22
… what murderer, hell-hound, devil can this be?
Ben Jonson, Epicoene, or The Silent Woman
Forgetting that getting up was the difficult part when his knee was sore, Strike dropped into a corner seat on the Tube train and rang Robin.
‘Hi,’ he said, ‘have those journalists gone?’
‘No, they’re still hanging round outside. You’re on the news, did you know?’
‘I saw the BBC website. I rang Anstis and asked him to help play down the stuff about me. Has he?’
He heard her fingers tapping on the keyboard.
‘Yeah, he’s quoted: “DI Richard Anstis has confirmed rumours that the body was found by private investigator Cormoran Strike, who made news earlier this year when he—”’
‘Never mind that bit.’
‘“Mr Strike was employed by the family to find Mr Quine, who often went away without informing anyone of his whereabouts. Mr Strike is not under suspicion and police are satisfied with his account of the discovery of the body.”’
‘Good old Dickie,’ said Strike. ‘This morning they were implying I conceal bodies to drum up business. Surprised the press are this interested in a dead fifty-eight-year-old has-been. It’s not as though they know how grisly the killing was yet.’
‘It isn’t Quine who’s got them interested,’ Robin told him. ‘It’s you.’
The thought gave Strike no pleasure. He did not want his face in the papers or on the television. The photographs of him that had appeared in the wake of the Lula Landry case had been small (room had been required for pictures of the stunning model, preferably partially clothed); his dark, surly features did not reproduce well in smudgy newsprint and he had managed to avoid a full-face picture as he entered court to give evidence against Landry’s killer. They had dredged up old photographs of him in uniform, but these had been years old, when he had been several stone lighter. Nobody had recognised him on appearance alone since his brief burst of fame and he had no wish to further endanger his anonymity.
‘I don’t want to run into a bunch of hacks. Not,’ he added wryly, as his knee throbbed, ‘that I could run if you paid me. Could you meet me—’
His favourite local was the Tottenham, but he did not want to expose it to the possibility of future press incursions.
‘—in the Cambridge in about forty minutes?’
‘No problem,’ she said.
Only after he had hung up did it occur to Strike, first, that he ought to have asked after the bereaved Matthew, and second, that he ought to have asked her to bring his crutches.
The nineteenth-century pub stood on Cambridge Circus. Strike found Robin upstairs on a leather banquette among brass chandeliers and gilt-framed mirrors.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked in concern as he limped towards her.
‘Forgot I didn’t tell you,’ he said, lowering himself gingerly into the chair opposite her with a groan. ‘I knackered my knee again on Sunday, trying to catch a woman who was following me.’
‘What woman?’
‘She tailed me from Quine’s house to the Tube station, where I fell over like a tit and she took off. She matches the description of a woman Leonora says has been hanging around since Quine disappeared. I could really use a drink.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Robin, ‘as it’s your birthday. And I got you a present.’
She lifted onto the table a small basket covered in cellophane, adorned with ribbon and containing Cornish food and drink: beer, cider, sweets and mustard. He felt ridiculously touched.
‘You didn’t have to do that…’
But she was already out of earshot, at the bar. When she returned, carrying a glass of wine and a pint of London Pride, he said, ‘Thanks very much.’
‘You’re welcome. So do you think this strange woman’s been watching Leonora’s house?’
Strike took a long, welcome pull on his pint.
‘And possibly putting dog shit through her front door, yeah,’ said Strike. ‘I can’t see what she had to gain from following me, though, unless she thought I was going to lead her to Quine.’
He winced as he raised the damaged leg onto a stool under the table.
‘I’m supposed to be doing surveillance on Brocklehurst and Burnett’s husband this week. Great bloody time to knacker my leg.’
‘I could follow them for you.’
The excited offer was out of Robin’s mouth before she knew it, but Strike gave no evidence of having heard her.
‘How’s Matthew doing?’
‘Not great,’ said Robin. She could not decide whether Strike had registered her suggestion or not. ‘He’s gone home to be with his dad and sister.’
‘Masham, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ She hesitated, then said: ‘We’re going to have to postpone the wedding.’
‘Sorry.’
She shrugged.
‘We couldn’t do it so soon… it’s been a horrible shock for the family.’
‘Did you get on well with Matthew’s mother?’ Strike asked.
‘Yes, of course. She was…’
But in fact, Mrs Cunliffe had always been difficult; a hypochondriac, or so Robin had thought. She had been feeling guilty about that in the last twenty-four hours.
‘… lovely,’ said Robin. ‘So how’s poor Mrs Quine doing?’