‘Arrogant prat,’ said Robin, sitting down on the mock-leather sofa, which for some reason did not emit farting noises when she did it. Perhaps, Strike thought, it was his weight.
‘Notice anything funny when he was talking about his late wife?’ Strike asked.
‘The crocodile tears were a bit much,’ said Robin, ‘seeing how he’d just been explaining how love’s an illusion and all that rubbish.’
Strike glanced at her again. She had the kind of fair, delicate complexion that suffered from excess emotion; the swollen eyes told their own story. Some of her animosity towards Michael Fancourt, he guessed, might be displaced from another and perhaps more deserving target.
‘Thought he was faking, did you?’ Strike asked. ‘Me too.’
He glanced at his watch.
‘I’ve got Caroline Ingles arriving in half an hour.’
‘I thought she and her husband had reconciled?’
‘Old news. She wants to see me, something about a text she found on his phone over the weekend. So,’ said Strike, heaving himself up from the desk, ‘I need you to keep trying to find out when that interview was filmed, while I go and look over the case notes so I look like I can remember what the hell she’s on about. Then I’ve got lunch with Quine’s editor.’
‘And I’ve got some news about what the doctor’s surgery outside Kathryn Kent’s flat does with medical waste,’ said Robin.
‘Go on,’ said Strike.
‘A specialist company collects it every Tuesday. I contacted them,’ said Robin and Strike could tell by her sigh that the line of enquiry was about to fizzle out, ‘and they didn’t notice anything odd or unusual about the bags they collected the Tuesday after the murder. I suppose,’ she said, ‘it was a bit unrealistic, thinking they wouldn’t notice a bag of human intestines. They told me it’s usually just swabs and needles, and they’re all sealed up in special bags.’
‘Had to check it out, though,’ said Strike bracingly. ‘That’s good detective work – cross off all the possibilities. Anyway, there’s something else I need doing, if you can face the snow.’
‘I’d love to get out,’ said Robin, brightening at once. ‘What is it?’
‘That man in the bookshop in Putney who reckons he saw Quine on the eighth,’ said Strike. ‘He should be back off his holidays.’
‘No problem,’ said Robin.
She had not had an opportunity over the weekend to discuss with Matthew the fact that Strike wished to give her investigative training. It would have been the wrong time before the funeral, and after their row on Saturday night would have seemed provocative, even inflammatory. Today she yearned to get out onto the streets, to investigate, to probe, and to go home and tell Matthew matter-of-factly what she had done. He wanted honesty, she would give him honesty.
Caroline Ingles, who was a worn-out blonde, spent over an hour in Strike’s office that morning. When finally she had departed, looking tear-stained but determined, Robin had news for Strike.
‘That interview with Fancourt was filmed on the seventh of November,’ she said. ‘I phoned the BBC. Took ages, but got there in the end.’
‘The seventh,’ repeated Strike. ‘That was a Sunday. Where was it filmed?’
‘A film crew went down to his house in Chew Magna,’ said Robin. ‘What did you notice on the interview that’s making you this interested?’
‘Watch it again,’ said Strike. ‘See if you can get it on YouTube. Surprised you didn’t spot it at the time.’
Stung, she remembered Matthew beside her, interrogating her about the crash on the M4.
‘I’m going to change for Simpson’s,’ said Strike. ‘We’ll lock up and leave together, shall we?’
They parted forty minutes later at the Tube, Robin heading for the Bridlington Bookshop in Putney, Strike for the restaurant on the Strand, to which he intended to walk.
‘Spent way too much on taxis lately,’ he told Robin gruffly, unwilling to tell her how much it had cost him to take care of the Toyota Land Cruiser with which he had been stranded on Friday night. ‘Plenty of time.’
She watched him for a few seconds as he walked away from her, leaning heavily on his stick and limping badly. An observant childhood spent in the company of three brothers had given Robin an unusual and accurate insight into the frequently contrary reaction of males to female concern, but she wondered how much longer Strike could force his knee to support him before he found himself incapacitated for longer than a few days.
It was almost lunchtime and the two women opposite Robin on the train to Waterloo were chatting loudly, carrier bags full of Christmas shopping between their knees. The floor of the Tube was wet and dirty and the air full, again, of damp cloth and stale bodies. Robin spent most of her journey trying without success to view clips of Michael Fancourt’s interview on her mobile phone.
The Bridlington Bookshop stood on a main road in Putney, its old-fashioned paned windows crammed from top to bottom with a mixture of new and second-hand books, all stacked horizontally. A bell tinkled as Robin crossed the threshold into a pleasant, mildewed atmosphere. A couple of ladders stood propped against shelves crammed with more horizontally piled books reaching all the way to the ceiling. Hanging bulbs lit the space, dangling so low that Strike would have banged his head.
‘Good morning!’ said an elderly gentleman in an over-large tweed jacket, emerging with almost audible creaks from an office with a dimpled glass door. As he approached, Robin caught a strong whiff of body odour.
She had already planned her simple line of enquiry and asked at once whether he had any Owen Quine in stock.
‘Ah! Ah!’ he said knowingly. ‘I needn’t ask, I think, why the sudden interest!’
A self-important man in the common fashion of the unworldly and cloistered, he embarked without invitation into a lecture on Quine’s style and declining readability as he led her into the depths of the shop. He appeared convinced, after two seconds’ acquaintance, that Robin could only be asking for a copy of one of Quine’s books because he had recently been murdered. While this was of course the truth, it irritated Robin.
‘Have you got The Balzac Brothers?’ she asked.
‘You know better than to ask for Bombyx Mori, then,’ he said, shifting a ladder with doddery hands. ‘Three young journalists I’ve had in here, asking for it.’
‘Why are journalists coming here?’ asked Robin innocently as he began to climb the ladder, revealing an inch of mustard-coloured sock above his old brogues.
‘Mr Quine shopped here shortly before he died,’ said the old man, now peering at spines some six feet above Robin. ‘Balzac Brothers, Balzac Brothers… should be here… dear, dear, I’m sure I’ve got a copy…’
‘He actually came in here, to your shop?’ asked Robin.
‘Oh yes. I recognised him instantly. I was a great admirer of Joseph North and they once appeared on the same bill at the Hay Festival.’
He was coming down the ladder now, feet trembling with every step. Robin was scared he might fall.
‘I’ll check the computer,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘I’m sure I’ve got a Balzac Brothers here.’
Robin followed him, reflecting that if the last time the old man had set eyes on Owen Quine had been in the mid-eighties, his reliability in identifying the writer again might be questionable.
‘I don’t suppose you could miss him,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen pictures of him. Very distinctive-looking in his Tyrolean cloak.’