Strike did not seem to hear him.
‘What exactly is it you were wanting me to do for you, Mrs Quine?’ he asked the shabby woman on the sofa.
‘Well, it’s my husband—’
‘Mr Strike, I’ve got an appointment in just over an hour,’ said William Baker, more loudly.
‘—your secretary said you didn’t have no appointments but I said I’d wait.’
‘Strike!’ barked William Baker, calling his dog to heel.
‘Robin,’ snarled the exhausted Strike, losing his temper at last. ‘Make up Mr Baker’s bill and give him the file; it’s up to date.’
‘What?’ said William Baker, thrown. He re-emerged into the outer office.
‘He’s sacking you,’ said Leonora Quine with satisfaction.
‘You haven’t finished the job,’ Baker told Strike. ‘You said there was more—’
‘Someone else can finish the job for you. Someone who doesn’t mind tossers as clients.’
The atmosphere in the office seemed to become petrified. Wooden-faced, Robin retrieved Baker’s file from the outer cabinet and handed it to Strike.
‘How dare—’
‘There’s a lot of good stuff in that file that’ll stand up in court,’ said Strike, handing it to the director. ‘Well worth the money.’
‘You haven’t finished—’
‘He’s finished with you,’ interjected Leonora Quine.
‘Will you shut up, you stupid wom—’ William Baker began, then took a sudden step backwards as Strike took a half-step forwards. Nobody said anything. The ex-serviceman seemed suddenly to be filling twice as much space as he had just seconds before.
‘Take a seat in my office, Mrs Quine,’ said Strike quietly.
She did as she was told.
‘You think she’ll be able to afford you?’ sneered a retreating William Baker, his hand now on the door handle.
‘My fees are negotiable,’ said Strike, ‘if I like the client.’
He followed Leonora Quine into his office and closed the door behind him with a snap.