympic reception. I’ll change in the loo, I won’t have time to go home.”
Barclay followed Robin into the room and closed the door.
“We met downstairs,” he told Strike cheerfully. “Firs’ time.”
“Sam was just telling me how much dope he’s had to smoke to keep in with Jimmy,” said Robin, laughing.
“I’ve no been inhalin’,” said Barclay, deadpan. “That’d be remiss, on a job.”
The fact that the pair of them seemed to have hit it off was perversely annoying to Strike, who was now making heavy weather of hoisting himself off the fake leather cushions, which made their usual farting noises.
“It’s the sofa,” he snapped at Barclay, who had looked around, grinning. “I’ll get your money.”
“Stay there, I’ll do it,” Robin said, setting down her holdall and reaching for the checkbook in the lower drawer of the desk, which she handed to Strike, with a pen. “Want some tea, Cormoran? Sam?”
“Aye, go on, then,” said Barclay.
“You’re both bloody cheerful,” said Strike sourly, writing Barclay his check, “considering we’re about to lose the job that’s keeping us all in employment. Unless either of you have got information I don’t know about, of course.”
“Only excitin’ thing tae happen in Knightville this week was Flick havin’ a big bust up wi’ one o’ her flatmates,” said Barclay. “Lassie called Laura. She reckoned Jimmy had stolen a credit card out o’ her handbag.”
“Had he?” asked Strike sharply.
“I’d say it was more likely to be Flick herself. Told ye she was boastin’ about helpin’ herself to cash from her work, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you did.”
“It all kicked off in the pub. The girl, Laura, was scunnered. She and Flick got intae a row about who was more middle class.”
In spite of the pain he was in, and his grumpy mood, Strike grinned.
“Aye, it got nasty. Ponies and foreign holidays dragged in. Then this Laura said she reckoned Jimmy nicked her new credit card off her, months back. Jimmy got aggressive, said that was slander—”
“Shame he’s banned, or he could’ve sued her,” said Strike, ripping out the check.
“—and Laura ran off intae the night, bawlin’. She’s left the flat.”
“Got a surname for her?”
“I’ll try and find out.”
“What’s Flick’s background, Barclay?” asked Strike as Barclay put his check into his wallet.
“Well, she told me she dropped out o’ uni,” said Barclay. “Failed her first-year exams and gave up.”
“Some of the best people drop out,” said Robin, carrying two mugs of tea over. She and Strike had both left their degree courses without a qualification.
“Cheers,” said Barclay, accepting a mug from Robin. “Her parents are divorced,” he went on, “and she’s no speaking tae either of them. They don’t like Jimmy. Cannae blame them. If my daughter ever hooks up wi’ a bawbag like Knight, I’ll know what tae do about it. When she’s not around, he tells the lads what he gets up to wi’ young girls. They all think they’re shaggin’ a great revolutionary, doin’ it for the cause. Flick doesnae know the half o’ what he’s up tae.”
“Any of them underage? His wife suggested he’s got form there. That’d be a bargaining chip.”
“All over sixteen so far’s I know.”
“Pity,” said Strike. He caught Robin’s eye, as she returned to them holding her own tea. “You know what I mean.” He turned to Barclay again. “From what I heard on that march, she’s not so monogamous herself.”
“Aye, one o’ her pals made a gag about an Indian waiter.”
“A waiter? I heard a student.”
“No reason it couldn’ta been both,” said Barclay. “I’d say she’s a—”
But catching Robin’s eye, Barclay decided against saying the word, and instead drank his tea.
“Anything new your end?” Strike asked Robin.
“Yes. I got the second listening device back.”
“You’re kidding,” said Strike, sitting up straighter.
“I’ve only just finished transcribing it all, there was hours of stuff on there. Most of it’s useless, but…”
She set down her tea, unzipped the holdall and took out the recording device.