“I still think it’s worth—”
“Look, I know who’s in every flat except for one of them,” said Robin. “People go in and out of all the others. The last one’s either unoccupied, or someone’s lying in there dead, because the door never opens. I haven’t even seen carers or nurses visit.”
“We’ll give it another week,” said Strike. “It’s the only lead we’ve got for Laing. Listen,” he added irritably, as she tried to protest, “I’ll be in the same position, staking out that strip club.”
“Except we know that Brockbank’s there,” said Robin sharply.
“I’ll believe it when I see him,” retorted Strike.
They said good-bye a few minutes later in poorly concealed mutual dissatisfaction.
All investigations had their slumps and droughts, when information and inspiration ran dry, but Strike was finding it difficult to take a philosophical view. Thanks to the unknown sender of the leg, there was no longer any money coming in to the business. His last paying client, Mad Dad’s wife, no longer needed him. In the hope of persuading a judge that the restraining order was not required, Mad Dad was actually complying with it.
The agency could not survive much longer if the twin stenches of failure and perversity continued to emanate from his office. As Strike had foreseen, his name was now multiplying across the internet in connection with the killing and dismemberment of Kelsey Platt, and the gory details were not only obliterating all mention of his previous successes, they were also eclipsing the simple advertisement of his detective services. Nobody wanted to hire a man so notorious; nobody liked the idea of a detective so intimately connected with unsolved murder.
It was therefore in a mood of determination and slight desperation that Strike set out for the strip club where he hoped to find Noel Brockbank. It turned out to be another converted old pub, which lay on a side street off Commercial Road in Shoreditch. The brick fa?ade was crumbling in parts; its windows had been blacked out and crude white silhouettes of naked women painted upon them. The original name (“The Saracen”) was still picked out in wide golden letters across the peeling black paint over the double doors.
The area had a large proportion of Muslim residents. Strike passed them in their hijabs and taqiyahs, browsing the many cheap clothes shops, all bearing names like International Fashion and Made in Milan and displaying sad mannequins in synthetic wigs wearing nylon and polyester. Commercial Road was crammed with Bangladeshi banks, tatty estate agents, English schools and ramshackle grocers that sold past-its-prime fruit behind grimy windows, but it had no benches to sit on, not even a low, cold wall. Even though he frequently changed his vantage point, Strike’s knee soon began to complain about long stretches spent standing, waiting for nothing, because Brockbank was nowhere to be seen.
The man on the door was squat and neckless, and Strike saw nobody enter or leave the place except punters and strippers. The girls came and went, and like their place of employment, they were shabbier and less polished than those who worked at Spearmint Rhino. Some were tattooed or pierced; several were overweight, and one, who looked drunk as she entered the building at eleven in the morning, appeared distinctly grubby viewed through the window of the kebab shop that lay directly opposite the club. After watching the Saracen for three days, Strike, whose hopes had been high, whatever he had said to Robin, reluctantly concluded that either Brockbank had never worked there, or that he had already been sacked.
Friday morning arrived before the depressing pattern of no leads changed. As he was lurking in the doorway of an especially dismal clothing store named World Flair, Strike’s mobile rang and Robin spoke in his ear:
“Jason’s coming to London tomorrow. The leg guy. From the wannabe amputee website.”
“Great!” said Strike, relieved at the mere prospect of interviewing someone. “Where are we meeting him?”
“It’s ‘them,’” said Robin, with a definite note of reservation in her voice. “We’re meeting Jason and Tempest. She’s—”
“Excuse me?” interrupted Strike. “Tempest?”
“I doubt it’s her birth name,” said Robin drily. “She’s the woman Kelsey was interacting with online. Black hair and glasses.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember,” repeated Strike, supporting the mobile between jaw and shoulder while he lit a cigarette.
“I’ve just got off the phone with her. She’s a big activist in the transabled community and she’s pretty overwhelming, but Jason thinks she’s wonderful and he seems to feel safer with her there.”
“Fair enough,” said Strike. “So where are we meeting Jason and Tempest?”
“They want to go to Gallery Mess. It’s the café at the Saatchi Gallery.”