‘I’ve got a contact,’ said Strike.
‘You didn’t think of using me again, then?’ she asked.
He did not much like the reflection of himself he saw in her large mouse-like eyes. There was no denying that he had used her repeatedly. It had become cheap, shameful, and she deserved better.
‘I thought that might be getting old,’ said Strike.
‘Yeah,’ said Nina. ‘You thought right.’
She turned from him and walked back to the table, filling the last vacant seat, between two employees whom he did not know.
Strike was in Jerry Waldegrave’s direct line of vision. Waldegrave caught sight of him and Strike saw the editor’s eyes widen behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Alerted by Waldegrave’s transfixed stare, Chard twisted in his seat and he, too, clearly recognised Strike.
‘How’s it going?’ asked Al excitedly at Strike’s elbow.
‘Great,’ said Strike. ‘Where’s that Gilsomething gone?’
‘Downed his drink and left. Doesn’t know what the hell we’re up to,’ said Al.
Al did not know why they were here either. Strike had told him nothing except that he needed entry to the Chelsea Arts Club tonight and that he might need a lift. Al’s bright red Alfa Romeo Spider sat parked a little down the road. It had been agony on Strike’s knee to get in and out of the low-slung vehicle.
As he had intended, half the Roper Chard table now seemed acutely aware of his presence. Strike was positioned so that he could see them reflected clearly in the dark French windows. Two Elizabeth Tassels were glaring at him over their menus, two Ninas were determinedly ignoring him and two shiny-pated Chards summoned a waiter each and muttered in their ears.
‘Is that the bald bloke we saw in the River Café?’ asked Al.
‘Yeah,’ said Strike, grinning as the solid waiter separated from his reflected wraith and made his way towards them. ‘I think we’re about to be asked whether we’ve got the right to be in here.’
‘Very sorry, sir,’ began the waiter in a mutter as he reached Strike, ‘but could I ask—?’
‘Al Rokeby – my brother and I are here with Duncan Gilfedder,’ said Al pleasantly before Strike could respond. Al’s tone expressed surprise that they had been challenged at all. He was a charming and privileged young man who was welcome everywhere, whose credentials were impeccable and whose casual roping of Strike into the family pen conferred upon him that same sense of easy entitlement. Jonny Rokeby’s eyes looked out of Al’s narrow face. The waiter muttered hasty apologies and retreated.
‘Are you just trying to put the wind up them?’ asked Al, staring over at the publisher’s table.
‘Can’t hurt,’ said Strike with a smile, sipping his whisky as he watched Daniel Chard deliver what was clearly a stilted speech in Pinkelman’s honour. A card and present were brought out from under the table. For every look and smile they gave the old writer, there was a nervous glance towards the large, dark man staring at them from the bar. Michael Fancourt alone had not looked around. Either he remained in ignorance of the detective’s presence, or was untroubled by it.
When starters had been put in front of them all, Jerry Waldegrave got to his feet and moved out from the table towards the bar. Nina and Elizabeth’s eyes followed him. On Waldegrave’s way to the bathroom he merely nodded at Strike, but on the way back, he paused.
‘Surprised to see you here.’
‘Yeah?’ said Strike.
‘Yeah,’ said Waldegrave. ‘You’re, er… making people feel uncomfortable.’
‘Nothing I can do about that,’ said Strike.
‘You could try not staring us out.’
‘This is my brother, Al,’ said Strike, ignoring the request.
Al beamed and held out a hand, which Waldegrave shook, seeming nonplussed.
‘You’re annoying Daniel,’ Waldegrave told Strike, looking directly into the detective’s eyes.
‘That’s a shame,’ said Strike.
The editor rumpled his untidy hair.
‘Well, if that’s your attitude.’
‘Surprised you care how Daniel Chard feels.’
‘I don’t particularly,’ said Waldegrave, ‘but he can make life unpleasant for other people when he’s in a bad mood. I’d like tonight to go well for Pinkelman. I can’t understand why you’re here.’
‘Wanted to make a delivery,’ said Strike.
He pulled a blank white envelope out from an inside pocket.
‘What is this?’
‘It’s for you,’ said Strike.
Waldegrave took it, looking utterly confused.
‘Something you should think about,’ said Strike, moving closer to the bemused editor in the noisy bar. ‘Fancourt had mumps, you know, before his wife died.’
‘What?’ said Waldegrave, bewildered.
‘Never had kids. Pretty sure he’s infertile. Thought you might be interested.’
Waldegrave stared at him, opened his mouth, found nothing to say, then walked away, still clutching the white envelope.
‘What was that?’ Al asked Strike, agog.
‘Plan A,’ said Strike. ‘We’ll see.’
Waldegrave sat back down at the Roper Chard table. Mirrored in the black window beside him, he opened the envelope Strike had given him. Puzzled, he pulled out a second envelope. There was a scribbled name on this one.
The editor looked up at Strike, who raised his eyebrows.
Jerry Waldegrave hesitated, then turned to Elizabeth Tassel and passed her the envelope. She read what was written on it, frowning. Her eyes flew to Strike’s. He smiled and toasted her with his glass.
She seemed uncertain as to what to do for a moment; then she nudged the girl beside her and passed the envelope on.
It travelled up the table and across it, into the hands of Michael Fancourt.
‘There we are,’ said Strike. ‘Al, I’m going into the garden for a fag. Stay here and keep your phone on.’
‘They don’t allow mobiles—’
But Al caught sight of Strike’s expression and amended hastily: ‘Will do.’