“Of course!” Robin muttered excitedly. “Of course!”
Strike wouldn’t have thought of that—of course he wouldn’t, he was a man! She began to press the keys on her phone.
There were seven nurseries in Bow. Absently replacing her mobile in her pocket and energized by her train of thought, Robin began her usual drift through the market stalls, casting the occasional glance up at the windows of Whittaker’s flat and at the perennially closed door, her mind entirely given over to the pursuit of Brockbank. She could think of two possible courses of action: stake out each of these seven nurseries, watching for a black woman picking up a girl called Zahara (and how would she know which was the right mother and daughter?) or… or… She paused beside a stall selling ethnic jewelry, barely seeing it, preoccupied by thoughts of Zahara.
Entirely by chance, she looked up from a pair of feather and bead earrings as Stephanie, whom Strike had accurately described, came out of the door beside the chip shop. Pale, red-eyed and blinking in the bright light like an albino rabbit, Stephanie leaned on the chip-shop door, toppled inside and proceeded to the counter. Before Robin could collect her wits, Stephanie had brushed past her holding a can of Coke and gone back into the building through the white door.
Shit.
“Nothing,” she told Strike on the phone an hour later. “She’s still in there. I didn’t have a chance to do anything. She was in and out in about three minutes.”
“Stick with it,” said Strike. “She might come out again. At least we know she’s awake.”
“Any luck with Laing?”
“Not while I was there, but I’ve had to come back to the office. Big news: Two-Times has forgiven me. He’s just left. We need the money—I could hardly refuse.”
“Oh, for God’s sake—how can he have another girlfriend already?” asked Robin.
“He hasn’t. He wants me to check out some new lap-dancer he’s flirting with, see whether she’s already in a relationship.”
“Why doesn’t he just ask her?”
“He has. She says she isn’t seeing anyone, but women are devious, cheating scum, Robin, you know that.”
“Oh yes, of course,” sighed Robin. “I forgot. Listen, I’ve had an idea about Br—Wait, something’s happening.”
“Everything all right?” he asked sharply.
“Fine… hang on…”
A transit van had rolled up in front of her. Keeping the mobile to her ear, Robin ambled around it, trying to see what was going on. As far as she could make out, the driver had a crew cut, but the sun on the windscreen dazzled her eyes, obscuring his features. Stephanie had appeared on the pavement. Arms wrapped tightly around herself, she trooped across the street and climbed into the back of the van. Robin stepped back to allow it to pass, pretending to talk into her mobile. Her eyes met those of the driver; they were dark and hooded.
“She’s gone, got in the back of an old van,” she told Strike. “The driver didn’t look like Whittaker. Could’ve been mixed race or Mediterranean. Hard to see.”
“Well, we know Stephanie’s on the game. She’s probably off to earn Whittaker some money.”
Robin tried not to resent his matter-of-fact tone. He had, she reminded herself, freed Stephanie from Whittaker’s stranglehold with a punch to the gut. She paused, looking into a newsagent’s window. Royal wedding ephemera was still very much in evidence. A Union Jack was hanging on the wall behind the Asian man at the till.
“What do you want me to do? I could go and cover Wollaston Close for you, if you’re off after Two-Times’ new girl. It makes—oof,” she gasped.
She had turned to walk away and collided with a tall man sporting a goatee, who swore at her.
“Sorry,” she gasped automatically as the man shoved his way past her into the newsagent’s.
“What just happened?” asked Strike.
“Nothing—I bumped into someone—listen, I’m going to go to Wollaston Close,” she said.
“All right,” said Strike after a perceptible pause, “but if Laing turns up, just try and get a picture. Don’t go anywhere near him.”
“I wasn’t intending to,” said Robin.
“Call me if there’s any news. Or even if there isn’t.”
The brief spurt of enthusiasm she had felt at the prospect of going back to Wollaston Close had faded by the time she had reached Catford station. She was not sure why she felt suddenly downcast and anxious. Perhaps she was hungry. Determined to break herself of the chocolate habit that was jeopardizing her ability to fit into the altered wedding dress, she bought herself an unappetizing-looking energy bar before boarding the train.