The taxi that Strike had picked up in Charing Cross Road turned into St. James’s Street twenty minutes later, while he was still talking to the Minister for Culture on his mobile.
“A placard? What’s on it?”
“Your face,” said Strike. “That’s all I know.”
“And he’s heading for the reception? Well, this is bloody it, isn’t it?” shouted Chiswell, so loudly that Strike winced and removed the phone from his ear. “If the press see this, it’s all over! You were supposed to stop something like this bloody happening!”
“And I’m going to try,” said Strike, “but in your shoes I’d want to be forewarned. I’d advise—”
“I don’t pay you for advice!”
“I’ll do whatever I can,” promised Strike, but Chiswell had already hung up.
“I’m not going to be able to go any further, mate,” said the taxi driver, addressing Strike in the rearview mirror from which dangled a swinging mobile, outlined in tufts of multi-colored cotton and embossed with a golden Ganesh. The end of St. James’s Street had been blocked off. A swelling crowd of royal watchers and Olympics fans, many clutching small Union Jacks, was congregating behind portable barriers, waiting for the arrival of Paralympians and Prince Harry.
“OK, I’ll get out here,” said Strike, fumbling for his wallet.
He was once again facing the crenellated frontage of St. James’s Palace, its gilded, diamond-shaped clock gleaming in the early evening sun. Strike limped down the slope again towards the crowd, passing the side street where Pratt’s stood, while smartly dressed passersby, workers and customers of galleries and wine merchants moved aside courteously as his uneven gait became progressively more pronounced.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, pain shooting up into his groin every time he put his weight onto the prosthesis as he drew closer to the assembled sports fans and royal watchers. He could see no placards or banners of a political nature, but as he joined the back of the crowd and looked down Cleveland Row, he spotted a press pen and ranks of photographers, which stood waiting for the prince and famous athletes. It was only when a car slid past, containing a glossy-haired brunette Strike vaguely recognized from the television, that he remembered he had not called Lorelei to tell her he would be late to dinner. He hastily dialed her number.
“Hi, Corm.”
She sounded apprehensive. He guessed that she thought he was going to cancel.
“Hi,” he said, his eyes still darting around for some sign of Jimmy. “I’m really sorry, but something’s come up. I might be late.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” she said, and he could tell that she was relieved that he was still intending to come. “Shall I try and change the booking?”
“Yeah—maybe make it eight instead of seven?”
Turning for the third time to scan Pall Mall behind him, Strike spotted Flick’s tomato-red hair. Eight CORE members were heading for the crowd, including a stringy, blond-dreadlocked youth and a short, thickset man who resembled a bouncer. Flick was the only woman. All bar Jimmy were holding placards with the broken Olympic rings on them, and slogans such as “Fair Play Is Fair Pay” and “Homes Not Bombs.” Jimmy was holding his own placard upside down, the picture on it turned inwards, parallel with his leg.
“Lorelei, I’ve got to go. Speak later.”
Uniformed police were walking around the perimeter fencing keeping the crowds back, walkie-talkies in hand, eyes roving constantly over the cheerful spectators. They, too, had spotted CORE, who were trying to reach a spot opposite the press pen.
Gritting his teeth, Strike began to forge a path through the pressing crowd, eyes on Jimmy.
30
There is no denying it would have been more fortunate if we had succeeded in checking the stream at an earlier point.
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
Slightly self-conscious in her clinging green dress and heels, Robin attracted a considerable number of appreciative glances from male passersby as she climbed out of her taxi at the entrance to the Department for Culture, Media and Sport. As she reached the doorway, she saw approaching from fifty yards away Izzy, who was wearing bright orange, and Kinvara, in what appeared to be the slinky black dress and heavy diamond necklace that she had worn in the photograph that Robin had seen of her online.
Acutely anxious about what was happening with Jimmy and Strike, Robin nevertheless registered that Kinvara appeared to be upset. Izzy rolled her eyes at Robin as they approached. Kinvara gave Robin a pointed up-and-down look that suggested she found the green dress inappropriate, if not indecent.
“We were supposed,” said a booming male voice in Robin’s near vicinity, “to be meeting here.”
Jasper Chiswell had just emerged from the building, carrying three engraved invitations, one of which he held out to Robin.
“Yes, I know that now, Jasper, thank you,” said Kinvara, puffing slightly as she approached. “Very sorry for getting it wrong again. Nobody bothered to check I knew what the arrangements were.”
Passersby stared at Chiswell, finding him vaguely familiar with his chimney-brush hair. Robin saw a suited man nudge his companion and point. A sleek black Mercedes drew up at the curb. The chauffeur got out; Kinvara walked around the back of the car to sit behind him. Izzy wriggled over into the middle of the back seat, leaving Robin to take the back seat directly behind Chiswell.
The car pulled away from the curb, the atmosphere inside unpleasant. Robin turned her head to watch the after-work drinkers and evening shoppers, wondering whether Strike had found Knight yet, scared of what might happen when he did, and wishing she could spirit the car directly to Lancaster House.
“You haven’t invited Raphael, then?” Kinvara shot at the back of her husband’s head.
“No,” said Chiswell. “He angled for an invitation, but that will be because he’s smitten with Venetia.”
Robin felt her face flood with color.
“Venetia seems to have quite the fan base,” said Kinvara tersely.
“Going to have a little chat with Raphael tomorrow,” said Chiswell. “I’m seeing him rather differently these days, I don’t mind telling you.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Robin saw Kinvara’s hands twist around the chain on her ugly evening bag, which sported a horse’s head picked out in crystals. A tense silence settled over the car’s interior as it purred on through the warm city.
31
… the result was, that he got a thrashing…
Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm
Adrenaline made it easier for Strike to block out the mounting pain in his leg. He was closing on Jimmy and his companions, who were being thwarted in their desire to show themselves clearly to the press, because the excitable crowd had pressed forwards as the first official cars began to glide past, hoping to spot some celebrities. Late to the party, CORE now found themselves faced by an impenetrable mass.
Mercedes and Bentleys swished past, affording the crowd glimpses of the famous and the not-so-famous. A comedian got a loud cheer as he waved. A few flashes went off.
Clearly deciding that he could not hope for a more prominent spot, Jimmy began to drag his homemade banner out of the tangle of legs around him, preparatory to hoisting it aloft.