He had just passed into Blythe Road, wincing with every step on his right leg, when his mobile rang: Anstis.
‘What are you playing at, Bob?’
‘Meaning?’ asked Strike, limping along, a stabbing in his knee.
‘You’ve been hanging around the crime scene.’
‘Went back for a look. Public right of way. Nothing actionable.’
‘You were trying to interview a neighbour—’
‘He wasn’t supposed to open his front door,’ said Strike. ‘I didn’t say a word about Quine.’
‘Look, Strike—’
The detective noticed the reversion to his actual name without regret. He had never been fond of the nickname Anstis had given him.
‘I told you, you’ve got to keep out of our way.’
‘Can’t, Anstis,’ said Strike matter-of-factly. ‘I’ve got a client—’
‘Forget your client,’ said Anstis. ‘She’s looking more and more like a killer with every bit of information we get. My advice is, cut your losses because you’re making yourself a lot of enemies. I warned you—’
‘You did,’ said Strike. ‘You couldn’t have been clearer. Nobody’s going to be able to blame you, Anstis.’
‘I’m not warning you off because I’m trying to cover my arse,’ snapped Anstis.
Strike kept walking in silence, the mobile pressed awkwardly to his ear. After a short pause Anstis said:
‘We’ve got the pharmacological report back. Small amount of blood alcohol, nothing else.’
‘OK.’
‘And we’re sending dogs out to Mucking Marshes this afternoon. Trying to keep ahead of the weather. They say there’s heavy snow on the way.’
Mucking Marshes, Strike knew, was the UK’s biggest landfill site; it serviced London, the municipal and commercial waste of which was floated down the Thames in ugly barges.
‘You think the guts were dumped in a dustbin, do you?’
‘A skip. There’s a house renovation going on round the corner from Talgarth Road; they had two parked out front until the eighth. In this cold the guts might not have attracted flies. We’ve checked and that’s where everything the builders take away ends up: Mucking Marshes.’
‘Well, good luck with that,’ said Strike.
‘I’m trying to save you time and energy, mate.’
‘Yeah. Very grateful.’
And after insincere thanks for Anstis’s hospitality of the previous evening Strike rang off. He then paused, leaning against a wall, the better to dial a new number. A tiny Asian woman with a pushchair, whom he had not heard walking behind him, had to swerve to avoid him, but unlike the man on the West Brompton bridge she did not swear at him. The walking stick, like a burqa, conferred protective status; she gave him a small smile as she passed.
Leonora Quine answered within three rings.
‘Bloody police are back,’ was her greeting.
‘What do they want?’
‘They’re asking to look all over the house and garden now,’ she said. ‘Do I have to let ’em?’
Strike hesitated.
‘I think it’s sensible to let them do whatever they want. Listen, Leonora,’ he felt no compunction about reverting to a military peremptoriness, ‘have you got a lawyer?’
‘No, why? I ain’t under arrest. Not yet.’
‘I think you need one.’
There was a pause.
‘D’you know any good ones?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Strike. ‘Call Ilsa Herbert. I’ll send you her number now.’
‘Orlando don’t like the police poking—’
‘I’m going to text you this number, and I want you to call Ilsa immediately. All right? Immediately.’
‘All right,’ she said grumpily.
He rang off, found his old school friend’s number on his mobile and sent it to Leonora. He then called Ilsa and explained, with apologies, what he had just done.
‘I don’t know why you’re saying sorry,’ she said cheerfully. ‘We love people who are in trouble with the police, it’s our bread and butter.’
‘She might qualify for legal aid.’
‘Hardly anyone does these days,’ said Ilsa. ‘Let’s just hope she’s poor enough.’
Strike’s hands were numb and he was very hungry. He slid the mobile back into his coat pocket and limped on to Hammersmith Road. There on the opposite pavement was a snug-looking pub, black painted, the round metal sign depicting a galleon in full sail. He headed straight for it, noting how much more patient waiting drivers were when you were using a stick.
Two pubs in two days… but the weather was bad and his knee excruciating; Strike could not muster any guilt. The Albion’s interior was as cosy as its exterior suggested. Long and narrow, an open fire burned at the far end; there was an upper gallery with a balustrade and much polished wood. Beneath a black iron spiral staircase to the first floor were two amps and a microphone stand. Black-and-white photographs of celebrated musicians were hung along one cream wall.
The seats by the fire were taken. Strike bought himself a pint, picked up a bar menu and headed to the tall table surrounded by barstools next to the window onto the street. As he sat down he noticed, sandwiched between pictures of Duke Ellington and Robert Plant, his own long-haired father, sweaty post-performance, apparently sharing a joke with the bass player whom he had once, according to Strike’s mother, tried to strangle.
(‘Jonny was never good on speed,’ Leda had confided to her uncomprehending nine-year-old son.)
His mobile rang again. With his eyes on his father’s picture, he answered.
‘Hi,’ said Robin. ‘I’m back at the office. Where are you?’
‘The Albion on Hammersmith Road.’
‘You’ve had an odd call. I found the message when I got back.’
‘Go on.’
‘It’s Daniel Chard,’ said Robin. ‘He wants to meet you.’
Frowning, Strike turned his eyes away from his father’s leather jumpsuit to gaze down the pub at the flickering fire. ‘Daniel Chard wants to meet me? How does Daniel Chard even know I exist?’
‘For God’s sake, you found the body! It’s been all over the news.’
‘Oh yeah – there’s that. Did he say why?’
‘He says he’s got a proposition.’