27
That I should trust a man, whom I had known betray his friend!
William Congreve, The Double-Dealer
An immense carpet of snow was rolling down over Britain. The morning news showed the north-east of England already buried in powdery whiteness, cars stranded like so many hapless sheep, headlamps feebly glinting. London waited its turn beneath an increasingly ominous sky and Strike, glancing at the weather map on his TV as he dressed, wondered whether his drive to Devon the next day would be possible, whether the M5 would even be navigable. Determined though he was to meet the incapacitated Daniel Chard, whose invitation struck him as highly peculiar, he dreaded driving even an automatic with his leg in this condition.
The dogs would still be out on Mucking Marshes. He imagined them as he attached the prosthesis, his knee puffier and more painful than ever; their sensitive, quivering noses probing the freshest patches of landfill under these threatening gunmetal clouds, beneath circling seagulls. They might already have started, given the limited daylight, dragging their handlers through the frozen garbage, searching for Owen Quine’s guts. Strike had worked alongside sniffer dogs. Their wriggling rumps and wagging tails always added an incongruously cheerful note to searches.
He was disconcerted by how painful it was to walk downstairs. Of course, in an ideal world he would have spent the previous day with an ice pack pressed to the end of his stump, his leg elevated, not tramping all over London because he needed to stop himself thinking about Charlotte and her wedding, soon to take place in the restored chapel of the Castle of Croy… not Croy Castle, because it annoys the fucking family. Nine days to go…
The telephone rang on Robin’s desk as he unlocked the glass door. Wincing, he hurried to get it. The suspicious lover and boss of Miss Brocklehurst wished to inform Strike that his PA was at home in his bed with a bad cold, so he was not to be charged for surveillance until she was up and about again. Strike had barely replaced the receiver when it rang again. Another client, Caroline Ingles, announced in a voice throbbing with emotion that she and her errant husband had reconciled. Strike was offering insincere congratulations when Robin arrived, pink-faced with cold.
‘It’s getting worse out there,’ she said when he had hung up. ‘Who was that?’
‘Caroline Ingles. She’s made up with Rupert.’
‘What?’ said Robin, stunned. ‘After all those lap-dancers?’
‘They’re going to work on their marriage for the sake of the kids.’
Robin made a little snort of disbelief.
‘Snow looks bad up in Yorkshire,’ Strike commented. ‘If you want to take tomorrow off and leave early—?’
‘No,’ said Robin, ‘I’ve booked myself on the Friday-night sleeper, I should be fine. If we’ve lost Ingles, I could call one of the waiting-list clients—?’
‘Not yet,’ said Strike, slumping down on the sofa and unable to stop his hand sliding to his swollen knee as it protested painfully.
‘Is it still sore?’ Robin asked diffidently, pretending she had not seen him wince.
‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘But that’s not why I don’t want to take on another client,’ he added sharply.
‘I know,’ said Robin, who had her back to him, switching on the kettle. ‘You want to concentrate on the Quine case.’
Strike was not sure whether her tone was reproachful.
‘She’ll pay me,’ he said shortly. ‘Quine had life insurance, she made him take it out. So there’s money there now.’
Robin heard his defensiveness and did not like it. Strike was making the assumption that her priority was money. Hadn’t she proved that it was not when she had turned down much better paid jobs to work for him? Hadn’t he noticed the willingness with which she was trying to help him prove that Leonora Quine had not killed her husband?
She set a mug of tea, a glass of water and paracetamol down beside him.
‘Thanks,’ he said, through gritted teeth, irritated by the painkillers even though he intended to take a double dose.
‘I’ll book a taxi to take you to Pescatori at twelve, shall I?’
‘It’s only round the corner,’ he said.
‘You know, there’s pride, and then there’s stupidity,’ said Robin, with one of the first flashes of real temper he had ever seen in her.
‘Fine,’ he said, eyebrows raised. ‘I’ll take a bloody taxi.’
And in truth, he was glad of it three hours later as he limped, leaning heavily on the cheap stick, which was now warping from his weight, to the taxi waiting at the end of Denmark Street. He knew now that he ought not to have put on the prosthesis at all. Getting out of the cab a few minutes later in Charlotte Street was tricky, the taxi driver impatient. Strike reached the noisy warmth of Pescatori with relief.
Elizabeth was not yet there but had booked under her name. Strike was shown to a table for two beside a pebble-set and whitewashed wall. Rustic wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling; a rowing boat was suspended over the bar. Across the opposite wall were jaunty orange leather booths. From force of habit, Strike ordered a pint, enjoying the light, bright Mediterranean charm of his surroundings, watching the snow drifting past the windows.
The agent arrived not long afterwards. He tried to stand as she approached the table but fell back down again quickly. Elizabeth did not seem to notice.
She looked as though she had lost weight since he had last seen her; the well-cut black suit, the scarlet lipstick and the steel-grey bob did not lend her dash today, but looked like a badly chosen disguise. Her face was yellowish and seemed to sag.