‘Was he?’ said Strike thoughtfully, ‘Or was he faking? Did he keep badgering her to read it because he was getting ready to stage a nice big public row? He sounds like a massive exhibitionist. Perhaps it was all part of his promotional plan. He didn’t think Roper Chard got his books enough publicity – I had that from Leonora.’
‘So you think he’d already planned to storm out of the restaurant when he met Elizabeth Tassel?’
‘Could be,’ said Strike.
‘And to go to Talgarth Road?’
‘Maybe.’
The sun had risen fully now, so that the frosted treetops sparkled.
‘And he got what he wanted, didn’t he?’ said Strike, squinting as a thousand specks of ice glittered over the windscreen. ‘Couldn’t have arranged better publicity for his book if he’d tried. Just a pity he didn’t live to see himself on the BBC news.
‘Oh, bollocks,’ he added under his breath.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve finished all the biscuits… sorry,’ said Strike, contrite.
‘That’s all right,’ Robin said, amused. ‘I had breakfast.’
‘I didn’t,’ Strike confided.
His antipathy to discussing his leg had been dissolved by warm coffee, by their discussion and by her practical thoughts for his comfort.
‘Couldn’t get the bloody prosthesis on. My knee’s swollen to hell: I’m going to have to see someone. Took me ages to get sorted.’
She had guessed as much, but appreciated the confidence.
They passed a golf course, its flags protruding from acres of soft whiteness, and water-filled gravel pits now sheets of burnished pewter in the winter light. As they approached Swindon Strike’s phone rang. Checking the number (he half expected a repeat call from Nina Lascelles) he saw that it was Ilsa, his old schoolfriend. He also saw, with misgivings, that he had missed a call from Leonora Quine at six thirty, when he must have been struggling down Charing Cross Road on his crutches.
‘Ilsa, hi. What’s going on?’
‘Quite a lot, actually,’ she said. She sounded tinny and distant; he could tell that she was in her car.
‘Did Leonora Quine call you on Wednesday?’
‘Yep, we met that afternoon,’ she said. ‘And I’ve just spoken to her again. She told me she tried to speak to you this morning and couldn’t get you.’
‘Yeah, I had an early start, must’ve missed her.’
‘I’ve got her permission to tell—’
‘What’s happened?’
‘They’ve taken her in for questioning. I’m on my way to the station now.’
‘Shit,’ said Strike. ‘Shit. What have they got?’
‘She told me they found photographs in her and Quine’s bedroom. Apparently he liked being tied up and he liked being photographed once restrained,’ said Ilsa with mordant matter-of-factness. ‘She told me all this as though she was talking about the gardening.’
He could hear faint sounds of heavy traffic back in central London. Here on the motorway the loudest sounds were the swish of the windscreen wipers, the steady purr of the powerful engine and the occasional whoosh of the reckless, overtaking in the swirling snow.
‘You’d think she’d have the sense to get rid of the pictures,’ said Strike.
‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that suggestion about destroying evidence,’ said Ilsa mock-sternly.
‘Those pictures aren’t bloody evidence,’ said Strike. ‘Christ almighty, of course they had a kinky sex life, those two – how else was Leonora going to keep hold of a man like Quine? Anstis’s mind’s too clean, that’s the problem; he thinks everything except the missionary position is evidence of bloody criminal tendencies.’
‘What do you know about the investigating officer’s sexual habits?’ Ilsa asked, amused.
‘He’s the bloke I pulled to the back of the vehicle in Afghanistan,’ muttered Strike.
‘Oh,’ said Ilsa.
‘And he’s determined to fit up Leonora. If that’s all they’ve got, dirty photos—’
‘It isn’t. Did you know the Quines have got a lock-up?’
Strike listened, tense, suddenly worried. Could he have been wrong, completely wrong—?
‘Well, did you?’ asked Ilsa.
‘What’ve they found?’ asked Strike, no longer flippant. ‘Not the guts?’
‘What did you just say? It sounded like “not the guts”!’
‘What’ve they found?’ Strike corrected himself.
‘I don’t know, but I expect I’ll find out when I get there.’
‘She’s not under arrest?’
‘Just in for questioning, but they’re sure it’s her, I can tell, and I don’t think she realises how serious things are getting. When she rang me, all she could talk about was her daughter being left with the neighbour, her daughter being upset—’
‘The daughter’s twenty-four and she’s got learning difficulties.’
‘Oh,’ said Ilsa. ‘Sad… Listen, I’m nearly there, I’ll have to go.’
‘Keep me posted.’
‘Don’t expect anything soon. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to be a while.’
‘Shit,’ Strike said again as he hung up.
‘What’s happened?’
An enormous tanker had pulled out of the slow lane to overtake a Honda Civic with a Baby On Board sign in its rear window. Strike watched its gargantuan silver bullet of a body swaying at speed on the icy road and noted with unspoken approval that Robin slowed down, leaving more braking room.
‘The police have taken Leonora in for questioning.’
Robin gasped.
‘They’ve found photos of Quine tied up in their bedroom and something else in a lock-up, but Ilsa doesn’t know what—’